NEVER BE AFRAID TO BE PROUD of AMERICA « Thread Started on Dec 29, 2007, 10:10am »
NEVER BE AFRAID TO BE PROUD of AMERICA
America, the abundant, the place I was born I'll cherish till the day I die. Where the bones of past heroes lie buried in the ground Who loved her the same as I.
Her mountains are so tall they reach for the sky; With prairies where the green grasses grow. There's billions of trees where wild birds nest With creatures that flourish below.
That blue gold called water with which we are blessed As raindrops or crystallized snow; Changes to rivers and fresh water lakes While the winds of our seasons blow.
There's the haunt of a whistle from a lonely freight train Racing on ribbons of steel With the harvest of farms and from the factories Balanced in a box on a wheel.
Some cities have buildings a hundred stories tall, Structures of concrete, glass and steel. A statue in a harbor, a present from France, Describes how, inside, we feel.
That flag on the moon with red and white stripes Proves America’s dreams come true. A country of heroes who line up to protect The past, the present and the few.
We’ll defeat terrorism as it should be fought Never letting Satan’s horde chase us to our door. Safeguarding our borders and system of life As our forefathers sacrificed before.
Never be afraid to be proud of America And march with the brave, faithful and just. Refusing to summit to the will of our enemies Standing firm to preserve what we trust.
“TOM ZART’S 303 POEMS”
You can hear all of Tom Zart’s 300 poems of love, war, faith and more 24-7 on web radio at=
Poems of Love, War, Faith And More By Tom Zart “Soldier For The Lord” Most Published Poet On The Web Author of LOVE WAR AND MORE
MASTERS OF VERSE
MY FAVORITE POET
My favorite poet is God above Who gives Earth its rhythm and rhyme. Not pied pipers of misguided souls Who promote distrust, hatred and crime.
Poetry is nature serenading in song The peaceful roar of the oceans waves. The wind through the trees and over the hills And the flowers in the fields by the graves.
The sound of rain as it waters the thirsty The songs of children at play in the park. The far off rumble of trains or thunder As they pass through the night in the dark.
The joy of our babies first words and steps The passion of life with its heroes and clowns. The on going struggle to survive our sins As we proliferate in hamlets and towns.
My favorite poet is our father of love Who was first to know us before birth. His poetry prolongs every thing we love As his deliverance gives life its worth.
MASTERS OF VERSE
Poetry is one of Earth’s oldest arts Practiced long before words of print. Every race had its masters of verse In caves, huts cabins, or tent.
Stories in verse were handed down From one generation to another. The first told of love, war and more And how to survive each other.
As man became more civilized He could not help but wonder within. Verse then took on a deeper meaning With stories of faith, superstition, and sin.
The act of reciting became in demand As verse began to advance Every tribe, city, town and village Had someone who gave words romance.
Today’s poets are on the World Wide Web Though many seem spiritually ill. Thank heaven for all who still have God’s gift To compose, teach, comfort, and fulfill.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
One of America’s most famous writers Was born in Boston, January of 1809. Both his parents were failing actors And his father was drunk most the time.
In 1810 Edgar’s dad disappeared His mother died soon after. A childless couple took him in Raising him with love and laughter.
Edgar had a Negro nurse Who brought him to her quarters. There he listened to ghost stories Far beyond earthly borders.
The strange tales he later wrote May have come from her inspiration. The words she used to describe death Gave Poe his taste for sensation.
The Allans moved to England Where Poe attended boarding schools. There’s no doubt his time spent there Sharpened his skills as tools.
Returning to Richman and back in school He began to compose new verse. Heavy debts forced him to leave college As his life took a turn for the worse.
Poe caught a ride on a coal barge to Boston Where he was unable to find employment. A young printer agreed to publish his poems Giving him hope and enjoyment.
Penniless, Poe enlisted in the army And was accepted to West Point in 29. Poe couldn’t stand not being a writer Self-imposing his dismissal from The Line.
Afterward he became an editor and critic And married his cousin who was thirteen. Six years latter he discovered she was dying Suffering once more the unforeseen.
He went through periods of insanity Caused by grieving and functional fall. He smoked opium and drank too much Till at his doorstep death would call.
Edgar Allan Poe the master of verse Still lives in our hearts today Famous for The Raven and other great works May his soul rest in peace we pray.
WHISPERS OF THE HEART
Poetry consumed is where wisdom begins As we heed to the whispers of the heart. It’s easy to blame others for our dismay When from ignorance we refuse to part.
Verse is a beacon of hope in the darkness, To help us navigate the pitfalls of strife. Far more people write it, than read it, And that’s why there’s endless conflict in life.
I write poems to help fuel the light By sharing what God has given me. With stories of life, love, war and more. Where heroes pray on bended knee.
THE POWER OF POETRY
Poetry is the lighthouse of life Guiding the lost from a stormy sea. Without it’s presence darkness prevails Keeping us from all we can be.
Poems are used to convey passion By poets of both good and evil mood. Some are hateful others loving Sharing thoughts to be consumed as food.
Verse can lead us to glory or doom As we partake with others within. Depicting our past, present and future With words of man’s grace or sin.
People write poetry because they have no choice Answering to the call of their gift. Where some tend to pull their readers down Others compose to give them a lift.
Always remember the power of poetry Is used by both heaven and hell. It’s up to us to choose our pleasure As poetry remains alive and well.
DIVINE INTERVENTION
I never write a poem That doesn’t write itself. I catch a buzz and come alive Like a puppet off it’s shelf.
Hearing many voices, Whose words are never mine. My pen becomes a painter’s brush Forming visions on a line.
I seem to be a better person, When it’s time to sit down and write. A higher power guides my hand, Sharing wisdom by day and night.
People born to create, Have no choice but to perform. It’s the rush of sharing their gift, That elevates them from the norm.
What would our world become, Without intervention from above? Angry beings in a revolving cage, With no sense of passion or love.
ALL POETS SERVE A MASTER
Most poets have a bit of Solomon Shakespeare and Poe within. Constantly eager to share their visions Of love, life, joy and sin.
Some guzzle whiskey Some sip wine, Some prefer cola And feel just fine.
Some smoke pot Or suck cigarettes, Some abuse drugs With lifetime regrets.
Some attend church And sing of God, While others make fun And call them odd.
All have a purpose, Which drives them to compose. All serve a master, Who by free will, they chose.
POETRY
God has always had his poets, Who he watches with love from space. But Satan has his poets too, Who try to lead us from our grace.
King Solomon was a poet, Who spoke of love, life, death, and war. That lips were like threads of scarlet, And that breasts were roses and more.
The wild birds sing and flowers bloom, As clouds form figures in the sky. But only humans will write poems, That shall last long after they die.
The eldest sister of all arts, Which some have called the devils wine. Poetry is but pure passion, To stimulate the heart and mind.
A GOOD POEM
A good poem paints a picture For both your heart and brain. It doesn't need a second chance To make its meaning plain.
A good poem is like the flower, The lily or the rose. God plants it in a poet's brain And there its beauty grows.
A good poem like a cardinal Is pregnant with song; You can’t help but hear its message As it sings what's right or wrong.
A good poem helps us remember What the joys of life are for, It makes us want to love someone 'Till death comes knocking at our door.
GOD’S POETS
The prize jewels of any nation Are the philosophers of the heart. How they think is universal, For it’s God who makes them so smart.
Most poets tell the truth of life, Though they may wrap it in beauty. It's their passion, not their purpose; To compose is but their duty.
Poets have no reason to lie When the truth is always so clear. All that others say and do Is but food for the poet's ear.
One merit of a poet's work, Which most people cannot deny, They say more and in fewer words To illuminate you and I.
God sent his poets down to earth With words of wisdom and of worth, That they might touch the souls of men And bring them back to Him again.
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