Poetry Page 3.

Discontent
– Clara Davidson, 1897

A peasant lay on hospitable grass
To watch a silent cloud procession pass,
And bathe in tempered sunshine sifting down
In softened radiance over field and town.

A passing horseman drew his rein and said,
“Good man, where travel you, by fancy led?
’Tis noontide sun that warms your grassy bed,
And yet I fear me you remain unfed.”

“I feed on wishes,” thoughtfully replied
The peasant. Then he smiled, and then he sighed.
“I’m tired of all the foolish gods I know;
I wish a greater-minded god would grow—
One who would touch my master’s heart to pay
To me, his laborer, more pence a day.
The earth is wide and green, the sky is fair,
And yet I find no mercy anywhere.”

“Do beaten schoolboys pray for other rods?
Pray not,” the horseman said, “a change of gods.
If gods are cruel, all the gods dethrone;
If masters rob you, mastership disown.
Wish not to be part-bound, but wholly free—
A god, a master of yourself to be.”

The Common Lot
– James Montgomery, Lucifer the Light Bear, 1889

Once in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man; and who was he?
Mortal, howe’er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown;
His name has perished from the earth,
This truth survives alone:

That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear
Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe—a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffered—but his pangs are o’er;
Enjoyed—but his delights are fled;
Had friends—his friends are now no more;
And foes—his foes are dead.

He loved; but whom he loved the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O, she was fair! but naught could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encountered all that troubles thee;
He was whatever thou hast been;
He is what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams o’er his eye,
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,
Their ruin since the world began,
Of him afford no other trace
Than this—there lived a man!

The Perfect State – Robert Buchanan, 12/26/1901

Where is the perfect state,
Early most blest, and late
Perfect and bright?
’Tis where no palace stands,
Trembling on shifting sands,
Morning and night.

’Tis where the soil is free,
Where, far as eye can see,
Scattered o’er hill and lane,
Homesteads abound;
Where clean and broad and sweet,
Market and square, lane and street,
Belted by leagues of wheat,
Cities are found.

Where is the perfect state,
Early most blest, and late
Gentle and good?
’Tis where no lives are seen
Huddling in lanes unclean,
Crying for food;
’Tis where the home is pure,
’Tis where the bread is sure,
’Tis where the wants are fewer,
And each want fed;
Where plenty and peace abide,
Where health dwells, heavenly-eyed,
Where in nooks beautified
Slumber the dead.

Where is the perfect state,
Unvexed by wrath and hate,
Quiet and just?
Where to no form or creed
Fettered are thought and deed,
Reason and trust?
’Tis where the great free mart
Broadens, while from its heart
Forth the great ships depart,
Blown by the wind;
’Tis where the wise men’s eyes,
Fixed on the earth and skies,
Seeking for signs, devise
Good for mankind.

Cage Life – Clara D. Davidson, 11/27/1891

Cosily Frank sat rocking in his swing,
With sleepy head half-turned to waiting wing.
My step aroused him: slowly, dreamily,
He moved his drowsy eyes to look at me.

“You unwise bird,” I said, “you eat and sing,
And eat again, and sleep, and drink, and swing—
Why not cry out, demand your liberty?
If you were mine, Frank, I would make you free.”

I lost myself in sleep; in dreams I saw
The bars that held him prisoner withdraw,
And forth he sprang, on glad, uncertain wing:
Wind-tossed, he found a tree and paused to sing.

I thought the choirs of heaven were in his throat,
Such exultation gladdened every note.
And then a storm-cloud westward darkened all.

“Come, seek,” I cried, “the safety of your nest!
You have no skill to cope with Nature’s rage;
Madness was mine to free you from the cage.”

He turned to face the storm with looks that said:
“Would it so greatly matter to be dead?
I am not fit to cope with Nature’s rage,
But better death than in a living cage.”

Unknown – G.G. Allin, 1989

Departed to this sullen confusion
my electrified sights like a combat field
Radical outbursts sternly infect my dismay
Beneath this carnal fury is my tension tension
of my severe spirit to never surrender
the ultimatum is fight till death
like a stalked animal we must attack

Unknown – G.G. Allin, 1989

Lets lay on a cloud
Float away into the sky
Brain cells seeking burial
From the ashes of my mind
Beneath my Sculptured skull
As the wind blows through my eyes
a dragon breathing fire
to the ground
now where I’ll die

To The System – G.G. Allin, 1989

The human animal is a mans eternal instinct
to follow your compulsions to the depths
fear not what you fear at you conclusion
but do what you feel to be dangerously right
for in gambling we win or lose
but blandness is a world of nothing
jail me in my time of compassion
but bars will not trap my strengthened mind
for in the end it’s only a beginning
the strength of my burning desire will crush the walls of blandness
I am not guilty, I am myself take or leave it, but do not use it
I am an artist with extreme capabilities
you all know of me
you all want a piece of me
then you discard back to your bland
when you go back & talk
I’ll still be headed for the edge
that’s just the way I am and the way I’ll always be
Don’t take me back with you

High Noon – Ella Wheeler, 1895

Time’s finger on the dial of my life
Points to high noon. And yet the half-spent day
Leaves less than half remaining; for the dark,
Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.

To those who burn the candle to the stick,
The sputtering socket yields but little light.
Long life is sadder than an early death.

We cannot count on raveled threads of age
Whereof to weave a fabric; we must use
The warp and woof the ready present yields,
And toil while daylight lasts.

When I bethink
How brief the past—the future, still more brief—
Calls on to action, action! Not for me
Is time for retrospection or for dreams;
Not time for self-laudation or remorse.

Have I done nobly? Then I must not let
Dead yesterday shame unborn tomorrow.
Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste
Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lips
Be my reminder in temptation’s hour,
And keep me silent when I would condemn.

Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin
To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls
So pity may shine through them.

Looking back,
My faults and errors seem but stepping-stones
That led the way to knowledge of the truth
And make me value virtue. Sorrows shine
In rainbow colors o’er the gulf of years
Where lie forgotten pleasures.