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Poetry |
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Spirit of Woody Guthrie
By Patrick Henry
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Woody Guthrie sang that the poor are crushed by the rich,
So they threw in everything to get rid of him:
State jails, freight-train thugs, vigilante men,
Red smears sly as rattlesnakes down the ditch.
But being an exclusive rebel he had a complaint rare to man,
Struck by a killer called Huntington Corea,
Yet still now he's heard in the word of each hard travelling man,
And the lonely strum of any old plain guitar.
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Walking the highway from Rockies and desert to the Golden Valley,
He heard voices saying it should belong to you and me,
This home of the brave and land of the free;
Overwhelming his mind how right this should be.
Now that land's not his land, that land's not our land,
From Disneymania to the New York gangland,
From the dead rainforests to the Gulf Oil-slicked water,
That land they take from you and me.
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From the Afghan dead children and a White House scandal,
From Wall Street crashes and Hiroshima's ashes,
From the Bushland come the Trident missiles
That land to put paid to you and me.
Past the wheatfields I followed that highway until war-clouds rolling
Revealed tanks lining the bare desert fighting.
In a Turk café a Kurd sang of his race swept away.
An Afghan mother cried out for her son the war forced away:
continued below..
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Spirit of Woody Guthrie continued
By Patrick Henry
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These voices rising to a tremulous high C.,
Sad as a song created by old Woody G.,
Who long searched the home of the brave for the land of the free,
But found it's only left deep inside you and me.
Last year I saw Woody G. play in New York City,
Pretty lively for a ghost thirty-five years long gone,
In an old hat busking at the rough end of Broadway,
Still protesting hard through the medium of a song,
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As he sang of Jesus nailed to die on a cross in the sky,
A carpenter on the road from Galilee,
Come down to the land of the free and the home of the brave:
Woody Guthrie's never really gone away to die,
Even sad Folk bands cheer up in their way
When he sings through them from his grave.
Copyright ©2004 Patrick Henry
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Poetry - "I'm Doing Life", by Shelly D.
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I don't do happy,
I don't do laughter,
I'm not easy going or relaxed,
I'm not careful or carefree,
I don't go with the flow I'm not laid back,
I'm doing life.
Read more...
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Poetry - The Egotist By Cilla
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Tell me I'm great
Tell me I'm good
If you were a real friend
I'm sure that you would.
And why not be friends?
You're so good for me
But only when you tell
What I want to see ..
Read more...
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Poetry - Equal Amongst Giants (Edinburgh Literature Festival) and Night Driving in American Werewolf Country.
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by Oz Hardwick
I paid my money, listened attentively,
clapped politely, filed out slowly,
stood (vaguely embarrassed), waited in line
with book at the ready to meet The Author.
I asked him to sign my favourite chapter,
Read more...
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Poetry - Girls (for Rebecca and Ellen) and Pilot
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By Nigel Walker
Girls, girls
slow down !
I don't know what to write.
It will take one hundred hours
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just to say how I feel about
the sound of your feet on the stairs.
Each morning you are a fresh oyster prised.
The crash of tsunami. The prow of a hunting ship.
Read more...
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Poetry - Electronic Liars.com
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By Darren Sant
You electronic cheating liars,
Words are your funeral pyres,
Words so silky smooth,
What is it you are trying to prove?
Read more...
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Poetry - For those who lay dying.
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by Lee Cassanell
Sign me up
I'm off to war
I want to kill and fight
Please drop me on that desert floor
Let me join the side of right
Read more...
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Poetry - Frendship By Tabatha
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If I wasn't always there
would u still know I cared
when life goes on
we all have to be strong
for every fight
we need all our might
Read more...
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Poetry - This is 'ull, not Manhattan
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By Jane Foster
This is 'ull, not Manhattan.
Where you could feed a whole family of six
For a month,
For half the price of a Jimmy Choo shoe.
Read more...
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