Newspaper Poetry

Author: desperaudio

  • To Whom Honor is Due

    From the Rock Island Argus, January 10, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    The world will give applause to him who rules in great affairs,
    To him who in a lofty place assumes a nation’s cares;
    His name is passed from lip to lip, his fame is spread abroad,
    And they are envied whom he deigns to please with smile or nod;
    But there’s another, poor perhaps, unhonored and unknown,
    To whom I raise my hat, because of worth that is his own—
    The honest man who daily does the best that he may do
    And makes the world his debtor for a worthy son or two.

    The crowds will gladly shout his name who guides a splendid fleet
    And makes his country’s foemen feel the sorrow of defeat;
    For him the waiting bands will play, for him the flags will fly,
    For him the people will applaud and raise the arches high;
    But while they crown him and are glad to stand and watch him pass
    I lift my hat to one for whom there is no sounding brass—
    The honest man whose sons are taught so they may understand
    The worth of honor and the debt they owe their native land.

    The world will give sweet praise to him who has enriched its art,
    And learn to prize the poet’s song if it shall touch the heart.
    There will be high rewards for them who govern and direct,
    The warrior and the statesman will be named with the elect;
    But there is one whom few will deign to gladden with applause,
    Though all his efforts, all his hopes, involve a worthy cause—
    The honest man whose sons are taught that honor still is good,
    Who, all unnoticed, triumphs in his right of parenthood.

  • A Plea for the Teacher

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 9, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

    If I were a youngster and were going back to school,
    I don’t believe that I’d annoy the teacher, as a rule;
    For teachers have a serious time. They’re busy day by day
    Discovering the shorter cuts that lead to Wisdom’s way.
    And sometimes when you hold tomorrow’s lesson in great dread,
    Your teacher’s working hard upon the lesson just ahead.
    She’s always striving earnestly her duty to fulfill
    And hoping you’ll all like her—which I’m confident you will.

    Remember that her feelings may be very much like yours
    Regarding the restraints which every studious mind endures.
    She’d very much prefer a vastly longer holiday,
    No doubt she’s fond of skating or of riding in a sleigh.
    Don’t picture her a tyrant with a hard and haughty heart.
    She’ll try to help you like her if you’ll only make a start.
    Don’t bother her with mischief and with foolish little jokes.
    A teacher values kindness just the same as other folks.

  • A Blasted Hope

    From the Rock Island Argus, January 8, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    Joe Brigham was our “white man’s hope,” Joe measures six foot four;
    He tips the beam around about two fifty, mebbe more;
    His muscles are as hard as rocks; he has a bulldog jaw
    And fists that are about as big as I have ever saw.

    He’s workin’ in our shingle mill, and till a week ago
    We all felt confident that he could lay Jack Johnson low;
    He beat up nearly every man around this neighborhood—
    At least the ones who couldn’t run as fast as big Joe could.

    We brought an expert up from town to learn him how to box;
    Joe nearly killed him the first night with one or two swift knocks;
    A feller from Chicago come to look him over then;
    He told us that the white race soon would be on top agen.

    He said that John L., even when he had been at his best,
    Would not have made a match for Joe—that made him throw some chest!
    He give up workin’ in the mill and trained a week or so
    And then knocked out a giant that they’d brought from Buffalo.

    Although he’d licked us nearly all, we put our hate aside;
    You see he’d got us fairly filled with what’s called local pride;
    We watched his trainin’ right along, and cheered him when he passed;
    It seemed as though the white man’s sun had rose agen at last.

    But all our hopes are blasted now; Joe beat his wife one night,
    And when her daddy found it out he went to set things right;
    When he’d got through the neighbors found Joe bleedin’ on the floor,
    And he is meekly workin’ in the shingle mill once more.

  • Capture of Cactus Center

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 7, 1914. By Arthur Chapman.

    Down here in Cactus Center our hull citadel’s been took
    By a movin’ picture outfit that is fillin’ every nook;
    We’ve been crowded out by actors till there ain’t a bed in town;
    We sleep in traps and blankets, out on the prairie brown;
    They’re doin’ light housekeepin’ on the Blue Front’s upper floor,
    And the booze joint closes early, so’s to let the actors snore;
    There’s a bunch of leadin’ ladies roped and hog tied the hotel,
    And there’s actors first at table when throbs out the dinner bell.

    They are stagin’ wondrous dramas on the ranches hereabouts,
    And the cattle go plumb loco when they hear the actors’ shouts;
    There are juveniles and “heavies” prancin’ round the lonely hills;
    There are guns forever poppin’, but they ain’t the sort that kills;
    There’s a sound like canvas rippin’ when a bunch shoots off some blanks,
    While the sweatin’ operators turn them movin’ kodak cranks;
    Roll my bed, give me a grubstake—I must mush out in the sand
    Where there’s rattlesnakes and gilas, but there ain’t no movie band.

    Lo the Injun dreams of goin’ to a huntin’ ground of peace,
    Where there’s no objection follers when he lifts a white man’s fleece;
    It is a land of runnin’ water, where the grass is always good,
    Where there’s buffalo and fodder, and the squaws can gather wood;
    But the cowboy now is dreamin’ of a place that’s like poor Lo’s,
    Where there’s signs up, in addition, barrin’ movin’ picter shows;
    For there ain’t no joy in Cow Land, and sighs fill the native’s breast,
    Since the shutter’s took to clickin’ in the movie-haunted west!

  • Opportunity

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 6, 1914. By Walter Malone.

    They do me wrong who say I come no more
        When once I knock and fail to find you in;
    For every day I stand outside your door,
        And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win.

    Wail not for precious chances passed away,
        Weep not for golden ages on the wane;
    Each night I burn the records of the day;
        At sunrise every soul is born again.

    Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped;
        To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb;
    My judgements seal the dead past with its dead,
        But never blind a moment yet to come.

    Tho’ deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep;
        I lend my arm to all who say “I can!”
    No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep
        But yet might rise and be again a man.

    Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast?
        Dost reel from righteous retribution’s blow?
    Then turn from blotted archives of the past
        And find the future pages white as snow.

    Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell;
        Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven;
    Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell;
        Each night a start to guide thy feet to heaven.

  • The Psychological Moment

    From the Rock Island Argus, January 5, 1914. By Henry Howland.

                    HE.
    We two may never meet again;
        The world is wide, seas may divide us;
    Why should we squander or disdain
        This chance with which Fate has supplied us?
    Why should we dream of future bliss,
        A present gladness blindly losing?
    Tomorrow you may crave the kiss
        That you are stubbornly refusing.

    Tomorrow, when it is too late,
        When leagues between us may be lying,
    You may bemoan your lonely fate
        And waste the hours in futile sighing;
    Perhaps within a mile or two
        The ways we go may be diverging;
    Why scorn the kiss I offer you?
        Tomorrow I may not be urging.

                  SHE.
    We two may never meet, I know,
        And splashing seas may lie between us;
    Hereafter there may never grow
        A potted palm or vine to screen us;
    I may, as you have said, give way
        To useless sighing and to sorrow,
    And mourn the chance I have today,
        When I sit down to think, tomorrow.

    But, even if our ways shall part
        And if our hopes must bloom asunder,
    Shall happiness avoid my heart,
        And no fond lips press mine, I wonder?
    Nay, though through No Man’s Land I fare,
        I’ll meet some brave one—never doubt it—
    Who will gladly embrace me there,
        Without first lecturing about it.

  • Growing

    From The Sun, January 4, 1914. By Gilbert Cannan.

    When I was but a little boy
    I knew no more than a little tiny joy.
    When I was young and twenty-five,
    Then I was fearfully alive.
    And when I grew and became a man,
    Then I was the top of creation’s plan;
    I melted into love’s desire—
    I was the ore and I the fire.
    And when I knew that I was old,
    Then I was minted into gold.

  • Death of the Year

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 3, 1914. By Lilian Lauferty.

    When the snows grow bold and the stars are cold,
    And the Winter night-winds prey,
    When the ice holds fast and the world is cast
    In a mold of white and gray;

    Then the gloaming falls on the sky’s soft walls,
    And the lights of the dark are hung,
    While the hushed year lies under brooding skies
    Where the censer moon is hung,

    Then the silence speaks over plains and peaks,
    And the hush of life draws near,
    ’Til the screaming wail of the wind and hail
    Sounds the death song of the year.

  • An Unkind Burglar

    From The Topeka State Journal, January 2, 1914. By Roy K. Moulton.

    A burglar came to my house,
    I did not say a word,
    I did not hoot,
    I did not shoot
    To let him know I heard.
    I let him search my mansion,
    I cuddled up in bed,
    Pretended sleep,
    I did not peep,
    But let him think me dead.
    I knew what he was after:
    The key to my garage.
    He found it, too.
    He would, I knew,
    And then I saw him dodge
    Out of the door right quickly,
    I followed him that far.
    He looked around,
    Surveyed the ground,
    And then he stole my car.
    I smiled and laughed and cackled
    Until I thought I’d croak,
    To see a bold
    Bad burglar sold—
    ’Twas a delicious joke.
    I went back to my slumbers
    As happy as could be.
    I’d lost my car
    Ho-ho, har-har,
    I’d saved some dough, maybe.
    But soon I was awakened
    Familiar with the sound,
    The same old clang,
    The same old bang,
    The same old grind and pound.
    He’d driven it ten minutes.
    That guy gives me a pain.
    It made such a fuss
    The ornery cuss
    Had brought it back again.

  • If You Treat the World Right

    From the Rock Island Argus, January 1, 1914. By Henry Howland.

    If you treat the world right, if you give it its due,
    It is likely to try to deal fairly with you;
    If you give it a smile when you have one to spare,
    You will find that the days will more often be fair.

    If you ask for no more than you honestly earn,
    If you look for no more than a proper return
    On investments you make and on risks that you take,
    You will seldom sit nursing a foolish heart-ache.

    If you pick out your friends just for friendship, instead
    Of favoring those who push you ahead,
    Disappointments will soon get to passing you by,
    And the clouds will be fewer that darken your sky.

    If you cheer where you may and give aid where you can,
    If you learn that greed never has strengthened a man,
    That selfishness is but a loathsome disease,
    You will find less to grieve you and much more to please.

    If you learn that the weak are the ones who complain,
    You will find good in much you have viewed with disdain;
    If you treat the world right, if you give it its due
    It is likely to deal pretty fairly with you.