Lying, thinkingLast nightHow to find my soul a homeWhere water is not thirstyAnd bread loaf is not stoneI came up with one thingAnd I don't believe I'm wrongThat nobody,But nobodyCan make it out here alone.Alone, all aloneNobody, but nobodyCan make it out here alone.There are some millionairesWith money they can't useTheir wives run round like bansheesTheir children sing the bluesThey've got expensive doctorsTo cure their hearts of stone.But nobodyNo, nobodyCan make it out here alone.Alone, all aloneNobody, but nobodyCan make it out here alone.Now if you listen closelyI'll tell you what I knowStorm clouds are gatheringThe wind is gonna blowThe race of man is sufferingAnd I can hear the moan,'Cause nobody,But nobodyCan make it out here alone.Alone, all aloneNobody, but nobodyCan make it out here alone.

Amongst the flowers Iam alone with my pot of winedrinking by myself; then liftingmy cup I asked the moonto drink with me, its reflectionand mine in the wine cup, justthe three of us; then I sighfor the moon cannot drink,and my shadow goes emptily alongwith me never saying a word;with no other friends here, I canbut use these two for company;in the time of happiness, Itoo must be happy with allaround me; I sit and singand it is as if the moonaccompanies me; then if Idance, it is my shadow thatdances along with me; whilestill not drunk, I am gladto make the moon and my shadowinto friends, but then whenI have drunk too much, weall part; yet these arefriends I can always count onthese who have no emotionwhatsoever; I hope that one daywe three will meet again,deep in the Milky Way.

I take my wine jug out among the flowersto drink alone, without friends.I raise my cup to entice the moon.That, and my shadow, makes us three.But the moon doesn't drink,and my shadow silently follows.I will travel with moon and shadow,happy to the end of spring.When I sing, the moon dances.When I dance, my shadow dances, too.We share life's joys when sober.Drunk, each goes a separate way.Constant friends, although we wander,we'll meet again in the Milky Way. Li T'ai-po tr. Hamil

The young maricones and the horny muchachas,The big fat widows delirious from insomnia,The young wives thirty hours' pregnant,And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night,Like a collar of palpitating sexual oystersSurround my solitary home,Enemies of my soul,Conspirators in pajamasWho exchange deep kisses for passwords.Radiant summer brings out the loversIn melancholy regiments,Fat and thin and happy and sad couples;Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon,There is a continual life of pants and panties,A hum from the fondling of silk stockings,And women's breasts that glisten like eyes.The salary man, after a while,After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night,Has decisively fucked his neighbor,And now takes her to the miserable movies,Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes,And he caresses her legs covered with sweet downWith his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes.The night of the hunter and the night of the husbandCome together like bed sheets and bury me,And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are masturbating,And the animals mount each other openly,And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically,And cousins play strange games with cousins,And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient,And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought,Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast,And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other trulyOn beds big and tall as ships:So, eternally,This twisted and breathing forest crushes meWith gigantic flowers like mouth and teethAnd black roots like fingernails and shoes.Translated by Mike Topp

Alone in the woods I feltThe bitter hostility of the sky and the treesNature has taught her creatures to hateMan that fusses and fumesUnquiet manAs the sap rises in the treesAs the sap paints the trees a violent greenSo rises the wrath of Nature's creaturesAt manSo paints the face of Nature a violent green.Nature is sick at manSick at his fuss and fumeSick at his agoniesSick at his gaudy mindThat drives his bodyEver more quicklyMore and moreIn the wrong direction.

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enoughto truly consecrate the hour.I am much too small in this world, yet not small enoughto be to you just object and thing, dark and smart.I want my free will and want it accompanying the path which leads to action;and want during times that beg questions, where something is up, to be among those in the know, or else be alone.I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection, never be blind or too oldto uphold your weighty wavering reflection. I want to unfold.Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent; for there I would be dishonest, untrue. I want my conscience to be true before you;want to describe myself like a picture I observed for a long time, one close up, like a new word I learned and embraced, like the everday jug, like my mother's face, like a ship that carried me along through the deadliest storm.

I’ve listened: and all the sounds I heard Were music,—wind, and stream, and bird. With youth who sang from hill to hill I’ve listened: my heart is hungry still. I’ve looked: the morning world was green;Bright roofs and towers of town I’ve seen; And stars, wheeling through wingless night. I’ve looked: and my soul yet longs for light. I’ve thought: but in my sense survives Only the impulse of those livesThat were my making. Hear me say ‘I’ve thought!’—and darkness hides my day.

Alone i lay on a wooden raftAlone i stay in the dark Alone i pray to survive Alone i may not surviveAlone i look out the seaAlone i wake up on the sea Alone i seek out for help Alone i may not survive Alone i eat my dry food Alone i drink the salty water Alone i sit in the cold Alone i may not surviveAlone, yes, alone i stare at the stormAlone, yes, alone i live on the seaAlone, yes, alone i wait for the rescue boat Alone, yes, alone i may not surviveAlone, yes, alone i pray to be safe Alone, yes, alone i call out for help Alone, yes, alone i get on the boatAlone, yes, alone i was rescuedAlone, yes, alone i lived on sea for monthsAlone, yes, alone i walk ashore unaidedAlone, yes, alone i continue to hold the Guinness World Record for survival at sea

Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere In shapes of shifting lineage; let geese Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release From dusty bondage into luminous air. O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day, When first the shaft into his vision shone Of light anatomized! Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.

When I walk alone, I think of you my loveWhen I walk alone, I walk with broken heartWhen I walk alone, I walk with sadnessWhen I walk alone, I walk with my silent tearsWhen I walk alone, I walk with my sorrowWhen I walk alone, I walk with my sad memoriesWhen I walk alone, I walk with my shattered dreamWhen I walk alone, I walk with my hands lifelessLove never walk alone but you made me walk aloneYou promised me that you will walk with me foreverbut you made me walk alone with my tears foreverWhen the heaven stolen you from me yesterdayAll your promises are gone with the windToday, You made me walk alone with out you my loveand I promise you, I will walk alone till my journey ends

Alone in crowds to wander on, And feel that all the charm is gone Which voices dear and eyes beloved Shed round us once, where'er we roved -- This, this the doom must be Of all who've loved, and loved to see The few bright things they thought would stay For ever near them, die away. Though fairer forms around us throng, Their smiles to others all belong, And want that charm which dwells alone Round those the fond heart calls its own, Where, where the sunny brow? The long-known voice -- where are they now? Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain, The silence answers all too plain. Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth, If all her art cannot call forth One bliss like those we felt of old From lips now mute, and eyes now cold? No, no -- her spell in vain -- As soon could she bring back again Those eyes themselves from out the grave, As wake again one bliss they gave.

Alone I set out on the road;The flinty path is sparkling in the mist;The night is still. The desert harks to God,And star with star converses.The vault is overwhelmed with solemn wonder The earth in cobalt aura sleeps. . .Why do I feel so pained and troubled? What do I harbor: hope, regrets? I see no hope in years to come,Have no regrets for things gone by. All that I seek is peace and freedom!To lose myself and sleep!But not the frozen slumber of the grave...I'd like eternal sleep to leaveMy life force dozing in my breastGently with my breath to rise and fall;By night and day, my hearing would be soothedBy voices sweet, singing to me of love.And over me, forever green,A dark oak tree would bend and rustle.

ROOTS and leaves themselves alone are these; Scents brought to men and women from the wild woods, and from the pond-side, Breast-sorrel and pinks of love--fingers that wind around tighter than vines, Gushes from the throats of birds, hid in the foliage of trees, as the sun is risen; Breezes of land and love--breezes set from living shores out to you on the living sea--to you, O sailors! Frost-mellow'd berries, and Third-month twigs, offer'd fresh to young persons wandering out in the fields when the winter breaks up, Love-buds, put before you and within you, whoever you are, Buds to be unfolded on the old terms; If you bring the warmth of the sun to them, they will open, and bring form, color, perfume, to you; If you become the aliment and the wet, they will become flowers, fruits, tall blanches and trees. 10

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,But now my gracious numbers are decayed,And my sick Muse doth give an other place.I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argumentDeserves the travail of a worthier pen,Yet what of thee thy poet doth inventHe robs thee of, and pays it thee again.He lends thee virtue, and he stole that wordFrom thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,And found it in thy cheek; he can affordNo praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.

ON the beach at night alone, As the old mother sways her to and fro, singing her husky song, As I watch the bright stars shining--I think a thought of the clef of the universes, and of the future. A VAST SIMILITUDE interlocks all, All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets, comets, asteroids, All the substances of the same, and all that is spiritual upon the same, All distances of place, however wide, All distances of time--all inanimate forms, All Souls--all living bodies, though they be ever so different, or in different worlds, All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes--the fishes, the brutes, 10 All men and women--me also; All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages; All identities that have existed, or may exist, on this globe, or any globe; All lives and deaths--all of the past, present, future; This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann'd, and shall forever span them, and compactly hold them, and enclose them.

A heart breaks easier aloneWhen no one sees you cryingWhen no one notices at allThat inside you are dyingA heart breaks easier aloneWhen they all think you're crazyThat when you crawl back in your bedThe whole world thinks you're lazyA heart breaks easier aloneAnd there's no way to mend itTo stop the heart from breaking moreYou simply have to end itA heart breaks easier aloneWithout a love to heal itAnd finally the breaking's doneWhen you no longer feel it

There was darkness under HeavenFor an hour's space--Darkness that we knew was givenUs for special grace.Sun and noon and stars were hid,God had left His Throne,When Helen came to me, she did,Helen all alone!Side by side (because our fateDamned us ere our birth)We stole out of Limbo GateLooking for the Earth.Hand in pulling hand amidFear no dreams have known,Helen ran with me, she did,Helen all alone!When the Horror passing speechHunted us along,Each laid hold on each, and eachFound the other strong.In the teeth of Things forbidAnd Reason overthrown,Helen stood by me, she did,Helen all alone!When, at last, we heard those FiresDull and die away,When, at last, our linked desiresDragged us up to day;When, at last, our souls were ridOf what that Night had shown,Helen passed from me, she did,Helen all alone!Let her go and find a mate,As I will find a bride,Knowing naught of Limbo GateOr Who are penned inside.There is knowledge God forbidMore than one should own.So Helen went from me, she did,Oh, my soul, be glad she did!Helen all alone!

'So round, so firmSo fully packed, So free and easy.(Well maybe not.) The product regulated by both The Food and Drug AdministrationAnd the Department of Agriculture, Is sold to anyone who can ante up the buck or so, And it's addictive, just ask someone who knows.The flip top package invites you inAnd from there on, you're on your own.Appearances are everything and Madison Avenue has gone out of its wayTo entice the unsuspecting to buy not One but two or more.Then there's the matter of the food companiesActually being in this business, Peddling taste, while ignoring Additives that may get you in the end.For those who are discerning, The manufacturer offers different varieties.So that if you tire of one, Or perhaps are just adventuresomeYou can choose.Once hooked, there should always be a stashHidden somewhere for that moment when the pangsStrike and shops are closed, and a long nightAwaits before the morn.The parent company is one perhaps you recognize, Kraft, Conagra, Tyson's, Smuckers, No, not any of these but stillA name familiar in most households.So in the privacy of your home, Reach way back, behind all the other itemsAnd choose that which for the momentPromises to sate your lust.Best to keep it to yourselfAs some may make fun of you for Being so entrapped in a webFrom which there is no escape.Your offer to shareWill go unappreciated andYou may suffer rejectionFor simply trying to do a good deed, Spreading the word, Making the product more acceptableTo those that scorn somethingThat has been a pacifierFor generations.But first let's consider the shortcomingsThat which is so long and coolIs spiced with flavorings and of courseLike all tobacco products has a fair amount of sugarEither there originally or added for quality assurance.Quality Assurance, Sure! Pop the top and admire the way in whichIndustry has met the challenge of putting the mostOf those buggers into an orderly display.No space wasted here.And the march of color across the topsOf those you lust for, Is enough to cause one to consider dumpingThe whole of them on the counter so you canHave your way with them.But wait, Place you nose up closeClose your eyes.What aroma stirs the emotions? Breath deeply And exhale slowlyThis is how it should be.Ah! ! ! Now greedily take one and Roll it between the thumb and forefinger.Examine it carefully, Caress it with you lips, Let the tongue explore.Aren't you glad you're aloneNo one should share the Ecstacy of the unknown.The touch and the taste.It's too late, Emotions take controlThe first is gone andYou are already reaching for another.Before you know, The pack is emptyAnd yet you are not satisfied, What to do but open another, Can of Hormel Vienna Sausages.

Over the fence, the dead settle in for a journey. Nine o'clock. You are alone for the first time today. Boys asleep. Husband out. A beer bottle sweats in your hand, and sea lavender clogs the air with perfume. Think of yourself. Your arms rest with nothing to do after weeks spent attending to others. Your thoughts turn to whether butter will last the week, how much longer the car can run on its partial tank of gas.

I Hear America singing, the varied carols I hear; Those of mechanics--each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong; The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work; The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat--the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck; The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench--the hatter singing as he stands; The wood-cutter's song--the ploughboy's, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown; The delicious singing of the mother--or of the young wife at work--or of the girl sewing or washing--Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else; The day what belongs to the day--At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.

The shadowy Daughter of Urthona stood before red Orc, When fourteen suns had faintly journey'd o'er his dark abode: His food she brought in iron baskets, his drink in cups of iron: Crown'd with a helmet and dark hair the nameless female stood; A quiver with its burning stores, a bow like that of night, When pestilence is shot from heaven: no other arms she need! Invulnerable though naked, save where clouds roll round her loins Their awful folds in the dark air: silent she stood as night; For never from her iron tongue could voice or sound arise, But dumb till that dread day when Orc assay'd his fierce embrace. 'Dark Virgin,' said the hairy youth, 'thy father stern, abhorr'd, Rivets my tenfold chains while still on high my spirit soars; Sometimes an Eagle screaming in the sky, sometimes a Lion Stalking upon the mountains, and sometimes a Whale, I lash The raging fathomless abyss; anon a Serpent folding Around the pillars of Urthona, and round thy dark limbs On the Canadian wilds I fold; feeble my spirit folds, For chain'd beneath I rend these caverns: when thou bringest food I howl my joy, and my red eyes seek to behold thy face-- In vain! these clouds roll to and fro, and hide thee from my sight.' Silent as despairing love, and strong as jealousy, The hairy shoulders rend the links; free are the wrists of fire; Round the terrific loins he seiz'd the panting, struggling womb; It joy'd: she put aside her clouds and smiled her first-born smile, As when a black cloud shews its lightnings to the silent deep. Soon as she saw the terrible boy, then burst the virgin cry: 'I know thee, I have found thee, and I will not let thee go: Thou art the image of God who dwells in darkness of Africa, And thou art fall'n to give me life in regions of dark death.On my American plains I feel the struggling afflictions Endur'd by roots that writhe their arms into the nether deep. I see a Serpent in Canada who courts me to his love, In Mexico an Eagle, and a Lion in Peru; I see a Whale in the south-sea, drinking my soul away. O what limb-rending pains I feel! thy fire and my frost Mingle in howling pains, in furrows by thy lightnings rent. This is eternal death, and this the torment long foretold.'

'Tis the witching hour of night,Orbed is the moon and bright,And the stars they glisten, glisten,Seeming with bright eyes to listen --For what listen they?For a song and for a charm,See they glisten in alarm,And the moon is waxing warmTo hear what I shall say.Moon! keep wide thy golden ears --Hearken, stars! and hearken, spheres! --Hearken, thou eternal sky!I sing an infant's lullaby,A pretty lullaby.Listen, listen, listen, listen, Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,And hear my lullaby!Though the rushes that will makeIts cradle still are in the lake -- Though the linen that will beIts swathe, is on the cotton tree --Though the woollen that will keepIt warm, is on the silly sheep --Listen, starlight, listen, listen,Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,And hear my lullaby!Child, I see thee! Child, I've found theeMidst of the quiet all around thee!And thy mother sweet is nigh thee!But a Poet evermore!See, see, the lyre, the lyre,In a flame of fire,Upon the little cradle's topFlaring, flaring, flaring,Past the eyesight's bearing,Awake it from its sleep,And see if it can keepIts eyes upon the blaze --Amaze, amaze!It stares, it stares, it stares,It dares what no one dares!It lifts its little hand into the flameUnharm'd, and on the stringsPaddles a little tune, and sings,With dumb endeavour sweetly --Bard art thou completely!Little childO' th' western wild,Bard art thou completely!Sweetly with dumb endeavour,A Poet now or never,Little childO' th' western wild,A Poet now or never!

I am a poet of the Hudson River and the heights above it, the lights, the stars, and the bridgesI am also by self-appointment the laureate of the Atlantic -of the peoples' hearts, crossing it to new America.I am burdened with the truck and chimera, hope, acquired in the sweating sick-excited passage in steerage, strange and estrangedHence I must descry and describe the kingdom of emotion.For I am a poet of the kindergarten (in the city) and the cemetery (in the city)And rapture and ragtime and also the secret city in the heart and mindThis is the song of the natural city self in the 20th century.It is true but only partly true that a city is a "tyranny of numbers"(This is the chant of the urban metropolitan and metaphysical selfAfter the first two World Wars of the 20th century)--- This is the city self, looking from window to lighted windowWhen the squares and checks of faintly yellow lightShine at night, upon a huge dim board and slab-like tombs,Hiding many lives. It is the city consciousnessWhich sees and says: more: more and more: always more.

ONE song, America, before I go, I'd sing, o'er all the rest, with trumpet sound, For thee--the Future. I'd sow a seed for thee of endless Nationality; I'd fashion thy Ensemble, including Body and Soul; I'd show, away ahead, thy real Union, and how it may be accomplish'd. (The paths to the House I seek to make, But leave to those to come, the House itself.) Belief I sing--and Preparation; As Life and Nature are not great with reference to the Present only, 10 But greater still from what is yet to come, Out of that formula for Thee I sing.

You have the grit and the guts, I know; You are ready to answer blow for blow You are virile, combative, stubborn, hard, But your honor ends with your own back-yard; Each man intent on his private goal, You have no feeling for the whole; What singly none would tolerate You let unpunished hit the state, Unmindful that each man must share The stain he lets his country wear, And (what no traveller ignores) That her good name is often yours. You are proud in the pride that feels its might; From your imaginary height Men of another race or hue Are men of a lesser breed to you: The neighbor at your southern gate You treat with the scorn that has bred his hate. To lend a spice to your disrespect You call him the "greaser". But reflect! The greaser has spat on you more than once; He has handed you multiple affronts; He has robbed you, banished you, burned and killed; He has gone untrounced for the blood he spilled; He has jeering used for his bootblack's rag The stars and stripes of the gringo's flag; And you, in the depths of your easy-chair -- What did you do, what did you care? Did you find the season too cold and damp To change the counter for the camp? Were you frightened by fevers in Mexico? I can't imagine, but this I know -- You are impassioned vastly more By the news of the daily baseball score Than to hear that a dozen countrymen Have perished somewhere in Darien, That greasers have taken their innocent lives And robbed their holdings and raped their wives. Not by rough tongues and ready fists Can you hope to jilt in the modern lists. The armies of a littler folk Shall pass you under the victor's yoke, Sobeit a nation that trains her sons To ride their horses and point their guns -- Sobeit a people that comprehends The limit where private pleasure ends And where their public dues begin, A people made strong by discipline Who are willing to give -- what you've no mind to -- And understand -- what you are blind to -- The things that the individual Must sacrifice for the good of all. You have a leader who knows -- the man Most fit to be called American, A prophet that once in generations Is given to point to erring nations Brighter ideals toward which to press And lead them out of the wilderness. Will you turn your back on him once again? Will you give the tiller once more to men Who have made your country the laughing-stock For the older peoples to scorn and mock, Who would make you servile, despised, and weak, A country that turns the other cheek, Who care not how bravely your flag may float, Who answer an insult with a note, Whose way is the easy way in all, And, seeing that polished arms appal Their marrow of milk-fed pacifist, Would tell you menace does not exist? Are these, in the world's great parliament, The men you would choose to represent Your honor, your manhood, and your pride, And the virtues your fathers dignified? Oh, bury them deeper than the sea In universal obloquy; Forget the ground where they lie, or write For epitaph: "Too proud to fight." I have been too long from my country's shores To reckon what state of mind is yours, But as for myself I know right well I would go through fire and shot and shell And face new perils and make my bed In new privations, if ROOSEVELT led; But I have given my heart and hand To serve, in serving another land, Ideals kept bright that with you are dim; Here men can thrill to their country's hymn, For the passion that wells in the Marseillaise Is the same that fires the French these days, And, when the flag that they love goes by, With swelling bosom and moistened eye They can look, for they know that it floats there still By the might of their hands and the strength of their will, And through perils countless and trials unknown Its honor each man has made his own. They wanted the war no more than you, But they saw how the certain menace grew, And they gave two years of their youth or three The more to insure their liberty When the wrath of rifles and pennoned spears Should roll like a flood on their wrecked frontiers. They wanted the war no more than you, But when the dreadful summons blew And the time to settle the quarrel came They sprang to their guns, each man was game; And mark if they fight not to the last For their hearths, their altars, and their past: Yea, fight till their veins have been bled dry For love of the country that WILL not die. O friends, in your fortunate present ease (Yet faced by the self-same facts as these), If you would see how a race can soar That has no love, but no fear, of war, How each can turn from his private role That all may act as a perfect whole, How men can live up to the place they claim And a nation, jealous of its good name, Be true to its proud inheritance, Oh, look over here and learn from FRANCE!

1899Who would trust England, let him lift his eyes To Nelson, columned o'er Trafalgar Square, Her hieroglyph of duty, written where The roar of traffic hushes to the skies; Or mark, while Paul's vast shadow softly lies On Gordon's statued sleep, how praise and prayer Flush through the frank young faces clustering there To con that kindred rune of sacrifice. O England, no bland cloud-ship in the blue, But rough oak plunging on o'er perilous jars Of reef and ice, our faith will follow you The more for tempest roar that strains your spars And splits your canvas, be your helm but true, Your courses shapen by the eternal stars.1900The nightmare melts at last, and London wakes To her old habit of victorious ease. More men, and more, and more for over-seas, More guns until the giant hammer breaks That patriot folk whom even God forsakes. Shall not Great England work her will on these, The foolish little nations, and appease An angry shame that in her memory aches? But far beyond the fierce-contested flood, The cannon-planted pass, the shell-torn town, The last wild carnival of fire and blood, Beware, beware that dim and awful Shade, Armored with Milton's sword and Cromwell's frown, Affronted Freedom, of her own betrayed!

O Lord, our refuge and strengthWhen it's 'in God we trust'The foe has struck your firstbornWith a great infamous thrustLike history repeatedA Trojan Horse awaitTo massacre the blamelessA 'Nine-eleven' fateThey've dared defy an armyThat does proclaim you LordDeliver US from their handWhet your glittering swordOur Father who's in heavenShield US, your battle axeGuard these in Thy replevinThen Babylon do taxGive US righteous victoryIn Thy name, Lord of hostSo that all the earth may know'In God we trust' foremostO Lord, our Rock and fortress'Land of the Free' protectKeep US strong 'til Shiloh comeThen on to Him collectHe maketh the wars to ceaseUnto the end of earthBreaketh bow, cut sunder spearTo chariots flame's birth'Be calm, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.'*The Lord of hosts is with USOur refuge we proclaimBless US in our endeavorWe ask in Jesus name*Psalms 46: 10, Inspired by Jeremiah Chapters 50 and 51© 2011

Against the eagledHemisphereI lean my eagerEditorial earAnd what the devilYou think I hear?I hear the BeatNo not of the heartBut the dull palpitationOf the New ArtAs, on the dead tread,Mill of no mind,It follows its leadersUnbeaten behind.O Kerouac KerouacWhat on earth shall we doIf a single IdeaEver gets through?. . . 1/2 an ideaTo a hundred pagesNow Jack, dear Jack,That ain't fair wagesFor labouring throughProse that takes agesJust to announceThat Gods and MenOught all to studyThe Book of Zen.If you really thinkSo low of the soulWhy don't you writeOn a toilet roll?

People unitedTo secure their libertyOut of many, oneI've written a letter for anyone who cares where this great country of ours is heading. It has bothered some on this poetry sight so much they have had it removed from the search engine, despite my many attempts at restoring it. Why do they allow certain authors to lambaste our great country, while anyone trying to bring forth the truth is silenced? The letter is entitled 'Our Liberty' © 2011America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America America freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku haiku

It is time that I speak up for what they call Americafor a people not appreciated much, they are generous to all and help the needy near and farmillions gladly felt the good old Yankee touch.There is Germany and Britain, and Japan and Italythey were showered with those dollars and forgivenmany debts were cancelled all to end their self-caused miserynew investments, new economies were driven. While some debts remained in place and should be honoured as of rightit is clear that not one country pays a dime, you would think that just the interest would be given without fightbut the world does not regard this as a crime.It was nineteen-fifty-six and Vive La France was near collapseguess who came to prop her up in those dark days? Yes it was the helpful Yankees, while De Gaulle was taking napsbut the money disappeared into the haze.Look at earthquakes in those regions where the people are so poorwho will hurry to the places and assist, yet tornadoes flatten cities in the homeland every yearany helpers must have faded in the mist.When the Marshall Plan pumped billions into countries destitutethere were smiles of gratitude on every faceyet today their papers write about the decadent disputeand are calling them the warring tyrant race.Look at planes that fly those people in convenient and safe tripsto the places where the world looks not like home should you hear the names of Boeing, DC-Ten on foreign lipson the way to a now free and prosperous Rome? When the railways broke in Germany, in France and Indiathey were rebuilt by Americans, my word, when they did collapse at home, in Pennsylvania and New York no single miracle occurred.No one lend them even one lousy caboose. I can name five thousand times when old America would actwhile the rest of our great world were in a snooze. Take an earthquake on the coast, and with little left intactwho of all the mentioned countries would be seen? I could go and tell you more but maybe all will get the gistthat Americans have always been too keento be nurse and, yes policeman while the envious souls get pissedso America, you ought to stand up tall.No one stands with you in times when there is need for a strong shoulderthat could help you and prevent that some might fallI have seen you go alone and with your goodness move the boulderwhile the sneering and the whistling could be heard.And today, courageous people, you are faced with a new foethat will plant your precious boys deep in the dirtonce again the world is watching and enjoying their own showscreaming insults, throwing rocks at simple folks.It is not the Ma's and Pa's or all their offspring that is badand there really is no room for your poor jokes.It is George and Donald and some others who've gone madas the devil of Big Greed has grabbed their hand.Uncle Sam and his mean henchmen need to go inside a cellso the people can get back their promised land.And I pray for my America, Get Well. Note: This was inspired by the radio address of Gordon Sinclair, a Canadian, in the seventies. I kept the title as well

LEANDER. No more of Memphis and her mighty kings, Or Alexandria, where the Ptolomies. Taught golden commerce to unfurl her falls, And bid fair science smile: No more of Greece Where learning next her early visit paid, And spread her glories to illume the world, No more of Athens, where she flourished, And saw her sons of mighty genius rise Smooth flowing Plato, Socrates and him Who with resistless eloquence reviv'd The Spir't of Liberty, and shook the thrones Of Macedon and Persia's haughty king. No more of Rome enlighten'd by her beams, Fresh kindling there the fire of eloquence, And poesy divine; imperial Rome! Whose wide dominion reach'd o'er half the globe; Whose eagle flew o'er Ganges to the East, And in the West far to the British isles. No more of Britain, and her kings renown'd, Edward's and Henry's thunderbolts of war; Her chiefs victorious o'er the Gallic foe; Illustrious senators, immortal bards, And wise philosophers, of these no more. A Theme more new, tho' not less noble claims Our ev'ry thought on this auspicious day The rising glory of this western world, Where now the dawning light of science spreads Her orient ray, and wakes the muse's song; Where freedom holds her sacred standard high, And commerce rolls her golden tides profuse Of elegance and ev'ry joy of life. ACASTO. Since then Leander you attempt a strain So new, so noble and so full of fame; And since a friendly concourse centers here America's own sons, begin O muse! Now thro' the veil of ancient days review The period fam'd when first Columbus touch'd The shore so long unknown, thro' various toils, Famine and death, the hero made his way, Thro' oceans bestowing with eternal storms. But why, thus hap'ly found, should we resume The tale of Cortez, furious chief, ordain'd With Indian blood to dye the sands, and choak Fam'd Amazonia's stream with dead! Or why, Once more revive the story old in fame, Of Atabilipa by thirst of gold Depriv'd of life: which not Peru's rich ore, Nor Mexico's vast mines cou'd then redeem. Better these northern realms deserve our song, Discover'd by Britannia for her sons; Undeluged with seas of Indian blood, Which cruel Spain on southern regions spilt; To gain by terrors what the gen'rous breast Wins by fair treaty, conquers without blood. EUGENIO. High in renown th' intreprid hero stands, From Europes shores advent'ring first to try New seas, new oceans, unexplor'd by man. Fam'd Cabot too may claim our noblest song, Who from th' Atlantic surge descry'd these shores, As on he coasted from the Mexic bay To Acady and piny Labradore. Nor less than him the muse would celebrate Bold Hudson stemming to the pole, thro' seas Vex'd with continual storms, thro' the cold strains, Where Europe and America oppose Their shores contiguous, and the northern sea Confin'd, indignant, swells and roars between. With these be number'd in the list of fame Illustrious Raleigh, hapless in his fate: Forgive me Raleigh, if an infant muse Borrows thy name to grace her humble strain; By many nobler are thy virtues sung; Envy no more shall throw them in the shade; They pour new lustre on Britannia's isle. Thou too, advent'rous on th' Atlantic main, Burst thro' its storms and fair Virginia hail'd. The simple natives saw thy canvas flow, And gaz'd aloof upon the shady shore: For in her woods America contain'd, From times remote, a savage race of men. How shall we know their origin, how tell, From whence or where the Indian tribes arose? ACASTO. And long has this defy'd the sages skill T' investigate: Tradition seems to hide The mighty secret from each mortal eye, How first these various nations South and North Possest these shores, or from what countries came. Whether they sprang from some premoeval head In their own lands, like Adam in the East; Yet this the sacred oracles deny, And reason too reclaims against the thought. For when the gen'ral deluge drown'd the world, Where could their tribes have found security? Where find their fate but in the ghastly deep? Unless, as others dream, some chosen few High on the Andes 'scap'd the gen'ral death, High on the Andes wrapt in endless snow, Where winter in his wildest fury reigns. But here Philosophers oppose the scheme, The earth, say they, nor hills nor mountains knew E'er yet the universal flood prevail'd: But when the mighty waters rose aloft Rous'd by the winds, they shook their solid case And in convulsions tore the drowned world! 'Till by the winds assuag'd they quickly fell And all their ragged bed exposed to view. Perhaps far wand'ring towards the northren pole, The straits of Zembla and the Frozen Zone, And where the eastern Greenland almost joins America's north point, the hardy tribes Of banish'd Jews, Siberians, Tartars wild Came over icy mountains, or on floats First reach'd these coasts hid from the world beside. And yet another argument more strange Reserv'd for men of deeper thought and late Presents itself to view: In Pelag's days, So says the Hebrew seer's inspired pen, This mighty mass of earth, this solid globe Was cleft in twain--cleft east and west apart While strait between the deep Atlantic roll'd. And traces indisputable remain Of this unhappy land now sunk and lost; The islands rising in the eastern main Are but small fragments of this continent, Whose two extremities were Newfoudland And St. Helena.--One far in the north Where British seamen now with strange surprise Behold the pole star glitt'ring o'er their heads; The other in the southern tropic rears Its head above the waves; Bermudas and Canary isles, Britannia and th' Azores, With fam'd Hibernia are but broken parts Of some prodigious waste which once sustain'd Armies by lands, where now but ships can range. LEANDER. Your sophistry Acasto makes me smile; The roving mind of man delights to dwell On hidden things, merely because they're hid; He thinks his knowledge ne'er can reach too high And boldly pierces nature's inmost haunts But for uncertainties; your broken isles, You northern Tartars, and your wand'ring Jews. Hear what the voice of history proclaims. The Carthaginians, e'er the Roman yoke Broke their proud spirits and enslav'd them too, For navigation were renown'd as much As haughty Tyre with all her hundred fleets; Full many: league their vent'rous seamen sail'd Thro' strait Gibraltar down the western shore Of Africa, and to Canary isles By them call'd fortunate, so Flaccus sings, Because eternal spring there crowns the fields, And fruits delicious bloom throughout the year. From voyaging here this inference I draw, Perhaps some barque with all her num'rous crew Caught by the eastern trade wind hurry'd on Before th' steady blast to Brazil's shore, New Amazonia and the coasts more south. Here standing and unable to return, For ever from their native skies estrang'd, Doubtless they made the unknown land their own. And in the course of many rolling years A num'rous progeny from these arose, And spread throughout the coasts; those whom we call Brazilians, Mexicans, Peruvians rich, Th' tribes of Chili, Paragon and those Who till the shores of Amazon's long stream. When first the pow'rs of Europe here attain'd Vast empires, kingdoms, cities, palaces And polish'd nations stock'd the fertile land. Who has not heard of Cusco, Lima and The town of Mexico; huge cities form'd From Europe's architecture, e're the arms Of haughty Spain disturb'd the peaceful soil. EUGENIO. Such disquisition leads the puzzled mind From maze to maze by queries still perplex'd. But this we know, if from the east they came Where science first and revelation beam'd, Long since they've lost all memory, all trace Of this their origin: Tradition tells Of some great forefather beyond the lakes Oswego, Huron, Mechigan, Champlaine Or by the stream of Amazon which rolls Thro' many a clime; while others simply dream That from the Andes or the mountains north, Some hoary fabled ancestor came down To people this their world. LEANDER. How fallen, Oh! How much obscur'd is human nature here! Shut from the light of science and of truth They wander'd blindfold down the steep of time; Dim superstition with her ghastly train Of dæmons, spectres and forboding signs Still urging them to horrid rites and forms Of human sacrifice, to sooth the pow'rs Malignant, and the dark infernal king. Once on this spot perhaps a wigwam stood With all its rude inhabitants, or round Some mighty fire an hundred savage sons Gambol'd by day, and filled the night with cries; In what superior to the brutal race That fled before them thro' the howling wilds, Were all those num'rous tawny tribes which swarm'd From Baffin's bay to Del Fuego south, From California to the Oronoque. Far from the reach of fame they liv'd unknown In listless slumber and inglorious ease; To them fair science never op'd her stores, Nor sacred truth sublim'd the soul to God; No fix'd abode their wand'ring genius knew; No golden harvest crown'd the fertile glebe; No city then adorn'd the rivers bank, Nor rising turret overlook'd the stream. ACASTO. Now view the prospect chang'd; far off at sea The mariner descry's our spacious towns He hails the prospect of the land and views A new, a fair a fertile world arise; Onward from India's isles far east, to us Now fair-ey'd commerce stretches her white sails, Learning exalts her head, the graces smile And peace establish'd after horrid war Improves the splendor of these early times. But come my friends and let us trace the steps By which this recent happy world arose, To this fair eminence of high renown This height of wealth, of liberty and fame. LEANDER. Speak then Eugenio, for I've heard you tell The pleasing hist'ry, and the cause that brought The first advent'rers to these happy shores; The glorious cause that urg'd our fathers first To visit climes unknown and wilder woods Than e'er Tartarian or Norwegian saw, And with fair culture to adorn that soil Which never knew th' industrious swain before. EUGENIO. All this long story to rehearse would tire, Besides the sun toward the west retreats, Nor can the noblest tale retard his speed, Nor loftiest verse; not that which sung the fall Of Troy divine and smooth Scamander's stream. Yet hear a part.--By persecution wrong'd And popish cruelty, our fathers came From Europe's shores to find this blest abode, Secure from tyranny and hateful man. For this they left their country and their friends And plough'd th' Atlantic wave in quest of peace; And found new shores and sylvan settlements Form'd by the care of each advent'rous chief, Who, warm in liberty and freedom's cause, Sought out uncultivated tracts and wilds, And fram'd new plans of cities, governments And spacious provinces: Why should I name Thee Penn, the Solon of our western lands; Sagacious legislator, whom the world Admires tho' dead: an infant colony Nurs'd by thy care, now rises o'er the rest Like that tall Pyramid on Memphis' stand O'er all the lesser piles, they also great. Why should I name those heroes so well known Who peopled all the rest from Canada To Georgia's farthest coasts, West Florida Or Apalachian mountains, yet what streams Of blood were shed! What Indian hosts were slain Before the days of peace were quite restor'd. LEANDER. Yes, while they overturn'd the soil untill'd, And swept the forests from the shaded plain 'Midst dangers, foes and death, fierce Indian tribes With deadly malice arm'd and black design, Oft murder'd half the hapless colonies. Encourag'd too by that inglorious race False Gallia's sons, who once their arms display'd At Quebec, Montreal and farthest coasts Of Labrador and Esquimaux where now The British standard awes the coward host. Here those brave chiefs, who lavish of their blood Fought in Britannia's cause, most nobly fell. What Heart but mourns the untimely fate of Wolf, Who dying conquer'd, or what breast but beats To share a fate like his, and die like him? ACASTO. And he demands our lay who bravely fell By Monangahela and the Ohio's stream; By wiles o'ercome the hapless hero fell, His soul too gen'rous, for that dastard crew Who kill unseen and shun the face of day. Ambush'd in wood, and swamp and thick grown hill, The bellowing tribes brought on the savage war. What could avail O Braddock then the flame, The gen'rous flame which fir'd thy martial soul! What could avail Britannia's warlike troops, Choice spirits of her isle? What could avail America's own sons? The skulking foe, Hid in the forest lay and sought secure, What could the brave Virginians do o'erpower'd By such vast numbers and their leader dead? 'Midst fire and death they bore him from the field, Where in his blood full many a hero lay. 'Twas there O Halkut! thou so nobly fell, Thrice valiant Halkut early son of fame! We still deplore a fate so immature, Fair Albion mourns thy unsuccesful end, And Caledonia sheds a tear for him Who led the bravest of her sons to war. EUGENIO. But why alas commemorate the dead? And pass those glorious heroes by, who yet Breathe the same air and see the light with us? The dead, Acasto are but empty names And he who dy'd to day the same to us As he who dy'd a thousand years ago. A Johnson lives, among the sons of same Well known, conspicuous as the morning star Among the lesser lights: A patriot skill'd In all the glorious arts of peace of war. He for Britannia gains the savage race, Unstable as the sea, wild as the winds, Cruel as death, and treacherous as hell, Whom none but he by kindness yet could win, None by humanity could gain their souls, Or bring from woods and subteranean dens The skulking crew, before a Johnson rose, Pitying their num'rous tribes: ah how unlike The Cortez' and Acosta's, pride of Spain Whom blood and murder only satisfy'd. Behold their doleful regions overflow'd With gore, and blacken'd with ten thousand deaths From Mexico to Patagonia far, Where howling winds sweep round the southern cape, And other suns and other stars arise! ACASTO. Such is the curse Eugenio where the soul Humane is wanting, but we boast no seats Of cruelty like Spain's unfeeling sons. The British Epithet is merciful: And we the sons of Britain learn like them To conquer and to spare; for coward souls Seek their revenge but on a vanquish'd foe. Gold, fatal gold was the assuring bait To Spain's rapacious mind, hence rose the wars From Chili to the Caribbean sea, O'er Terra-Firma and La Plata wide. Peru then sunk in ruins, great before With pompous cities, monuments superb Whose tops reach'd heav'n. But we more happy boast No golden metals in our peaceful land, No flaming diamond, precious emerald, Or blushing saphire, ruby, chrysolite Or jasper red; more noble riches flow From agriculture and th' industrious swain, Who tills the fertile vale or mountain's brow, Content to lead a safe, a humble life 'Midst his own native hills; romantic scenes, Such as the muse of Greece did feign so well, Envying their lovely bow'rs to mortal race. LEANDER. Long has the rural life been justly fam'd; And poets old their pleasing pictures drew Of flow'ry meads, and groves and gliding streams. Hence old Arcadia, woodnymphs, satyrs, fauns, And hence Elysium, fancy'd heav'n below. Fair agriculture, not unworthy kings, Once exercis'd the royal hand, or those Whose virtue rais'd them to the rank of gods. See old Laertes in his shepherd weeds, Far from his pompous throne and court august, Digging the grateful soil, where peaceful blows The west wind murm'ring thro' the aged trees Loaded with apples red, sweet scented peach And each luxurious fruit the world affords, While o'er the fields the harmless oxen draw Th' industrious plough. The Roman heroes too Fabricius and Camillus lov'd a life Of sweet simplicity and rustic joy; And from the busy Forum hast'ning far, 'Midst woods and fields spent the remains of age. How grateful to behold the harvests rise And mighty crops adorn the golden plains? Fair plenty smiles throughout, while lowing herds Stalk o'er the grassy hill or level mead, Or at some winding river slake their thirst. Thus fares the rustic swain; and when the winds Blow with a keener breath, and from the North Pour all their tempests thro' a sunless sky, Ice, sleet and rattling hail, secure he sits In some thatch'd cottage fearless of the storm; While on the hearth a fire still blazing high Chears every mind, and nature fits serene On ev'ry countenance, such the joys And such the fate of those whom heav'n hath bless'd With souls enamour'd of a country life. EUGENIO. Much wealth and pleasure agriculture brings; Far in the woods she raises palaces, Puisant states and crowded realms where late A desart plain or frowning wilderness Deform'd the view; or where with moving tents The scatter'd nations seeking pasturage, Wander'd from clime to clime incultivate; Or where a race more savage yet than these, In search of prey o'er hill and mountain rang'd, Fierce as the tygers and the wolves they flew. Thus lives th' Arabian and the Tartar wild In woody wastes which never felt the plough; But agriculture crowns our happy land, And plants our colonies from north to south, From Cape Breton far as the Mexic bay From th' Eastern shores to Missisippi's stream. Famine to us unknown, rich plenty reigns And pours her blessings with a lavish hand. LEANDER. Nor less from golden commerce flow the streams Of richest plenty on our smiling land. Now fierce Bellona must'ring all her rage, To other climes and other seas withdraws, To rouse the Russian on the desp'rate Turk There to conflict by Danube and the straits Which join the Euxine to th' Egean Sea. Britannia holds the empire of the waves, And welcomes ev'ry bold adventurer To view the wonders of old Ocean's reign. Far to the east our fleets on traffic sail, And to the west thro' boundless seas which not Old Rome nor Tyre nor mightier Carthage knew. Daughter of commerce, from the hoary deep New-York emerging rears her lofty domes, And hails from far her num'rous ships of trade, Like shady forests rising on the waves. From Europe's shores or from the Caribbees, Homeward returning annually they bring The richest produce of the various climes. And Philadelphia mistress of our world, The seat of arts, of science, and of fame Derives her grandeur from the pow'r of trade. Hail happy city where the muses stray, Where deep philosophy convenes her sons And opens all her secrets to their view! Bids them ascend with Newton to the skies, And trace the orbits of the rolling spheres, Survey the glories of the universe, Its suns and moons and ever blazing stars! Hail city blest with liberty's fair beams, And with the rays of mild religion blest! ACASTO. Nor these alone, America, thy sons In the short circle of a hundred years Have rais'd with toil along thy shady shores. On lake and bay and navigable stream, From Cape Breton to Pensacola south, Unnumber'd towns and villages arise, By commerce nurs'd these embrio marts of trade May yet awake the envy and obscure The noblest cities of the eastern world; For commerce is the mighty reservoir From whence all nations draw the streams of gain. 'Tis commerce joins dissever'd worlds in one, Confines old Ocean to more narrow bounds; Outbraves his storms and peoples half his world. EUGENIO. And from the earliest times advent'rous man On foreign traffic stretch'd the nimble sail; Or sent the slow pac'd caravan afar O'er barren wastes, eternal sands where not The blissful haunt of human form is seen Nor tree not ev'n funeral cypress sad Nor bubbling fountain. Thus arriv'd of old Golconda's golden ore, and thus the wealth Of Ophir to the wisest of mankind. LEANDER. Great is the praise of commerce, and the men Deserve our praise who spread from shore to shore The flowing fall; great are their dangers too; Death ever present to the fearless eye And ev'ry billow but a gaping grave; Yet all these mighty feats to science owe Their rise and glory.--Hail fair science! thou Transplanted from the eastern climes dost bloom In these fair regions, Greece and Rome no more Detain the muses on Cithæron's brow, Or old Olympus crown'd with waving woods; Or Hæmus' top where once was heard the harp, Sweet Orpheus' harp that ravish'd hell below And pierc'd the soul of Orcus and his bride, That hush'd to silence by the song divine Thy melancholy waters, and the gales O Hebrus! which o'er thy sad surface blow. No more the maids round Alpheus' waters stray Where he with Arethusas' stream doth mix, Or where swift Tiber disembogues his waves Into th' Italian sea so long unsung. Hither they've wing'd their way, the last, the best Of countries where the arts shall rise and grow Luxuriant, graceful; and ev'n now we boast A Franklin skill'd in deep philosophy, A genius piercing as th' electric fire, Bright as the light'nings flash explain'd so well By him the rival of Britannia's sage. This is a land of ev'ry joyous sound Of liberty and life; sweet liberty! Without whose aid the noblest genius fails, And science irretrievably must die. ACASTO. This is a land where the more noble light Of holy revelation beams, the star Which rose from Judah lights our skies, we feel Its influence as once did Palestine And Gentile lands, where now the ruthless Turk Wrapt up in darkness sleeps dull life away. Here many holy messengers of peace As burning lamps have given light to men. To thee, O Whitefield! favourite of Heav'n, The muse would pay the tribute of a tear. Laid in the dust thy eloquence no more Shall charm the list'ning soul, no more Thy bold imagination paint the scenes Of woe and horror in the shades below; Or glory radiant in the fields above; No more thy charity relieve the poor; Let Georgia mourn, let all her orphans weep. LEANDER. Yet tho' we wish'd him longer from the skies, And wept to see the ev'ning of his days, He long'd himself to reach his final hope, The crown of glory for the just prepar'd. From life's high verge he hail'd th' eternal shore And, freed at last from his confinement, rose An infant seraph to the worlds on high. EUGENIO. For him we sound the melancholy lyre, The lyre responsive to each distant sigh; No grief like that which mourns departing souls Of holy, just and venerable men, Whom pitying Heav'n sends from their native skies To light our way and bring us nearer God. But come Leander since we know the past And present glory of this empire wide, What hinders to pervade with searching eye The mystic scenes of dark futurity? Say shall we ask what empires yet must rise What kingdoms pow'rs and states where now are seen But dreary wastes and awful solitude, Where melancholy sits with eye forlorn And hopes the day when Britain's sons shall spread Dominion to the north and south and west Far from th' Atlantic to Pacific shores? A glorious theme, but how shall mortals dare To pierce the mysteries of future days, And scenes unravel only known to fate. ACASTO. This might we do if warm'd by that bright coal Snatch'd from the altar of seraphic fire, Which touch'd Isaiah's lips, or if the spirit Of Jeremy and Amos, prophets old, Should fire the breast; but yet I call the muse And what we can will do. I see, I see A thousand kingdoms rais'd, cities and men Num'rous as sand upon the ocean shore; Th' Ohio then shall glide by many a town Of note: and where the Missisippi stream By forests shaded now runs weeping on Nations shall grow and states not less in fame Than Greece and Rome of old: we too shall boast Our Alexanders, Pompeys, heroes, kings That in the womb of time yet dormant lye Waiting the joyful hour for life and light. O snatch us hence, ye muses! to those days When, through the veil of dark antiquity, Our sons shall hear of us as things remote, That blossom'd in the morn of days, alas! How could I weep that we were born so soon, In the beginning of more happy times! But yet perhaps our fame shall last unhurt. The sons of science nobly scorn to die Immortal virtue this denies, the muse Forbids the men to slumber in the grave Who well deserve the praise that virtue gives. EUGENIO. 'Tis true no human eye can penetrate The veil obscure, and in fair light disclos'd Behold the scenes of dark futurity; Yet if we reason from the course of things, And downward trace the vestiges of time, The mind prophetic grows and pierces far Thro' ages yet unborn. We saw the states And mighty empires of the East arise In swift succession from the Assyrian To Macedon and Rome; to Britain thence Dominion drove her car, she stretch'd her reign Oer many isles, wide seas, and peopled lands. Now in the West a continent appears; A newer world now opens to her view; She hastens onward to th' Americ shores And bids a scene of recent wonders rise. New states new empires and a line of kings, High rais'd in glory, cities, palaces Fair domes on each long bay, sea, shore or stream Circling the hills now rear their lofty heads. Far in the Arctic skies a Petersburgh, A Bergen, or Archangel lifts its spires Glitt'ring with Ice, far in the West appears A new Palmyra or an Ecbatan, And sees the slow pac'd caravan return O'er many a realm from the Pacific shore, Where fleets shall then convey rich Persia's silks, Arabia's perfumes, and spices rare Of Philippine, Coelebe and Marian isles, Or from the Acapulco coast our India then, Laden with pearl and burning gems and gold. Far in the South I see a Babylon, As once by Tigris or Euphrates stream, With blazing watch towr's and observatories Rising to heav'n; from thence astronomers With optic glass take nobler views of God In golden suns and shining worlds display'd Than the poor Chaldean with the naked eye. A Niniveh where Oronoque descends With waves discolour'd from the Andes high, Winding himself around a hundred isles Where golden buildings glitter o'er his tide. To mighty nations shall the people grow Which cultivate the banks of many a flood, In chrystal currents poured from the hills Apalachia nam'd, to lave the sands Of Carolina, Georgia, and the plains Stretch'd out from thence far to the burning Line, St Johns or Clarendon or Albemarle. And thou Patowmack navigable stream, Rolling thy waters thro' Virginia's groves, Shall vie with Thames, the Tiber or the Rhine, For on thy banks I see an hundred towns And the tall vessels wafted down thy tide. Hoarse Niagara's stream now roaring on Thro' woods and rocks and broken mountains torn, In days remote far from their antient beds, By some great monarch taught a better course, Or cleared of cataracts shall flow beneath Unnumbr'd boats and merchandize and men; And from the coasts of piny Labradore, A thousand navies crowd before the gale, And spread their commerce to remotest lands, Or bear their thunder round the conquered world. LEANDER. And here fair freedom shall forever reign. I see a train, a glorious train appear, Of Patriots plac'd in equal fame with those Who nobly fell for Athens or for Rome. The sons of Boston resolute and brave The firm supporters of our injur'd rights, Shall lose their splendours in the brighter beams Of patriots fam'd and heroes yet unborn. ACASTO. 'Tis but the morning of the world with us And Science yet but sheds her orient rays. I see the age the happy age roll on Bright with the splendours of her mid-day beams, I see a Homer and a Milton rise In all the pomp and majesty of song, Which gives immortal vigour to the deeds Atchiev'd by Heroes in the fields of fame. A second Pope, like that Arabian bird Of which no age can boast but one, may yet Awake the muse by Schuylkill's silent stream, And bid new forests bloom along her tide. And Susquehanna's rocky stream unsung, In bright meanders winding round the hills, Where first the mountain nymph sweet echo heard The uncouth musick of my rural lay, Shall yet remurmur to the magic sound Of song heroic, when in future days Some noble Hambden rises into fame. LEANDER. Or Roanoke's and James's limpid waves The sound of musick murmurs in the gale; Another Denham celebrates their flow, In gliding numbers and harmonious lays. EUGENIO. Now in the bow'rs of Tuscororah hills, As once on Pindus all the muses stray, New Theban bards high soaring reach the skies And swim along thro' azure deeps of air. LEANDER. From Alleghany in thick groves imbrown'd, Sweet music breathing thro' the shades of night Steals on my ear, they sing the origin Of those fair lights which gild the firmament; From whence the gale that murmurs in the pines; Why flows the stream down from the mountains brow And rolls the ocean lower than the land. They sing the final destiny of things, The great result of all our labours here, The last day's glory, and the world renew'd. Such are their themes for in these happier days The bard enraptur'd scorns ignoble strains, Fair science smiling and full truth revealed, The world at peace, and all her tumults o'er, The blissful prelude to Emanuel's reign. EUGENIO. And when a train of rolling years are past, (So sang the exil'd seer in Patmos isle,) A new Jerusalem sent down from heav'n Shall grace our happy earth, perhaps this land, Whose virgin bosom shall then receive, tho' late, Myriads of saints with their almighty king, To live and reign on earth a thousand years Thence call'd Millennium. Paradise a new Shall flourish, by no second Adam lost. No dang'rous tree or deathful fruit shall grow, No tempting serpent to allure the soul, From native innocence; a Canaan here Another Canaan shall excel the old And from fairer Pisgah's top be seen, No thistle here or briar or thorn shall spring Earth's curse before: the lion and the lamb In mutual friendship link'd shall browse the shrub, And tim'rous deer with rabid tygers stray O'er mead or lofty hill or grassy plain. Another Jordan's stream shall glide along And Siloah's brook in circling eddies flow, Groves shall adorn their verdant banks, on which The happy people free from second death Shall find secure repose; no fierce disease No fevers, slow consumption, direful plague Death's ancient ministers, again renew Perpetual war with man: Fair fruits shall bloom Fair to the eye, sweet to the taste, if such Divine inhabitants could need the taste Of elemental food, amid the joys Fit for a heav'nly nature. Music's charms Shall swell the lofty soul and harmony Triumphant reign; thro' ev'ry grove shall sound The cymbal and the lyre, joys too divine For fallen man to know. Such days the world And such America thou first shall have When ages yet to come have run their round And future years of bliss alone remain. ACASTO. This is thy praise America thy pow'r Thou best of climes by science visited By freedom blest and richly stor'd with all The luxuries of life. Hail happy land The seat of empire the abode of kings, The final stage where time shall introduce Renowned characters, and glorious works Of high invention and of wond'rous art, Which not the ravages of time shall wake Till he himself has run his long career; Till all those glorious orbs of light on high The rolling wonders that surround the ball, Drop from their spheres extinguish'd and consum'd; When final ruin with her fiery car Rides o'er creation, and all nature's works Are lost in chaos and the womb of night.

NOR force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye Who north or south, on east or western land, Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth, Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God For God; O ye who in eternal youth Speak with a living and creative flood This universal English, and do stand Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand Heroic utterance—parted, yet a whole, Far yet unsever’d,—children brave and free Of the great Mother-tongue, and ye shall be Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare’s soul, Sublime as Milton’s immemorial theme, And rich as Chaucer’s speech, and fair as Spenser’s dream.

In the Rotationsof the Universeperiodically, the Destiny Dial clicksto that spacecalled Community.Then all the worldcelebratesand weeps-tearswhich sparkleand reflecteach hope, each dream; when we all plantour Heart Flower Seedsin the garden hoping for the Futurewhich heals.Not Miraclesbut Peace, not Riches; but Shared Prosperity; not no fearbut lessened anxiety.America is an Ideal.Every once in a whileShe produces that handwhich re-lights the torchof Lady Libertynear extinguished by extremity; a new hand which reaches outto millions of other hands which reach backaffirming the simpleretort: Yes We Can.Sing nowas others have sungfor phase, line and meterbring back the music.only America can sing, of an era which maybe, just maybewill crack that shut door, where Hope's light willshine throughupon child faceswhere the children glimpsenew possibilities; where new shiningsilluminate each child-facebless eachand their progeny; all bathed now in that precious prospectwhere there is respect for lives human and non-human. Where peace is not extinguishedby flesh-mauling war machines.American is an ideathat won't die; an experimentamid swarms of tyrannies; where sometimesthe Universal Clock Pointer swings roundto that wondrous spacewe callLiberty; and Peace; All thissignaled potentiallyby a goat herder's sonwho had that same dream.Democracy is that systembest preservedbecause no one knowswhere Potentialemanates from; or lessons that can be learnedfrom a goats herders sonand that Kansas wifewho had a different dream.

WITNESS FOR TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA PEACEIn San Francisco around Easter time last year, they had atrout fishing in America peace parade. They had thousandsof red stickers printed and they pasted them on their smallforeign cars, and on means of national communication liketelephone poles. The stickers had WITNESS FOR TROUT FISHING IN AM-ERICA PEACE printed on them. Then this group of college- and high-school-trained Com-munists, along with some Communist clergymen and theirMarxist-taught children, marched to San Francisco fromSunnyvale, a Communist nerve center about forty miles away. It took them four days to walk to San Francisco. Theystopped overnight at various towns along the way, and slepton the lawns of fellow travelers. They carried with them Communist trout fishing in Ameri-ca peace propaganda posters:"DON'T DROP AN H-BOMB ON THE OLD FISHING HOLE I" "ISAAC WALTON WOULD'VE HATED THE BOMB!" "ROYAL COACHMAN, SI! ICBM, NO!" They carried with them many other trout fishing in Amer-ica peace inducements, all following the Communist worldconquest line: the Gandhian nonviolence Trojan horse. When these young, hard-core brainwashed members ofthe Communist conspiracy reached the "Panhandle, " theemigre Oklahoma Communist sector of San Francisco, thou-sands of other Communists were waiting for them. Thesewere Communists who couldn't walk very far. They barelyhad enough strength to make it downtown. Thousands of Communists, protected by the police, marcheddown to Union Square, located in the very heart of San Fran-cisco. The Communist City Hall riots in 1960 had presentedevidence of it, the police let hundreds of Communists escape,but the trout fishing in America peace parade was the finalindictment: police protection. Thousands of Communists marched right into the heart ofSan Francisco, and Communist speakers incited them forhours and the young people wanted to blow up Colt Tower, butthe Communist clergy told them to put away their plasticbombs. "Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men shoulddo to you, do ye even so to them . . . There will be no needfor explosives, " they said. America needs no other proof. The Red shadow of theGandhian nonviolence Trojan horse has fallen across Ameri-ca, and San Francisco is its stable. Obsolete is the mad rapist's legendary piece of candy. Atthis very moment, Communist agents are handing out Witnessfor trout fishing in America peace tracts to innocent childrenriding the cable cars.

SANDBOX MINUS JOHN DILLINGER EQUALS WHAT?Often I return to the cover of Trout Fishing in America. Itook the baby and went down there this morning. They werewatering the cover with big revolving sprinklers. I saw somebread lying on the grass. It had been put there to feed thepigeons. The old Italians are always doing things like that. Thebread had been turned to paste by the water and was squashedflat against the grass. Those dopey pigeons were waiting untilthe water and grass had chewed up the bread for them, sothey wouldn't have to do it themselves. I let the baby play in the sandbox and I sat down on a benchand looked around. There was a beatnik sitting at the otherend -of the bench. He had his sleeping bag beside him and hewas eating apple turnovers. He had a huge sack of apple turn-overs and he was gobbling them down like a turkey. It wasprobably a more valid protest than picketing missile bases. The baby played in the sandbox. She had on a red dressand the Catholic church was towering up behind her red dress.There was a brick john between her dress and the church. Itwas there by no accident. Ladies to the left and gents to theright. A red dress, I thought. Wasn't the woman who set JohnDillinger up for the FBI wearing a red dress? They calledher "The Woman in Red. " It seemed to me that was right. It was a red dress, but sofar, John Dillinger was nowhere in sight. my daughterplayed alone in the sandbox. Sandbox minus John Dillinger equals what? The beatnik went and got a drink of water from the fountainthat was crucified on the wall of the brick john, more towardthe gents than the ladies. He had to wash all those apple turn-overs down his throat. There were three sprinklers going in the park. There wasone in front of the Benjamin Franklin statue and one to theside of him and one just behind him. They were all turning incircles. I saw Benjamin Franklin standing there patientlythrough the water. The sprinkler to the side of Benjamin Franklin hit the left-hand tree. It sprayed hard against the trunk and knocked someleaves down from the tree, and then it hit the center tree,sprayed hard against the trunk and more leaves fell. Then itsprayed against Benjamin Franklin, the water shot out to thesides of the stone and a mist drifted down off the water. Ben-jamin Franklin got his feet wet. The sun was shining down hard on me. The sun was brightand hot. After a while the sun made me think of my own dis-comfort. The only shade fell on the beatnik. The shade came down off the Lillie Hitchcock Colt statueof some metal fireman saving a metal broad from a mentalfire. The beatnik now lay on the bench and the shade was twofeet longer than he was. A friend of mine has written a poem about that statue. God-damn, I wish he would write another poem about that statue,SO it would give me some shade two feet longer than my body. I was right about "The Woman in Red, " because ten min-utes later they blasted John Dillinger down in the sandbox.The sound of the machine-gun fire startled the pigeons andthey hurried on into the church. My daughter was seen leaving in a huge black car shortlyafter that. She couldn't talk yet, but that didn't make any dif-ference. The red dress did it all. John Dillinger's body lay half in and half out of the sand-box, more toward the ladies than the gents. He was leakingblood like those capsules we used to use with oleomargarine,in those good old days when oleo was white like lard. The huge black car pulled out and went up the street, bat-light shining off the top. It stopped in front of the ice-creamparlor at Filbert and Stockton. An agent got out and went in and bought two hundreddouble-decker ice-cream cones. He needed a wheelbarrowto get them back to the car.

And now, when poets are singing Their songs of olden days, And now, when the land is ringing With sweet Centennial lays, My muse goes wandering backward, To the groundwork of all these, To the time when our Pilgrim Fathers Came over the winter seas. The sons of a mighty kingdom, Of a cultured folk were they; Born amidst pomp and splendor, Bred in it day by day. Children of bloom and beauty, Reared under skies serene, Where the daisy and hawthorne blossomed, And the ivy was always green. And yet, for the sake of freedom, For a free religious faith, They turned from home and people, And stood face to face with death. They turned from a tyrant ruler, And stood on the new world's shore, With a waste of waters behind them, And a waste of land before. O, men of a great Republic; Of a land of untold worth; Of a nation that has no equal Upon God's round green earth: I hear you sighing and crying Of the hard, close times at hand; What think you of those old heroes, On the rock 'twixt sea and land? The bells of a million churches Go ringing out to-night, And the glitter of palace windows Fills all the land with light; And there is the home and college, And here is the feast and ball, And the angels of peace and freedom Are hovering over all. They had no church, no college, No banks, no mining stock; They had but the waste before them, The sea, and Plymouth Rock. But there in the night and tempest, With gloom on every hand, They laid the first foundation Of a nation great and grand. There were no weak repinings, No shrinking from what might be, But with their brows to the tempest, And with their backs to the sea, They planned out a noble future, And planted the corner stone Of the grandest, greatest republic, The world has ever known. O women in homes of splendor, O lily-buds frail and fair, With fortunes upon your fingers, And milk-white pearls in your hair: I hear you longing and sighing For some new, fresh delight; But what of those Pilgrim mothers On that December night? I hear you talking of hardships, I hear you moaning of loss; Each has her fancied sorrow, Each bears her self-made cross. But they, they had only their husbands, The rain, the rock, and the sea, Yet, they looked up to God and blessed Him, And were glad because they were free. O grand old Pilgrim heroes, O souls that were tried and true, With all of our proud possessions We are humbled at thought of you: Men of such might and muscle, Women so brave and strong, Whose faith was fixed as the mountain, Through a night so dark and long. We know of your grim, grave errors, As husbands and as wives; Of the rigid bleak ideas That starved your daily lives; Of pent-up, curbed emotions, Of feelings crushed, suppressed, That God with the heart created In every human breast; We know of that little remnant Of British tyranny, When you hunted Quakers and witches, And swumg them from a tree; Yet back to a holy motive, To live in the fear of God, To a purpose, high, exalted, To walk where martyrs trod, We can trace your gravest errors; Your aim was fixed and sure, And e'en if your acts were fanatic, We know your hearts were pure. You lived so near to heaven, You over-reached your trust, And deemed yourselves creators, Forgetting you were but dust. But we with our broader visions, With our wider realm of thought, I often think would be better If we lived as our fathers taught. Their lives seemed bleak and rigid, Narrow, and void of bloom; Our minds have too much freedom, And conscience too much room. They over-reached in duty, They starved their hearts for the right; We live too much in the senses, We bask too long in the light. They proved by their clinging to Him The image of God in man; And we, by our love of license, Strengthen a Darwin's plan. But bigotry reached its limit, And license must have its sway, And both shall result in profit To those of a latter day. With the fetters of slavery broken, And freedom's flag unfurled, Our nation strides onward and upward, And stands the peer of the world. Spires and domes and steeples, Glitter from shore to shore; The waters are white with commerce, The earth is studded with ore; Peace is sitting above us, And Plenty with laden hand, Wedded to sturdy Labor, Goes singing through the land. Then let each child of the nation, Who glories in being free, Remember the Pilgrim Fathers Who stood on the rock by the sea; For there in the rain and tempest Of a night long passed away, They sowed the seeds of a harvest We gather in sheaves to-day.

My wish for today: that poet friends were viewingthis, coffee in hand.JanuaryVibrant cherries shineice covered branches glimmermuted background same.FebruarySun swept red mountainsguard crowded boat marinamasts and poles worship.MarchAngry beach and skyhuge wave crashing red lighthousebirds, helical fence.AprilLegions of sunflowers starelifted on green leafed shouldersstormy horizonMayWhimsical lighthouseatop bouldered barren hillflanked by two small sheds.JuneLast light of sunsetpaints quiet water mosaicsmall sailboat silent.JulyChocolate mountainsnow sprinkles and pine tree standsfield of orange flowers.AugustTwo wierd cacti handspierce upside down flaming pitdesert sunset awe.SeptemberMountain, lake couplereflecting one togetherblue sky intrudes.OctoberInferno colorautumn trees dazzle sensesold fence and field yield.NovemberSheltering pine limbsframe small misty lake islandmorning's golden light.DecemberClassic large red barnpine and young elm trees surroundsnow on roof and yard.My poet friendsmay you have all life's blessingsand enjoy nature.Jim NorauskyKaty, Texas January,2009

I dreamt a dream! What can it mean? And that I was a maiden Queen Guarded by an Angel mild: Witless woe was ne'er beguiled! And I wept both night and day, And he wiped my tears away; And I wept both day and night, And hid from him my heart's delight. So he took his wings, and fled; Then the morn blushed rosy red. I dried my tears, and armed my fears With ten-thousand shields and spears. Soon my Angel came again; I was armed, he came in vain; For the time of youth was fled, And grey hairs were on my head.