Newspaper Poetry

Author: desperaudio

  • A Prayer

    From The Tacoma Times, January 30, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    Oh, Master of the World of men
        And Ruler of Eternity,
    Neither with voice nor flowing pen
        Have I asked many things from Thee;
    I have not begged for wealth or fame
        With selfish prayers of little worth,
    Nor have I called upon Thy name
        To smite my enemies to earth.

    Yet now to Thee I raise my eyes
        And lift my voice for Thee to hear;
    No rich and sordid gift I prize,
        No plethora of gold and gear;
    Only this single boon I pray,
        That in a busy world and wide,
    Whether my life be grave or gay,
        I may not grow self-satisfied.

    So, till my final hour is spent,
        Until my work and play are through,
    Lord, let me never be content
        With what I am or what I do;
    Deliver me from smug conceit
        Which clogs the heart and mind in action—
    This is the prayer which I repeat,
        “Lord, guard me from self-satisfaction!”

  • Justice

    From The Detroit Times, January 29, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    The Bandit ravaged through the land
    And left his mark on every hand,
    For desolation lined the path
    Which he had made in greed and wrath;
    He looted, pillaged, far and wide,
    The sweet and smiling country side;
    He spoiled and wasted like a flame
    And people trembled at his name;
    His glutton cravings to allay
    He did not hesitate to slay.
    Not bravely, in fair open fight,
    But meanly, foully in the night!

    At last the people rose in ire
    And trailed him on through muck and mire,
    By stream and copse, by hill and dale,
    They followed grimly on his trail
    Until that final moment when
    They had him cornered in his den.
    They brought him forth with choking smoke
    Yet, as he stumbled out, he spoke
    And said, “By all the rules, I swear
    This sort of treatment isn’t fair;
    You show no just respect for me
    Nor for this cave, my property;
    You are not acting as you should”—
    But some one shot him where he stood.
    “He may be right,” the men agreed;
    “Perhaps we did not give due heed
    To all the rules and all the laws—
    But he’d no right to howl, because
    He plundered on a ruthless plan
    And broke each law of God and man;
    His hands with blood and gore were red;
    We reckon he is better dead.”

    (I wonder if the trusts and such
    Which have us strongly in their clutch
    Might, by some distant chance, be able
    To see the moral of this fable.)

  • Game Laws

    From The Times Dispatch, January 28, 1914. By T. L. H.

    I take it, Mr. Speaker,
        That these are solemn facts:
    When for a thing’s protection
        Our Legislature acts,
    It accomplishes protection
        By imposing further tax.
    We’ve protected our oysters
        By this efficient plan:
    They can only be destroyed
        By a duly licensed man.
    We’ve protected our fishes
        In our rivers and our bays
    By seeing that the fellow
        Who exterminates them pays.
    It appears now, Mr. Speaker,
        We are asked to do the same
    Very simple operation
        For protection of our game.
    The fellow who in autumn
        Sallies forth with dog and gun
    Must pay the state a license
        Ere he starts to have his fun.
    The effect of which provision
        Very naturally will be
    That when the would-be hunter
        Has surrendered up his fee
    He will not feel that he can do
        Another thing on earth
    Except to take his gun and dog
        And get his money’s worth;
    And while the hunting season lasts
        He’ll never lose a day
    For fear he will not get the worth
        Of what he’s had to pay.
    And yet the game that’s slaughtered
        By a legal licensee
    Is really just about as dead
        As any game can be.
    And while no doubt our furred and feathered
        Friends will give their lives
    Uncomplainingly if by that act
        The Old Dominion thrives,
    You’ll forgive me, Mr. Speaker,
        If this act I’m bound to term a
    Effort to protect the varmints
        By a sort of Tax-idermy.

  • Mistakes

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 27, 1914. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

    God sent us here to make mistakes—
        To strive, to fail, to begin;
        To taste the tempting fruit of sin
    And find what bitter food it makes.

    To miss the path, to go astray,
        To wander blindly in the night,
        But searching, praying for the light
    Until at last we find the way.

    And looking back upon the past,
        We know we needed all the strain
        Of fear and doubt and strife and pain
    To make us value peace at last.

    Who fails, finds later triumph sweet,
        Who stumbles once, walks then with care,
        And knows the place to cry “Beware!”
    To other unaccustomed feet.

    Through strife the slumbering soul awakes.
        We learn on error’s troubled route
        The truths we could not prize without
    The sorrow of our sad mistakes.

  • Useful Yet

    From the Rock Island Argus, January 26, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    My little boy has learned a lot since first he started off to school;
    Much that I long ago forgot he has but lately learned by rule.
    I once knew how to parse, but now the knack has somehow gone from me;
    He fairly chews the grammar up; he knows the whole thing to a T.
    Sometimes he is inclined, I fear, to look upon me with disdain,
    But I still come in handy here—I earn the pleasures that we gain.

    I cannot name the boundaries of Burma or Beloochistan;
    He does it with the greatest ease, and proudly shows me that he can;
    He works out problems that I shun, although I could have solved them once,
    Sometimes I more than half suspect that he regards me as a dunce.
    Perhaps I might go back and learn if I had fewer daily cares,
    But, after all, ’tis I that earns the food he eats, the clothes he wears.

    My little boy is learning fast, while I forget, year after year.
    The records of the misty past, to me so vague, to him are clear.
    He writes a better hand than I, his letters are more plainly made;
    He spells words that I cannot spell without the dictionary’s aid.
    He is inclined, sometimes I fear, to think my boyhood was misspent;
    But I still come in handy here; I foot the bills and pay the rent.

  • A Dissenting Voice

    From the Evening Star, January 25, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    There is talk of women votin’ down to Pohick on the Crick.
    The men folks all got up an’ spoke in favor of it quick,
    Exceptin’ old Joe Struthers, who remarked that as fur him,
    The benefits of such a plan seemed all remote an’ slim.
    He always had the time when an election day came ‘round
    To go to town an’ tussle with the problems so profound.
    But as fur Mrs. Struthers, it was quite a different case.
    If she should quit, there wouldn’t be no one to run the place.

    He said she took a day off once an’ went to see her kin.
    Joe jes’ stood ‘round not knowin’ where an’ how he should begin
    To do the chores an’ follow out the regular daily plan.
    He couldn’t git no help from questionin’ the hired man.
    The critters on the place, from chickens to the Jersey cow,
    Seemed all upset an’ pinin’ an’ inclined to raise a row.
    Joe says fur women’s rights in principle he’ll always stick,
    But it’s mighty hard to spare ‘em down to Pohick on the Crick.

  • A Duo In Hades

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 24, 1914.

        Adam:
    Thousands of years, my dear, have ebbed away
    Since that forever memorable day
    When you discovered the Forbidden Fruit,
    And, knowing I should like it, led me to ’t.

        Eve:
    And willingly you went, as I recall.
    Altho’, of course, they blamed me for the Fall.
    Till that momentous day our life was X;
    We ate the apple, and discovered—Sex!

        Adam:
    And both, as I recall, were tickled pink,
    And talked of nothing else. I sometimes think
    We gabbed so much that God himself was bored,
    And sent an Angel with a flaming sword.

        Eve:
    I spoke today with one but newly come.
    He tells me that the world is all a-hum
    With the self-same discovery that we
    In Eden made, beneath the Knowledge Tree.

        Adam:
    And nought, I hear, their childish prattle checks;
    They gab of Sex, and Sex, and Sex, and Sex.
    In books, and plays, and art this subject rules;
    I’m told they even teach it in the schools.

        Eve:
    The shade but newly-come to Hades saith
    That men of sense are being bored to death;
    And tho’ he’s damned he counts himself as blest
    To ‘scape from Sex, and have eternal rest.

  • How It Goes

    From The Detroit Times, January 23, 1914. By Berton Braley.

    I go to the bank and I draw a check
        And think I have money to last awhile,
    But my hopes all crash in a total wreck
        As money melts in the swiftest style,
    For somebody borrows a yen or two
        And somebody comes with last year’s bill,
    Or my clothes wear out or the rent comes due
        And leaves me nary a single mill.

    When somebody pays for the work I’ve done
        I grin and chuckle with soul care-free,
    “Well, now I’ll certainly have some fun—“
        But somebody comes with a C. O. D.;
    Or if a saving account I crave
        And plan on watching the roll grow fat,
    The whole amount that I meant to save
        Must pay insurance—or things like that!

    They’re always waiting to grab my roll;
        I never manage to get ahead;
    I’m either paying for this year’s coal
        Or last year’s horse—which is cold and dead;
    Coin never lasts as I thought it would,
        It always goes at the least excuse;
    It never does me a bit of good;
        I try to save it—but what’s the use!

  • A Planet With Speed

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 22, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    When Shakespeare made the statement that this world is all a stage
    He pictured what we must regard as quite a different age;
    An age when men gave study to the roles they undertook
    And forms and courtesies prevailed which none might overlook.
    The merry villagers came forth in song upon the green;
    The aristocracy with easy grace observed the scene.
    There was in truth a deal of superficial show,
    And the action of the drama, though intense, was often slow.

    At present we are going at a swiftly modern pace;
    There’s real ginger in the troop they call the Human Race.
    The trolley cars are buzzing and the lights are all ablaze,
    And we do in twenty minutes work that formerly took days.
    We take our pleasures swiftly and our griefs are soon forgot;
    No permanent emotion animates our earthly lot,
    And we’re forced to the conclusion that the days of long ago
    Have vanished and the world is now a moving picture show.

  • Woman the Inferior

    From the Rock Island Argus, January 21, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    “Woman is nearer the savage state than man. Her only function is to bear children.” —Professor Sargent of Harvard.

    She is nothing but a woman with a voice that’s soft and sweet,
    Making sacred all she touches, e’en the dust beneath her feet,
    With a laugh that’s sweetest music and a sigh that’s sweeter yet,
    With a look that makes you wonder and remember and forget—
        Just a woman who is pure,
        With a faith serene and sure—
    Who has made you somewhat better since the moment when you met.

    She is nothing but a woman, of a lower type than man,
    Her development restricted, fashioned on a poorer plan;
    Learning little as the ages and the aeons roll away,
    Made to serve a single purpose and remain unthinking clay;
        Just a woman in whose eyes
        All that’s true and tender lies,
    Just a woman claiming graces as angels only may.

    She is nothing but a woman who when days of trouble come—
    When the friends of fairer moments turn their faces and are dumb—
    Hovers near with tender glances and with words that soothe and cheer
    Just a woman, hoping bravely when you weakly yield to fear;
        Just a woman clinging fast
        To the love that, at the last,
    Shall become your sweet salvation, as the farther shores appear.