Newspaper Poetry

Author: desperaudio

  • In Memoriam

    From the Evening Journal, February 5, 1915.

    How long he struggled against disease,
        That baffled skill and care;
    How long he lingered, racked with pain,
        And suffering hard to bear.

    Hour by hour we saw him fade,
        And slowly sink away,
    Yet in our hearts we prayed
        That he might longer stay.

    His willing hands are folded
        His toils on earth are done;
    His troubles are all ended,
        His heavenly crown is won.

    Oft we wander to the graveyard,
        Flowers to place with loving care;
    On the grave of our dear father,
        Who so sweetly sleepeth there.

  • The Children’s Army

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, February 4, 1915. By Elias Lieberman.

    No tune of tootling fife,
        No beat of the rolling drum,
    And yet with the thrill of life
        The hordes of children come,
    Freckled and chubby and lean,
        Indifferent, good and bad,
    Bedraggled and dirty and clean,
        Richly and poorly clad,
    They come on toddling feet
        To the schoolhouse door ahead;
    The neighboring alley and street
        Resound to the infant tread.
    Children of those who came
        To the land of the promising west,
    Foreign of face and name,
        Are shoulder to shoulder pressed
    With the youth of the native land
        In the quest of truth and light,
    As the valorous little band
        Trudges to left and right.
    Creed and color and race
        Unite from the ends of the earth,
    Blending each noble trace
        In the pride of a glorious birth.
    Race and hate and the past
        Fuse in a melting heat
    As the little hearts beat fast
        To the stir of a common beat,
    A fresher brawn and brain
        For the stock which the fates destroy
    Belong to the cosmic strain
        Of American girl and boy.

  • Man Who Didn’t Succeed

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 3, 1915. By Peter Reed.

    They sing of the men who build the mills
    And girdle the earth with steel;
    Who fill the hour and wield the power
    That moulds the public weal.
    Honor to them that in honor do
    The work that the world must need,
    And yet in chief I hold a brief
    For the Man Who Didn’t Succeed.

    ’Tis not to excuse the indolent;
    Nor plea for the down and out;
    Nor specious rot condemning what
    The leaders are about.
    Merely to ask in a casual way
    Of those who chance to read,
    For fairer view, and kinder, too,
    Of the Man Who Didn’t Succeed.

    His house is small, his table light;
    His family must endure
    The snubs and sneers of the buccaneers
    Whose debts fall on the poor.
    Yet his is a home and no hotel,
    His wife is a wife, indeed.
    There’s nothing above his children’s love
    To the Man Who Didn’t Succeed.

    Admitting it’s true that he did not make
    The most of his talents ten,
    He won no pelf nor raised himself
    At the cost of his fellowmen.
    His hands are clean, his heart is white,
    His honor has been his creed—
    Now who are we to say that he
    Is the Man Who Didn’t Succeed?

  • Death of Henry Wohlleb

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, February 2, 1915. By John Osborn Sargent.

    On the field in front of Frastenz, drawn up in battle array,
    Stretched spear on spear in a crescent, the German army lay;
    Behind a wall of bucklers stood bosoms steeled with pride,
    And a stiff wood of lances that all assaults defied.

    Oh, why, ye men of Switzerland, from your Alpine summits sally,
    And armed with clubs and axes descend into the valley?
    “The wood just grown at Frastenz with our axes we would fell,
    To build homesteads from its branches, where Liberty may dwell.”

    The Swiss on the German lances rush with impetuous shock;
    It is spear on spear in all quarters—they are dashed like waves from a rock.
    His teeth then gnashed the Switzer, and the mocking German cried:
    “See how the snout of the greyhound is pierced by the hedgehog’s hide!”

    Like a song of resurrection, then sounded from the ranks:
    “Illustrious shade, Von Winkelried! To thee I render thanks;
    Thou beckonest, I obey thee! Up, Swiss, and follow me!”
    Thus the voice of Henry Wohlleb from the ranks rang loud and free.

    From its shaft he tore the banner and twined it round his breast,
    And hot with lust of death on the serried lances pressed;
    His red eyes from their sockets like flaming torches glared,
    And in front, in place of the banner, waved the locks of his snow white hair.

    The spears of six knights together—in his hands he seizes all—
    And thereon thrusts his bosom—there’s a breach in the lances’ wall.
    With vengeance fired, the Switzers storm the battle’s perilous ridge,
    And the corpse of Henry Wohlleb to their vengeance is the bridge.

  • An Ode: Boadicea

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, February 1, 1915. By William Cowper.

    When the British warrior queen,
        Bleeding from the Roman rods,
    Sought, with an indignant mien,
        Counsel of her country’s gods,

    Sage beneath the spreading oak
        Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
    Every burning word he spoke
        Full of rage, and full of grief.

    “Princess! If our aged eyes
        Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
    ’Tis because resentment ties
        All the terror of our tongues.

    “Rome shall perish—write that word
        In the blood that she has spilt—
    Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
        Deep in ruin as in guilt.

    “Rome, for empire far renowned,
        Tramples on a thousand states;
    Soon her pride shall kiss the ground—
        Hark! The Gaul is at her gates!

    “Other Romans shall arise,
        Heedless of a soldier’s name;
    Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
        Harmony the path to fame.

    “Then the progeny that springs
        From the forests of our land,
    Armed with thunder, clad with wings,
        Shall a wider world command.

    “Regions Caesar never knew
        Thy posterity shall sway;
    Where his eagles never flew,
        None invincible as they.”

    Such the bard’s prophetic words,
        Pregnant with celestial fire,
    Bending as he swept the chords
        Of his sweet but awful lyre.

    She, with all a monarch’s pride
        Felt them in her bosom glow;
    Rushed to battle, fought and died;
        Dying, hurled them at the foe.

    “Ruffians, pitiless as proud!
        Heaven awards the vengeance due;
    Empire is on us bestowed,
        Shame and ruin wait for you.”

  • Once on a Time

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, January 31, 1915. By Kendall Banning.

    Once on a time, once on a time,
        Before the Dawn began,
    There was a nymph of Dian’s train
        Who was beloved of Pan;
    Once on a time a peasant lad
        Who loved a lass at home;
    Once on a time a Saxon king
        Who loved a queen of Rome.

    The world has but one song to sing,
        And it is ever new.
    The first and last of all the songs,
        For it is ever true—
    A little song, a tender song,
        The only song it hath;
    “There was a youth of Ascalon
        Who loved a girl of Gath.”

    A thousand thousand years have gone,
        And aeons still shall pass,
    Yet shall the world forever sing
        Of him who loved a lass—
    An olden song, a golden song,
        And sing it unafraid:
    “There was a youth, once on a time,
        Who dearly loved a maid.”

  • A Tale of the Trail

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, January 30, 1915. By J. W. Foley.

    This life’s a middlin’ crooked trail, and after forty year
    Of knockin’ round, I’m free to say the right ain’t always clear.
    I’ve seen a lot of folks go wrong—get off the main high road
    An’ fetch up in a swamp somewhere, almost before they knowed.
    I don’t set up to be no judge of right and wrong in men,
    I ain’t been perfect all my life an’ may not be again;
    An’ when I see a chap who looks as though he’s gone astray
    I want to think he started right—an’ only lost his way.

    I like to think the good in folks by far outweighs the ill;
    The trail of life is middlin’ hard an’ lots of it uphill.
    There’s places where there ain’t no guides or signboards up, an’ so
    It’s part guess work an’ partly luck which way you chance to go.
    I’ve seen the trails fork some myself, an’ when I had to choose
    I wasn’t sure when I struck out if it was win or lose.
    So when I see a man who looks as though he’s gone astray
    I want to think he started right an’ only lost his way.

    I’ve seen a lot of folks start out with grit an’ spunk to scale
    The hills’ that purple over there, an’ somehow lose the trail;
    I’ve seen ’em stop an’ start again, not sure about the road,
    And found ’em lost on some blind trail, almost before they knowed.
    I’ve seen ’em circlin’, tired out, with every pathway blind,
    With cliffs before ’em, mountains high, an’ sloughs an’ swamps behind.
    I’ve seen ’em circlin’ through the dusk, when twilight’s gettin’ gray,
    An’ lookin’ for the main highroad—poor chaps who’ve lost their way.

    It ain’t so far from Right to Wrong—the trail ain’t hard to lose;
    There’s times I’d almost give my horse to know which one to choose.
    There ain’t no guides or signboards up to keep you on the track;
    Wrong’s sometimes white as driven snow, an’ right looks awful black.
    I don’t set up to be no judge of right and wrong in men;
    I’ve lost the trail sometimes myself, an’ may get lost again.
    An’ when I see a chap who looks as though he’s gone astray,
    I want to shove my hand in his an’ help him find the way!

  • In the Newspaper Room at the Public Library

    From The Sun, January 29, 1915. By H. S. Haskins.

    With travel stained feet
        Stands the lonesome youth
    One hour long
        In the library booth.
    Bending, homesick,
        All the while
    Over a blessed
        Newspaper file.
    Homely old paper,
        Looks to me;
    Banal and trite,
        It seems to be,
    But watch his eyes scan it
        Up and down,
    Blessed old paper
        From the blessed home town.

    Type is shabby
        And ink is poor.
    Has a colored supplement
        For a lure;
    Gives advice to girls
        And hints on dress,
    Steers new married couples
        To happiness;
    Yet in the trite sheet
        A vista lies
    Of the Somewhere Else
        To those homesick eyes,
    Of the Somewhere Else
        With its memories sweet
    To the lonesome youth
        With the travel stained feet.

  • The Death of a Favorite Cat

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 28, 1915. By Thomas Gray.

    ’Twas on a lofty vase’s side,
    Where China’s gayest art had dyed
        The azure flowers that blow;
    Demurest of the tabby kind,
    The pensive Selima reclined,
        Gazed on the lake below.

    Her conscious tail her joy declared;
    The fair round face, the snowy beard,
        The velvet of her paws,
    Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
    Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
        She saw; and purred applause.

    Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide
    Two angel forms were seen to glide,
        The Genii of the stream;
    Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue
    Through richest purple to the view
        Betrayed a golden gleam.

    The hapless nymph with wonder saw;
    A whisker first and then a claw,
        With many an ardent wish,
    She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
    What female heart can gold despise?
        What cat’s averse to fish?

    Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
    Again she stretched, again she bent,
        Nor knew the gulf between.
    (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled)
    The slippery verge her feet beguiled,
        She tumbled headlong in.

    Eight times emerging from the flood
    She mewed to every watery god,
        Some speedy aid to send.
    No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;
    Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard;
        A Favourite has no friend!

    From hence, ye beauties, undeceived,
    Know, one false step is ne’er retrieved,
        And be with caution bold.
    Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
    And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
        Not all that glitters, gold.

  • Paying the Fiddler

    From The Topeka State Journal, January 27, 1915. By Roy K. Moulton.

    I remember way back in ’84,
    The folks was madder’n ever before,
    When they noticed first the increased expense,
    And they have been hollerin’ ever sence.
    They holler till they’re sick and sore and lame,
    But they keep on payin’ just the same.
    They holler till they’re sick and sore and shout
    There ain’t one thing they will do without.
    For every family in this broad land
    Is as good as the next one. Understand?
    They caterwaller and they wipe their eyes,
    But they don’t seem willing to economize.
    When one feller gits some jimcrack new,
    The next feller’s got to have one, too.
    They all keep digging down in their jeans
    And tryin’ to live beyond their means.
    If this goes on to the end of time,
    The cost of living is going to climb,
    Fer when you put on new-fangled frills,
    You surely have got to pay the bills.