Throughout the history of mankind, there has been war, starvation, slavery, injustice, man’s deliberate inhumanity toward his fellow man. There has always been those with wealth and power looming over, abusing, using, ruling with iron fists, war mongering, murdering, cheating, stealing, all the while rejoicing in their supposed superiority, crowing about the survival of the strongest and wealthiest and most powerful, at the same time pontificating about the “moral rightness,” of their ends while trying to keep their means in darkness.

There have also been other men and women, men and women with a genuine goodness in their hearts and a deep concern for the welfare of their fellow human beings. Those that see and reflect with human outrage, the injustice and inhumanity that surrounds them. Those reflectors of human nature that dream and pronounce their dreams for something better, something greater for the whole, something truly moral, and something genuinely just. These people, who exist and must exist are the writers, the poets, the painters, the sculptors. The artists past and present that take the horrible and ugly, and distinguish lies with truth.

I thought it would be good to present the great works of some of these amazing souls. The writers, poets and philosophers and singers and song writers that have spoken out, reflected the world around them and used their artistry to make a better world.

The Man With the Hoe

Edwin Markham (inspired by Jean-François Millet’s painting “Man with a Hoe,”
originally published in the San Francisco Examiner, 1899)

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?

Is this the thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?
Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this—
More tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed—
More filled with signs and portents for the soul—
More fraught with menace to the universe.

What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Time’s tragedy is in that aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity betrayed,
Plundered, profaned and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Judges of the World,
A protest that is also prophecy.

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
Is this the handiwork you give to God,
This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;
Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings—
With those who shaped him to the thing he is—
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God,
After the silence of the centuries?

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
by Maya Angelou

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

“A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”
by Bob Dylan

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin’
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
I heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you meet my blue-eyed son ?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded in hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
And what’ll you do now my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are a many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
And the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell and speak it and think it and breathe it
And reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it
And I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singing
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

“Men after death…are understood worse than men of the moment, but HEARD better.”

“Being unable to make what is just strong, we have made what is strong, just.”

The Second Coming
W.B. Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Death’s Drama
by Killgore Trout

I’ve played Blackjack in fox holes.
Our rifles were loaded with chalk projectiles,
the tear gas was real,
but the tears were artificial.
Not long ago and far, far away
The bullets were real,
Tightly fitted with steel jackets.
The real tears had right reason to fall.
Blood freshly spilled, friends just killed.
Humble hamlets torched
With Zippo lighters
While pristine jungles were engulfed
By napalm fighters.

These people must be freed,
The North looks South with greed.
Old women weep for freedom’s injured ideal.
Soldiers in their newly captured jeeps
Sing of their vaguely shrouded victory.
These old men distainfully leer
At fragmented grenadiers,
Who breed this tear gas of decay;
In hopes of a better day.

Please feel free to post your favorite poems, quotes, song lyrics and/or
your own creations. This could be quite interesting for all.

Leave a Comment

Please Login to comment
14 Comment threads
16 Thread replies
Most reacted comment
Hottest comment thread
4 Comment authors
NirekMurphTheSurf3monicaangelaKillgoreTrout Recent comment authors
newest oldest most voted
Notify of

KT, when I was young I memorized about forty limericks. I could still recite a few today. Most of them a little raunchy.


KT, now that I found this place I’ll be back, often.


KT, I just figured out how to get here. I like the poems. The caged bird one makes me feel bad. My birds all fly where ever they want and they sing out of happiness. They are free to come and go as they please.

I keep figuring out more about this place every day. I was clicking on the drop down at Speakers corner, not SC. Could not find your piece. Sorry to be late to this party.


KT, I am so happy to hear of your reunification with your daughter. I am happy that part of you returned to fulfill a need, always remember:

“Be like the sun for grace and mercy. Be like the night to cover others’ faults. Be like running water for generosity. Be like death for rage and anger. Be like the Earth for modesty. Appear as you are. Be as you appear.”
― Rumi


THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED You will not be able to stay home, brother. You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out. You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip, Skip out for beer during commercials, Because the revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox In 4 parts without commercial interruptions. The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to… Read more »


Aberration of morality

By Richard Macwilliam

‘Stuff happens.’ as a bomb falls,
‘Stuff happens,’ as the wind blows,
Stuff your ‘stuff.’

Minds fold,
Brains close,
The world reduced to a power-mad aberration of morality.

I imagine, one day, a race of humans with:


Until then we live by the Old School’s Rules:


Death glinting off cold spectacles,
Clean, mean, clear-cut simple minds
And their simple certainties.

‘Stuff happens.’

Death happens.


WOW !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Thank you, thank you, thank you KT those are two of my favorites, they have such intricate meanings. I have often said that each time I read either of those poems I receive something new and different than the first time I read them or any other time I have read them, they both make me cry, so let me take a second to get myself together and then I will place one on the board that I hope you will like. No, I did not miss the quotes by Nietzsche or Pascal, or the beautiful poem you… Read more »