"saluting" poems
The Red Ants At His Picnic
Her pillow eyes gleamed
at his advances,
inching along slowly.
His anteater likeness,
rising,
coming to an anthem,
frolicking on her picnic,
on her mound,
hoarse and hungrily.
Rendevous antics to form.
Wave after wave,
the red ants at his picnic,
dancing,
dancing like there's no tomorrow,
seducing him in further.
He,
so antsy,
anticipating.
In his genre,
happily along,
on her trail,
like a hunter,
taking her welcoming little red colony,
to kingdom
come.
To ******* come,
where her castle and moats succumb,
relenting,
saluting to his anthem.
Where soon white clouds a bursting,
blue skies emerging.
The sublimity and antidote holding on,
holding on to her picnic.
And the rocket's did red glare,
the bombs bursting in air-
together,
to gather.
And there they were ... chaos, abuzz,
lyrical
then calm.
Sustenance drawn on their faces.
A slight breeze runs through the grass
the red ants at bay.
Logan Robertson
4/17/2018
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
A petal haired army saluting the call of the skies
- it made my heart go to her
until I hope her into being
and I look into her eyes -
eyes that shimmer with every shade of springtime
with frolicking lambs and trumpeting daffodils
with the glint of her chocolate stained Sunday dress,
dancing and whirling with the matriarch blues of six generations
to know our dance, but to write her own song -
a song composed of notes she will fashion for herself in
flower petal perfume and dirt and birthday cake tummy ache
and she can write them in gummy bears or wiggly worms
in any way she might choose, on bill boards or in locked diaries
but it will be beautiful beyond words because its her way -
her way - choosing to skim cliff edges over mama's apron strings,
tearing frills on tree branches and turning back her watch to arrive home late
and you can bet when she dreams him in her sleep she won't be feeling that pea.
But so long as she takes her dreams to heart and cuddles them to life
and knows that she is perfectly imperfectly beautiful and remembers that -
that life is lived as much on cliff edges as it is in your own home
that dress tears and stains speak joy every bit as much as a photograph
that mama's apron strings stretch far and wide,
and that though the shades of seasons change, she must sing her song
and dance.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
As time trickle down the stream,we bow down to fate, saluting the years
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
Here early looking through the news:
the mountain plane crash,
the arabic voodoo,
the red and blue men saluting arguments.
What is missing that is new?
New spring leaves on flowering scented pear tree,
new age spot on sagging skin.
What is truly old?
Things grievous falling from sky;
alarming cries about civilization's ruin;
plunging sharp items into people
to squirt blood in boyish delight;
roots of spry pear tree
summoning life into sky.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 9:50 AM UTC
Words tattooed her thighs.
Chocolate hair fell in her eyes.
Muscle queen stomped
gymnastick,
round silver poles.
She was no stripper,
but an athlete
for tips
and hand shakes
and bills in her
cracking her face,
*her face must be
cracking* to
ass-grabbing lions,
prowling LA's
city sierra bored.
I couldn't imagine
Queen Courtney crying.
But upside down,
floating disco lights
exposed pursed face shows.
She girated
sex-lined hips
for tips, not ego.
Splits and tricks
choking chuckling girls
saluting her routine,
tossing one's,
wishing they were ten 0's.
She looked magnificant.
I asked her if she was a gymnast.
She said something like that,
eyes fixed on the sleek floor,
strong arms chilled by the cold —
men with thick wallets and no home.
So I gave her my coat.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
I won't be the weak one,
Although when I think and speak
I may tweak some I'm just
Searching for reasons
To justify the swell.
I will ride the undertow
Sunken beneath bass lines
And blunt tails
Intending to take it slow.
But I get a little excited sometimes, you know.
So when this undertow undoubtedly
Washes me ashore
I'll be the imaginary statue
Erected in my honor
Proudly saluting every fleeting
Emotion that sailed
Straight through my harbor.
You see,
Harboring hatred is a trait
I forfeited
To make way for the minuscule moments and glimpses
Of human existence penetrating
Layers of jade and years
Of conditioning and I am successfully
Transitioning into persistently
Acknowledging the raindrops
As they hit the pavement and pop.
You see some people feel the rain
While others just get wet,
A wise Rastafarian
Once famously said.
And I think on it all
Far too frequently for a quiet mind
But I've never had one of those
Not even after rolling papers
Intertwine and smoke fills my eyes,
Because I am accustomed
To a constant consciousness
And I'd much rather this
Than nothingness
And thus I sit, contemplating
Consequence
Aspiring to avoid the guilt of
Seasons past,
For I am past the point of
Punishment and pain ghosts and
I have plenty of pangs from all
The echoes
In my brain and in these
Rattled apartment's stains
It's not all in vain
Life grows these varicose
Veins
Colored-in, crawling across the
Window panes
Of the chamber where my soul remained
Through the bridge until the end of
The refrain.
I am in reign.
I rock the crown.
I roll the dice when
I am down
I try to think twice
Before I frown
I contemplate the value
Of the men that I allow
To lay me down
Now,
I am grown and I am proud
Because I am humble
And I'm not loud
Any longer,
I listen
To the subtle sounds of
Human respiration.
I am the incarnation
Of ancient incantations that
Shake down the walls which
Separate us all
All the way to the ground.
True power is found
Where unity resounds.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
My feet are flat, my eyes are bad
It hurts for me to run
"you've checked out fine" the doctor said
"You're in the Army, son!"
It makes no sense
They can't be right
I've even brought a note
"Stop staring son, and shut your mouth"
"'before I cut your throat"!
"But, Captain....sir"
"I'm all 4F"
"There's no way you'll want me"
"Put your arm down, boy, stop salutin'"
"I'm a Sargeant, don't you see?"
"I'm an NCO, a working man"
"Not a pencil pushing geek"
"I own your life, you're mine now boy"
"You long haired, hippy freak"
"I've got ten weeks, to shape you up"
"I'll teach you how to fight"
"Now grab your gear and follow close"
"And don't lose my tail lights"
"Welcome to the forces folks,"
"Now repeat after me"
"I joined up of my own free will"
"I'm here voluntarily"
"Select your bunk and grab some sleep"
"Your new life starts at dawn
"Forget about the world you know"
"Now, all of that is gone."
I hit the bunk and closed my eyes
And was just falling asleep
When in the room I heard a noise
"Wake up, you long haired creeps!"
I jumped on up, as did we all
Saluting was our mission
"Drop your arms you maggots..now"
and assume the position"
"Push-ups lads, that's how you'll grow
"to respect just why you're here"
"Right now, though I don't smell courage boys"
"Right now, I just smell fear"
It took us almost half the day
To do ten that were right
If this alone would do me in
I'd be dead before tonight.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
A contortionist achieves ******
Her ******** saluting her lips
From within an envelope of pleasure
Causing local beatitude
Though one may query such enthusiasm
Her ******** cooing mollifying concert
Waltzing against the hips of autumn temptation
That she was vibrant
Or that she was barren
Or that in artistry
This plausible microsecond
The happening of dawn quite imminent
And a canary perched upon a fence
Lavish us with falsettos
Each and every organism throughout the universe
Itself just below its conception
And love equalizes the balance
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
by
rgpage
I never cried in viet nam,
I just seemed to take it in.
The missing limbs and twisted flesh
friends one day and gone the next.
Was I too young to understand?
And need someone to take my hand?
No mother there to hold my hand
no father there to teach me ways.
To lead me through the day by days.
Just left alone, and alone I stayed
Instead I found my bottle friend
to stay my tears and hide my fears.
Back then “charley” felt they owned the night.
With blusterous thud the mortars hit,
Of saying hi it was “charley’s” way
then to be my friend by day.
From no where came the dragon ship,
and tipping his left wing
as a polite executioner saluting his victim just before unleashing hell.
W/ firery tongue lapping up the earth while mini-guns
roared, eagerly devouring all living things,
leaving “charley” w/ no where to run.
All clear, a small visit w/ my bottle friend
and back to sleep in the alcohol deep.
I was no John Wayne, I didn’t fight the war
a target yes for “charley’s” sights
when the sun gave way to night.
But no, I didn’t fight.
I never cried glossary:
Charley=VC=viet cong=enemy: by day he acted like any of the population, some were even employed around the various bases. But at sundown he would turn…
Dragonship=C-47=2 or 3 several barreled mini-guns mounted on left side of the plane capable of firing a few 1000 rounds per minute each w/ a phosphorous round placed at every 6th round a tracer. At night this made it look like a steady stream of fire coming from the plane, hence the name “dragon ship” or “puff the magic dragon.” To aim the pilot had to dip his left wing and fly in a counter clock wise fashion. Very effective weapon…
Written for a special friend A.S.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
His light house amidst
his mystic fog, signals belated
in triumphant decore,
Enamoured with ancient joy
of his blue green dreams
I chant.
“His rod and his staff
comfort me and all surrounding
gore departs.
I breathe in gasping
about my true love.
as he spots my battered
vessel into the wind sailing.
Ecstasy twinkles his teary eye
in the magic water dancing glare,
of our mystical full moon light.
For too long I've traveled
jeweled triumphant
yet unable to reach
his promised treasure vaults.
To the greed of legions on
treacherous paths all alone I wept,
through enemy's territories,
but all those from me have fled.
I roamed alone yester woods
I reach his safe private harbour
his peaceful shores.
As trustworthy jeweled queen
regardless of grave loss.
Willfully he reveals his home key
to come open up his door
as photographic memories
on new calming waters
get anchored deep.
At last I shall rest in love
on my bittersweet bed of roses
red, and flowers wild;
white sad lilies on hand,
saluting my beloved glories
recaptured and retained.
Enduring rhythmic ways
with courage, heart
brain and hope and off my
survival modes into éasier dwelling
into my grave but neither there
I shall trod alone no more.
~~~~~~
By Karijinbba
All rights.
Mar 29, 2022
Mar 29, 2022 at 7:53 PM UTC
Steadfast sunflower,
all alone yet you face west,
saluting the sky
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:59 PM UTC
The admiral of the U.S. fleet
was staring towards the shore.
A mob of people jammed the wharf.
He thought we were at war.
The good Mayor Paulo, of Monterrey
was waving with the rest.
He saw our large Pacific fleet
And, doubtless, was impressed.
The commodore made cannons roar
The impact shook the ground
By miracle no townsfolk died
And not one sailor drowned.
“Perhaps they are saluting us!”
The puzzled mayor said.
But when we put marines ashore
Such thoughts soon left his head.
That day we captured Monterrey
It was quite the feat of arms
We lost just one or two marines
to some Senorita’s charms.
The State Department soon put an end
To the splendid little war
And erstwhile foes departed friends
from the Mexicali shore.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
*There’s a funeral across the road today.
Despite the freezing temperatures and impending storm, the car park is full. Friends and family fill the church to say a last goodbye to their lost loved one. At the end, the church bells toll, mournfully. The honour guard of veterans file out and line up behind the hearse, saluting as the casket is brought out.
It never ceases to make me think how that little wooden box is smaller than you would expect it to be. It never seems big enough.
I always look at the coffins and think, “I’m sure he was taller than that.”
But the real discrepancy is not in the stature of the man compared to the size of the coffin, but of the life of the one being carried within it.
Does it really come down to this?
One man’s lifetime of love and adventures, more than most judging by the honour guard, the average age and the number of mourners. Does it all it come down to wooden box that seems too small?
But then I realise something I hadn’t thought of until I sat down to write this.
The measure of this man, the measure of his life, isn’t to be found within that box or even reflected by its size. His life can be measured by those that came to say goodbye. By the sorrow on their faces for the loss of their friend. By the honour guard, standing proud and straight and stronger than their years, to escort their comrade from this world to the next.
And as the snow begins to fall, I can’t help but think, who will be there to measure my life for all to see?
*
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 8:31 AM UTC
As the sun sets across the horizon
I see how flat the earth is believed to be
From left to right my eyes scroll
Over the valley, rainbow, into a strange eternity
The golden chariots riding on the skyline
Booming chants of the future from another era
I attach myself to the story once heard before
Envisaging my former being as perhaps an ephemera
I relive the day, the noon till the night
As twilight beckons the nightingale's dawn
Saluting the sun from the heart of the lotus pond
For before, now and after are all from our own antiphon
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 2:34 AM UTC
The tide rolling near
the soldiers stood
at attention
saluting the rise
of the eyes of the
oceans salty clear
arms as she
plummets into sand
ripping apart
the grains
taking them with her
as she expands
her encompassing mouth
into it she swallows
all the little soldiers
standing at attention
saluting the ocean
waiting for her
beautiful
return
© 2013 Christina Jackson
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC
She gets high
to forget
feeling low.
In that instance the hair on her legs and her blood pressure spike, saluting the broken record chips rhythmically spinning above her dimmed wits.
Up, down,
with nothing to break down.
Deeply depressed,
she's high but low.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
(Dedicated to Stephen E Yocum)
You who have spent time on this planet,
That you can count your annual growth rings,
By just employing a combination of
Fingers, toes, eyes and nose,
Stop and think, after reading on.
Forty years on, what are the words, the titles,
The honorifics that you would like to see
Next to your name?
There is a yeoman Yocum in our midst,
Who has collected a few adjectives,
The sum total if additive,
Is a resume most complete,
One you should envy!
Able Friend,
Lover of Dogs and Humans,
Gentleman Farmer, Decent Photographer,
Spinner of tall tales, woven for his
Grandchildren.
A writer, a poet,
He says "a would be,"
I say, one who attempts,
Puts his name on writs public,
Is no would-be!
Who here would dare disagree?
More than all this, unlike so many,
Grateful for everyday of life,
Even those ****** full of strife,
And who served, a grunt,
One of the proud, the few.
I salute, you, and call out,
Attention Poets, Marine On Deck!
But no stuffed shirt ,
A man of soil and earth,
Who can laugh at himself, and write,
*"My driving experience feel greater,
Would be to speed down the road,
Behind the wheel of my little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course,
Feel the wind in my hair."*
It is easy to be some things.
It is hard to be many things,
But it is the hardest, and the best,
When you look back,
And laugh out loud, admit,
The funniest thing you know,
The one that keeps you sane,
The one-thing, hardest, and the best,
Is to laugh at yourself.
So stand attention,
Go to the mirror,
Tho you might not like what you see,
If you focus, and really look tight, squint,
Do not be surprised,
If, in a few minutes,
You burst out laughing,
Especially if you do it in your
Birthday suit!
Maintain this perspective,
Forward and retroactive,
And then perhaps,
You will be able to write
These words...like he did!
*Where upon, sheer elated emotions,
Of this my journey of self discovery,
Began to sink in and I started to cry.
There are times is one's life,
when lessons are taught,
When almost no words
need to be spoken.
And the best teacher's are
our own Brain and Heart,
Comprehending, embracing
Life's many shared Lessons.*
Marine Slocum, Stand at Attention!
There are Poets saluting you.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
I
GRANDFATHER sang it under the gallows:
" Hear, gentlemen, ladies, and all mankind:
Money is good and a girl might be better.
But good strong blows are delights to the mind.'
There, standing on the catt,
He sang it from his heart.
Those fanatics all that we do would undo;
Down the fanatic, down the clown;
Down, down, hammer them down,
Down to the tune of O'Donnell Abu.
"A girl I had, but she followed another,
Money I had, and it went in the night,
Strong drink I had, and it brought me to sorrow,
But a good strong cause and blows are delight.'
All there caught up the tune:
"On, on, my darling man'.
Those fanatics all that we do would undo;
Down the fanatic, down the clown;
Down, down, hammer them down,
Down to the tune of O'Donnell Abu.
"Money is good and a girl might be better,
No matter what happens and who takes the fall,
But a good strong cause' -- the rope gave a **** there,
No more sang he, for his throat was too small;
But he kicked before he died,
He did it out of pride.
Those fanatics all that we do would undo;
Down the fanatic, down the clown;
Down, down, hammer them down,
Down to the tune of O'Donnell Abu.
II
Justify all those renowned generations;
They left their bodies to fatten the wolves,
They left their homesteads to fatten the foxes,
Fled to far countries, or sheltered themselves
In cavem, crevice, hole,
Defending Ireland's soul.
"Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman,
"They killed my goose and a cat.
Drown, drown in the water-but,
<1Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.
Justify all those renowned generations,
Justify all that have sunk in their blood,
Justify all that have died on the scaffold,
Justify all that have fled, that have stood,
Stood or have marched the night long
Singing, singing a song.
"Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.
"They killed my goose and a cat.
Drown, drown in the water-butt,
Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.
Fail, and that history turns into *******
All that great past to a trouble of fools;
Those that come after shall mock at O'Donnell,
Mock at the memory of both O'Neills,
Mock Emmet, mock Parnell:
All the renown that fell.
"Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman,
"They killed my goose and a cat.
Drown, drown in the water-butt,
Drown all the dogs,' said the fierce young woman.
III
The soldier takes pride in saluting his Captain,
The devotee proffers a knee to his Lord,
Some back a mare thrown from a thoroughbred,
Troy backed its Helen; Troy died and adored;
Great nations blossom above;
A slave bows down to a slave.
Who'd care to dig em,' said the old, old man,
"Those six feet marked in chalk?
Much I talk, more I walk;
Time I were buried,' said the old, old man.
When nations are empty up there at the top,
When order has weakened or faction is strong,
Time for us all to pick out a good tune,
Take to the roads and go marching along.
March, march -- How does it run? --
O any old words to a tune.
"Who'd care to dig 'em,' said the old, old man,
'Those six feet marked in chalk?
Much I talk, more I walk;
Time I were buried,' said the old, old man.
Soldiers take pride in saluting their Captain,
Where are the captains that govetn mankind?
What happens a tree that has nothing within it?
O marching wind, O a blast of the wind.
Marching, marching along.
March, march, lift up the song:
"Who'd care to dig 'em,' said the old, old man.
"Those six feet marked in chalk?
Much I talk, more I walk;
Time I were buried,' said the old, old man.
1.8k
Her eyes,
Sunken, blue
With edges of ruddy green,
Of olive, kelp, fatigue,
A certain muddy camouflage,
Bright with purpose,
Ambition and fierce urgency,
Set their twin star sights
On me and I learned a new
Word that day—
Surrender.
I fell into formation,
Saluting her stars in the fullest light
Of the falling day.
I learned how to survive
Under such searing heat
And became intimate
With sneak attacks,
Friendly fire, sudden blitzkrieg
And the nuclear winter,
The dark sheet,
Of sorrows unveiling.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 8:15 PM UTC
And then he stepped into my mind.
His ephemeral arrival
Flirting with the departure of our time.
I could feel the rising tide,
Pull me in toward,
Atlantic suicide,
Planted and watered.
Peripheral with its crystallized hand.
Seductive with its transient satin touch.
I dressed my face with a painful smile
Lacerated like a mutilated porcupine.
And watched a rancid trace of gooey paste
Bleed through sticky crumbs of debris
Like cascading turpentine.
It consumed me whole.
I was swallowed overseas.
And then he strolled inside my brittle soul,
Bloodshot in disguise.
Impermanence
Beginning to realign,
Within the stitching of this blanket.
Suddenly,
I find it towering over me,
Saluting with protuberant glare.
My tugging devotion,
Had lead to a realization...
And then I stepped out of my mind.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
Strobe lights, low eyes, blown mind
Four Eyes, neck ice, blown white, no mind
Nice cars, dark fade, night games, insane
I swear this place has no ******* life
And that's exactly how I want it
Room spinning, wheel of fortune
Fortune favored me, so my shackles gold, I am tortured
The tour bus tore us from our exposure, to life
Bass booming, ear drums popping off like a hundred guns
Saluting troops with marching bands, they all cheer in unison
My pains boo'd off by my pill prescriptions
Not a nun, cause we are ****** struck by Smith's arrow
Rock stars chose the path that is most narrow
I don't know where the time went, my mind set
This bombs clock ticks, I die inside on the pursuit of profit
The prodigal son grew up to be a villain
Stuck in the streets, struck so his sins can't be forgiven
Swear this devil is sleeping with finer women
Designer linen, Hermes, Versace, Givenchy
Italian names with a tendency to stop me
But me stopping would lead traffic jams
Tank is empty, can I make it, not sure if I can
Hop out the driver side, you can keep this whip
Wasted all my life, dreaming big, window shopping
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
I saw Sting in the lobby this morning, we were going out and he was coming in. Lisa nudged me, “Sting” was all she whispered. He was with a woman and a man. The woman was talking to the doorman. Sting was dressed all in black except for a long stark-white cashmere scarf, he was chatting and working a dark-gray French-flat-cap around in his hands. His hair is very short and white.
We wanted to walk in the snow, if only for a minute.
A gust of wind caught us as we reached the sidewalk. The two American flags, on either side of the entrance, went rigid, at 9-o’clock as if saluting us. “Jeeez!” I said, like the Georgia girl I am - or was. “Don’t be a baby,” Lisa answered, like a true, pittyless New Yorker but her cheeks had turned a child-like pink. She flipped up her collar.
I patted my pocket, relieved to feel my phone and know that if we froze to death the authorities could use “find my friends” to locate our bodies.
Leeza joins us a moment later and I can’t help but notice that she’s dressed like it’s a cool fall day. Back in the day, when my brother would dress like summer even though temperatures in Georgia had dipped cruelly into the fifties. Seeing him, my mom would say, “Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling,” but I don’t.
“Did you see Sting?” I asked Leeza (12). She gives me a blank look. “Sting”, I said, “the lead singer for The Police?” I add, as clarification. “I don’t know who that is,” she says flatly. “He was famous,” I say in surrender, “a long time ago, in the 90s.” Maybe the next generation won’t be as celebrity driven.
Thank God Lisa suggested I pin my artist-beret down or it would have blown away, like my resolve to walk in the snow. Still, I followed Lisa into the park like a cat on a leash - unwilling to be seen as any less Canadian. The show crunched like we were trampling over snow-cones.
Trees began turning away the wind as we entered Central Park, “I think we may survive.” I said cheerfully. Just because you're freezing to death doesn’t mean you can’t be affable.
Why don’t pigeons freeze to death - I thought birds flew south for the winter?
Jan 10, 2022
Jan 10, 2022 at 9:17 AM UTC
735
Upon Concluded Lives
There’s nothing cooler falls—
Than Life’s sweet Calculations—
The mixing Bells and Palls—
Make Lacerating Tune—
To Ears the Dying Side—
’Tis Coronal—and Funeral—
Saluting—in the Road—
1.6k
I saw a banner
“See something say something”
bestriding a Union City street
raising eyebrows of suspicion
in a hood’s ***** retreat
I see blood red MAGA caps
embolden distemperate fits
ready to answer jingoistic dissings
with an *** kickin liberty chit
I see a Blue Line stained flag
It slices a field of united states
a wall to seperate us from them
God save us from reprobates
I hear shouts hailing militarism
saluting troops marching to war
Patriots offer sons and daughters
from families of the nation’s poor
I see a hoisted Gadsden Flag
boasting Don’t Tread on Me
true liberty a hissing asp
venomous country tis of thee
I see the stirring marches
aggrieved white nationalists sing
Confederacy of Blood and Soil!
cries for freedom ring
Music:
Lotte Lenya in Alabama Song
by Kurt Weill recording 1930
Art:
George Grosz
Vienna Street Fight
Puyallup
7/10/18
jbm
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
REMEMBER all those renowned generations,
They left their bodies to fatten the wolves,
They left their homesteads to fatten the foxes,
Fled to far countries, or sheltered themselves
In cavern, crevice, or hole,
Defending Ireland's soul.
Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
But time amends old wrong,
All that is finished, let it fade.
Remember all those renowned generations,
Remember all that have sunk in their blood,
Remember all that have died on the scaffold,
Remember all that have fled, that have stood,
Stood, took death like a tune
On an old,tambourine.
Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
But time amends old wrong,
And all that's finished, let it fade.
Fail, and that history turns into *******
All that great past to a trouble of fools;
Those that come after shall mock at O'Donnell,
Mock at the memory of both O'Neills,
Mock Emmet, mock Parnell,
All the renown that fell.
Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
but time amends old wrong,
And all that's finished, let it fade.
The soldier takes pride in saluting his Captain,
The devotee proffers a knee to his Lord,
Some back a mare thrown from a thoroughbred,,
Troy backed its Helen; Troy died and adored;
Great nations blossom above;
A slave bows down to a slave.
What marches through the mountain pass?
No, no, my son, not yet;
That is an airy spot,
And no man knows what treads the grass.
We know what rascal might has defiled,
The lofty innocence that it has slain,
Were we not born in the peasant's cot
Where men forgive if the belly gain?
More dread the life that we live,
How can the mind forgive?
What marches down the mountain pass?
No, no, my son, not yet;
That is an airy spot,
And no man knows what treads the grass.
What if there's nothing up there at the top?
Where are the captains that govern mankind?
What tears down a tree that has nothing within it?
A blast of the wind, O a marching wind,
March wind, and any old tune.
March, march, and how does it run?
What marches down the mountain pass?
No, no, my son, not yet;
That is an airy spot,
And no man knows what treads the grass.
III
Grandfather sang it under the gallows:
"Hear, gentlemen, ladies, and all mankind:
Money is good and a girl might be better,
But good strong blows are delights to the mind.'
There, standing on the cart,
He sang it from his heart.
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"A girl I had, but she followed another,
Money I had, and it went in the night,
Strong drink I had, and it brought me to sorrow,
But a good strong cause and blows are delight.'
All there caught up the tune:
"Oh, on, my darling man.'
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Robbers had taken his old tambourine.
"Money is good and a girl might be better,
No matter what happens and who takes the fall,
But a good strong cause' -- the rope gave a **** there,
No more sang he, for his throat was too small;
But he kicked before he died,
He did it out of pride.
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