The Trouble With Snowmen

by Roger McGough (b. 1937)
'The trouble with snowmen,'
Said my father one year
'They are no sooner made
Than they just disappear. 

I'll build you a snowman
And I'll build it to last
Add sand and cement
And then have it cast.

And so every winter,'
He went on to explain
'You shall have a snowman
Be it sunshine or rain.'

And that snowman still stands
Though my father is gone
Out there in the garden
Like an unmarked gravestone.

Staring up at the house
Gross and misshapen
As if waiting for something
Bad to happen

For as the years pass
And I grow older
When summers seem short
And winter's colder.

The snowmen I envy
As I watch children play
Are the ones that are made
And then fade away.

Not From This Anger

by Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)
Not from this anger, anticlimax after
Refusal struck her loin and the lame flower
Bent like a beast to lap the singular floods
In a land strapped by hunger
Shall she receive a bellyful of weeds
And bear those tendril hands I touch across
The agonised, two seas.
Behind my head a square of sky sags over
The circular smile tossed from lover to lover
And the golden ball spins out of the skies;
Not from this anger after
Refusal struck like a bell under water
Shall her smile breed that mouth, behind the mirror,
That burns along my eyes.

Brothers Side By Side (A Soldier’s Tale)

by Andrew Blakemore (b 1966)
We were pinned down by the gunfire
In that scorching desert heat,
Outnumbered by the enemy
Yet we swore we'd not retreat,
We were cut off from our unit
But we held that line alone,
Until a sniper's bullet
Felled my friend just like a stone.

I held him in my arms
As he lay dying in the sand,
I cradled him against my chest
And held his bloody hand,
His frightened stare shall haunt me
Till I join him in the grave,
I tried my best to help him
Yet his life I could not save.

He breathed his last then closed his eyes
And as he slipped away
I knew I'd lost my greatest friend
Upon that wretched day,
He'd fought with me until the last
With honour and with pride,
Both comrades on the battlefield
And brothers side by side.

A Dead Friend

Algernon Charles Swinburne
(1837-1909)
I
Gone, O gentle heart and true,
Friend of hopes foregone,
Hopes and hopeful days with you
Gone?

Days of old that shone
Saw what none shall see anew,
When we gazed thereon.

Soul as clear as sunlit dew,
Why so soon pass on,
Forth from all we loved and knew
Gone?

II
Friend of many a season fled,
What may sorrow send
Toward thee now from lips that said
'Friend'?

Sighs and songs to blend
Praise with pain uncomforted
Though the praise ascend?

Darkness hides no dearer head:
Why should darkness end
Day so soon, O dear and dead
Friend?

III
Dear in death, thou hast thy part
Yet in life, to cheer
Hearts that held thy gentle heart
Dear.

Time and chance may sear
Hope with grief, and death may part
Hand from hand's clasp here:

Memory, blind with tears that start,
Sees through every tear
All that made thee, as thou art,
Dear.

IV
True and tender, single-souled,
What should memory do
Weeping o'er the trust we hold
True.

Known and loved of few
But of these, though small their fold,
Loved how well were you!

Change, that makes of new things old,
Love which promised truth, and told
True.

V
Kind as heaven, while earth's control
Still had leave to bind
Thee, thy heart was toward man's whole
Kind.

Thee no shadows blind
Now: the change of hours that roll
Leaves thy sleep behind.

Love, that hears thy death-bell toll
Yet, may call to mind
Scarce a soul as thy sweet soul
Kind.

VI
How should life, O friend, forget
Death, whose guest art thou?
Faith responds to love's regret,
How?

Still, for us that bow
Sorrowing, still, though life be set,
Shines thy bright mild brow.

Yea, though death and thou be met,
Love may find thee now
Still, albeit we know not yet
How.

VII
Past as music fades, that shone
While its light might last;
As a a song-bird's shadow flown
Past!

Death's reverberate blast
Now for music's Lord has blown
Whom thy love held fast.

Dead thy king, and void his throne:
Yet for grief at last
Love makes music of his own
Past.

Happiness

by George Savige (Australian poet)
You cannot buy your happiness,
'Cause happiness is free.
Don't you know, or can't you guess 
It's there for you and me.

And what you do with what you've got,
Can change the way you feel.
Just do your best and smile a lot 
You'll keep an even keel.

'Cause happiness is made for YOU,
Just take a bite and see
That happiness is what you do
With something that is free.

On Another’s Sorrow

by William Blake (1757-1827)
Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No  no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear --

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day 
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give his joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh 
And thy Maker is not by;
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

Oh he gives to us his joy,
That our grief he may destroy:
Til our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

Racism Today

by Steven Taylor
The racist cloaks his loathing thoughts
Behind deceiving eyes
Those men who once wore hoods and robes
Today wear shirts and ties.

Their methods changed but yet and still,
Their mission is the same
Today they lynch with politics,
The racist's favorite game.

Divide and conquer is their plan
To keep minorities
From seeing that the forest lies
Just shortly past the trees.

Racism lurks within the press,
Courthouses, banks and schools
Black folks convinced that all is well
Have certainly been fooled.

A racist underground exists,
A chilling fact indeed
They seek to kill, steal and destroy.
We can't let them succeed.

In Memory Of Jane Fraser

by Geoffrey Hill (b. 1932)
When snow like sheep lay in the fold
And wind went begging at the door,
And the far hills were blue with cold,
And a cloud shroud lay on the moor,

She kept the siege. And every day
We watched her brooding over death
Like a strong bird above its prey.
The room filled with the kettle's breath.

Damp curtains glued against the pane
Sealed time away. Her body froze
As if to freeze us all, and chain
Creation to a stunned repose.

She died before the world could stir,
In March the ice unloosed the brook
And water ruffled the sun's hair.
Dead cones upon the alder shook.

Aberfan

by Owain Glyn
The sky was grey and sullen
Shrapnel rain struck window pane.
Inside sat fresh scrubbed faces
Pink with expectation.

Hair, filled with mischief
Notes passed, with intention.
Teachers with vocation
Intent on revelation.

Unearthly sounds reverberated
Silent breaths were held.
Death's hounds were near, and convocated
Close upon this ground.

Suddenly, the valley, silent
Not a sound was heard.
We looked in shock, in total awe
Could God be this absurd?

We tried with bloody fingers
But to no avail.
The filth that took these poor young souls
Had handed us no trail.

So, where were you upon this day?
And where was our sweet lord? 
When these young souls should meet their end
Could this be his accord?

So, this I ask each one of you,
I ask it too, of me,
Is each soul that died that day
Nearer God  to thee?