Newspaper Poetry

Category: Newspapers

  • Little Words

    From the Evening Star, June 24, 1913. By Walt Mason.

    A little word is but a sound, a sawed-off chunk of wind; we scatter little words around from here to farthest Ind. They are such inexpensive things we don’t economize, and so the world we live in rings with foolish words and wise. A little word costs just a breath, the shortest breath you drew; yet it may wound some heart to death—some heart that’s good and true. And it may wreck some man’s renown, or stain a woman’s fame, and bring bright castles tumbling down into the muck of shame. Your little words, like poisoned darts, may crooked fly, or straight, and carry into loving hearts the venom of dire hate. Be not so lavish with the breath that forms the words of woe, the words that bear the chill of death and lay true friendships low. A word is but a slice of air that’s fashioned by your tongue; so never let it bring despair or grief to old or young. But give to it the note of love and it will surely seem the symbol of the life above, and of an angel’s dream.

  • An Optimist

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 23, 1913.
 By Samuel Minturn Peck.
 

 “I cannot answer yes,” quoth she,
     As I knelt down to sue;
 “One heart is not enough, you see,
     For all who come to woo.”
 
 “Alas!” I cried, “my fate is rough!”
     Then flashed a thought profound:
 “Still - though you have not hearts enough -
     I’ve arms to go around!”

  • My Friend

    From The Washington Herald, June 22, 1913.
 

 I am the best pal I ever had
     I like to be with me.
 I like to sit and tell myself
     Things confidentially.
 
 I often sit and ask me
     If I shouldn’t or I should,
 And I find that my advice to me
     Is always pretty good.
 
 I never got acquainted with
     Myself till here of late,
 And I find myself a bully chum
     I treat me simply great.
 
 I talk with me and walk with me
     And show me right and wrong.
 I never knew how well myself
     And me could get along.
 
 I never try to cheat me
     I’m as truthful as can be.
 No matter what may come and go
     I’m on the square with me.
 
 It’s great to know yourself and have
     A pal that’s all your own,
 To be such company for yourself
     You’re never left alone.
 
 You’ll try to dodge the masses
     And you’ll find a crowd’s a joke,
 If you only treat yourself as well
     As you treat other folk.
 
 I’ve made a study of myself
     Compared me with a lot,
 And I’ve finally concluded
     I’m the best friend I’ve got.
 
 Just get together with yourself
     And trust yourself with you.
 You’ll be surprised how well yourself
     Will like you if you do.

  • The Wiles of the Girls

    From The Tacoma Times, June 21, 1913.
 

 I know just the way that the game should be played;
 I’d studied the manner of wooing a maid,
 I knew all the tricks of the love-making trade
     And the wiles of the girls—I could spot ‘em;
 I’d be wise as a serpent—though soft as a dove,
 And each turn of the game I was cognizant of.
 Yes, I knew just the ways to behave in love,
     But when I met Her—I forgot ‘em.
 
 Forgot every rule and forgot every wile,
 Forgot every stunt I had learned to beguile,
 And fell at her feet in the untutored style
     Of a boy who was eighteen or twenty.
 So don’t be too sure of your skill when you woo,
 For when you’re in love you don’t know what you’ll do,
 And you’ll certainly get what is coming to you,
     And, take it from me, that is plenty!

  • The Original R. R. Problem

    From the Evening Star, June 20, 1913.
 By Philander Johnson.
 

 We’ve got a railroad problem down to Pohick on the Crick.
 We’ve heard about stock tickers an’ manipulation slick,
 But we ain’t a-takin’ sides with any bulls or any bears.
 If we get ours we won’t object to them a-gettin’ theirs.
 Whenever we are drivin’ through the rough an’ heavy road
 We wish we could get out an’ help the horses pull the load;
 An’ we’re haunted by the echoes of a whistle far away,
 Where folks kin see a locomotive passin’ every day.
 
 We held a meetin’ an’ discussed the railroad problem there.
 We didn’t say a word about the freight rates or the fare.
 We didn’t talk of watered stock or policies unjust.
 There’s time enough to kick. You want to get your railroad fust.
 A cozy little station an’ some trains a-makin’ time
 Would lift us for the present to a height of joy sublime.
 Jes’ any kind of railroad, runnin’ slow or runnin’ quick,
 Is all that we demand to date, at Pohick on the Crick.

  • The Problem

    From the Rock Island Argus, June 19, 1913.
 By Henry Howland.
 

 Our troubles have increased of late;
     Alas, how problems vex us;
 It seems as if a stubborn fate
     Delighted to perplex us.
 
 We fondly wished our son to be
     A man of deepest knowledge;
 For years we’ve struggled patiently
     To pay his way through college.
 
 We’ve watched his progress with a pride
     That fully has repaid us
 For all the luxuries denied
     And all the care he’s made us.
 
 But by a problem hard and grim
     We are at present weighted;
 We don’t know what to do with him
     Since Willie’s graduated.

  • Jogging Along

    From the Evening Star, June 18, 1913. By Walt Mason.

    The old world is wagging along to the bragging of those who have won in the battle of life; their vaunting and crowing we hear as we’re going to do what we can in the flurry and strife! But Midas and Croesus have all gone to pieces and millions of winners have crumbled to dust; the old world, still wagging, has heard legions bragging whose names are forgotten, whose riches are rust. The old world is flying along to the sighing of those who have troubles too heavy to bear; and loud sounds the wailing of sick souls and ailing, the chorus of sorrow, the dirge of despair. But millions are sleeping who one time were weeping and cursing their gods in the caverns of gloom; the old world, still flying, has heard so much sighing—has heard so much prating of dolor and doom! The old world is rumbling along to the grumbling of those who can tell how it might be improved; the kicking and carping that way have been harping since first in the dawn of the ages it moved. But millions are planted who once gallivanted around on the surface with croakings and kicks; the old world, still rumbling, has seen them go tumbling, has heard the small splashes they made in the Styx.

  • Tale of the Jolly Mariner

    From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 17, 1913.
 

 He was a jolly mariner
     That sailed the seven seas;
 By skill and pluck and sheer good luck
     He had escaped disease,
 And death in strife by gun and knife
     And other things like these.
 
 Alas! This gallant sailor man
     Was knocked down by a car!
 “You’ll soon be dead,” the doctor said,
     “Perhaps there’s one afar
 To whom you’d send some word, my friend.”
     Up spake the gallant tar:
 
 “You take this message, mate,” he said,
     “Ere I my moorin’ slips.
 And find my bride and say I died
     With her name on my lips!
 Her name, you say? Well, one is May;
     But I’ve sailed several trips!
 
 “There’s Sally Brown, of Dover town,
     And Milly, Jane and Nell;
 If you will look in that there book
     You’ll find out where they dwell.
 There is a score, or maybe more—
     You won’t? Then I’ll get well!”
 
 He was a jolly mariner
     That rose up, strong and fit,
 And then, said he, “Well, hully gee!
     I’m bruised a little bit;
 But I’ve my life and nary a wife
     Is left a widow yit!”

  • The Summons

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 16, 1913.
 By Reginald Wright Kauffman.
 

 Oh, Summer’s in the land again, and Summer’s on the sea;
 Across the blue horizon rim the old gods beckon me;
 The little ships ride restless at their anchors in the bay;
 The birds are trooping northward, dear, and I must be away.
 
 I see the Savoy mountains white; I hear the sheep bells ring
 Below me in the valley where the little children sing;
 And high above the timber line, along the glacier track,
 The ice field and the summit snows, they whisper me: “Come back.”
 
 It’s well I know your tender heart and kindliness and grace,
 And well I know the gentle light that sanctifies your face;
 Unworthily, yet truly, I love you, Heaven-sent,
 And nowhere dear, save in your arms, shall I secure content;
 
 But sun and wind are calling me throughout the livelong day
 From distant lands I used to know - from all the Far-Away;
 Oh, Summer’s in the hills again and Summer’s on the sea,
 And summer’s in my heart, and you — well you must set me free!

  • One Way to Be Content

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 15, 1913.
 

 A happy hearted citizen
     Went gaily to his work;
 He had no wish to lie in bed
     And no desire to shirk.
 His daily duties brought him cheer
     Because he did them well
 And let no hard luck cast him down,
     No matter what befell.
 
 This happy hearted citizen
     A good example set,
 Who simply had no time, he said,
     To cherish vain regret.
 And when his earthly race was run,
     Most always with a smile,
 The many years he’d spent in toil
     Seemed just a little while.