The brooding ghosts of Australian night have gone from the bush and town; My spirit revives in the morning breeze, though it died when the sun went down; The river is high and the stream is strong, and the grass is green and tall, And I fain would think that this world of ours is a good world after all.
The light of passion in dreamy eyes, and a page of truth well read, The glorious thrill in a heart grown cold of the spirit I thought was dead, A song that goes to a comrade's heart, and a tear of pride let fall -- And my soul is strong! and the world to me is a grand world after all!
Let our enemies go by their old dull tracks, and theirs be the fault or shame (The man is bitter against the world who has only himself to blame) ; Let the darkest side of the past be dark, and only the good recall; For I must believe that the world, my dear, is a kind world after all.
It well may be that I saw too plain, and it may be I was blind; But I'll keep my face to the dawning light, though the devil may stand behind! Though the devil may stand behind my back, I'll not see his shadow fall, But read the signs in the morning stars of a good world after all.
Rest, for your eyes are weary, girl -- you have driven the worst away -- The ghost of the man that I might have been is gone from my heart to-day; We'll live for life and the best it brings till our twilight shadows fall; My heart grows brave, and the world, my girl, is a good world after all.
Your vocable obsequy alluring beckons My wanting flesh pounding with open interest Yet, hindered by some invisible fear My mellifluous dear I’m restrained, as you, past milk blue lips Blow me your chosen kisses
A bead falls from my furrowed brow Past my weathered cheek Liken dawns dew drops it glistens Because it is then, the reality of you Knowing my mortal title heralds in
Your cryptic seduction cryonic Lulls me frozen As I gaze enchanted within your control You float weightless Behind a hazy shade of satin Outside my second story Lead crystal bedroom window
Toc, Toc, Toc Dutifully echo’s my grandfather clock Three seconds past One A.M. Through my window you spectrally approach Baptizing my room With your eerie luminescent glow
Toc, Toc, Toc My terrified heart now triple times the clock Twenty-Two seconds past One A.M. Upon my essence you avidly envelop Introducing my soul To an unconscious cold, sheol
You are right DL. My poems do not flow off of the tongue all that easily. I have a lot of poems, but I only consider two of them any good. No, sadly, they were not originally in a different language. My problem stems from the fact that when I wrote the vast bulk of my poems I used to drink a whole lot and I mean a whole, whole lot; so most of the time I was drunk as a skunk when I wrote them. Most of the time, I drank a quality Cabernet Sauvignon when I wrote poetry. I’d spend about $40 to $60 US Dollars on a bottle. Now, it is very, very rare I drink any alcohol at all. Maybe a toast at a wedding and that’s about it. That’s why my poems are fragmentized and they do not roll off of the tongue easily. These poems I have posted are around 7 to 10 years old.
Thank you for the imagery complement. Your imagery is very good. Better than you give yourself credit for, but then there’s that modesty thing right.
The Judge's house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone, And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across the seas; In the Hales' garage you could put my house and everything I own, And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a row of poplar trees.
Now I have only a little house, and only a little lot, And only a few square yards of lawn, with dandelions starred; But when Winter comes, I have something there that the Judge and the Hales have not, And it's better worth having than all their wealth -- it's a snowman in the yard.
The Judge's money brings architects to make his mansion fair; The Hales have seven gardeners to make their roses grow; The Judge can get his trees from Spain and France and everywhere, And raise his orchids under glass in the midst of all the snow.
But I have something no architect or gardener ever made, A thing that is shaped by the busy touch of little mittened hands: And the Judge would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow is laid For the tiny house with the trampled yard, the yard where the snowman stands.
They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away in tears To toil and suffer their life-time through, because of the sin they sinned, The Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years, To chill their blood with the snow, and pierce their flesh with the icy wind.
But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour for our bread, Have yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden's gate is barred: And through the Winter's crystal veil, Love's roses blossom red, For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard.
Love is like magic And it always will be, For love still remains Life's sweet mystery! Love works in ways That are wondrous and strange And there's nothing in life That love can not change! Love can transform The most commonplace Into beauty and splendor And sweetness and grace! Love is unselfish, Understanding and kind, For it sees with its heart And not with its mind! Love is the answer That everyone seeks Love is the language That every heart speaks Love can't be bought, It is priceless and free, Love like pure magic Is a sweet mystery!