Journey Back in Time: Vol Iii

By D.M. Russ

I guess it was around two years ago that I came across a gold mine where the only digging to be done was turning the page. That is correct! It was a gold mine of words, original unseen poetry inside two yellow-stained old diaries that date between 1850 and 1893. I started reading the diaries and found myself back in time; I was walking with them, seeing what they saw, feeling what they felt, and meeting the queen.

Because I am an avid lover of poetry and because of the way I felt after reading the diaries, I decided I had to share the gold with everyone. So here we are, two years later with Journey Back in Time, Volume 2 of 3. Each volume will hold over one hundred poems each. I want you to feel how they felt, see what they saw, hear what they heard, and live where they lived. So as soon as you open the book to the first page, be ready. You might cry, you might laugh, you will be sad, and you will be happy. It was very religious times; but together, well go on a journey in Journey Back in Time, Volume 2 of 3.

The words are kept in their original format from the diaries, and misspellings are the same as in the original. I did not want to take anything away from the words or feeling they wanted us to hear by making corrections. What you will be reading is the original diary format. This is how they talked and wrote back then.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543481457

D.M. Russ

D.M. Russ is a Published Author, living in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia. David has a bachelors degree in Business Management from Liberty National University, an Associates Degree in Photography from the New York Institute of Photography, and various certificates in art from Virginia Highlands Community College. David served in the United States Army during Desert Storm, Desert Shield, and Iraqi Freedom. He has published articles in Trap and Trail Magazine, TV Guide, and various weekly newspapers. David is a member of the National Poetry Society and has won the national Poetry Society Award in 2016. D.M. Russ has also published: Journey Back In Time, Unseen Poetry From The 19th Century, Volume I, Journey Back In Time, Unseen Poetry From The 19th Century, Volume II, and Lost And Found Poetry. He lives in Abingdon, VA with his wife Becky on their farm. They also have three dogs: Gabe, Zeva, and Angel. Authors Website: www.dmruss.com

Book preview

Battle Of The Churches

That’s the village, said the driver

When you see those steeples three

On the hill beyond the river

Side by side in rivalry

Three nice churches, in and out, sir

As you’d ever wish to see

Each has got a nice tall steeple

And a bell on all the three.

Ah! Said I in some amazement

Quite a village this must be

Such a church must cost some money

But this village here has three

But the driver, with a chuckle

Said there was no village there—

Just a dozen modest houses

On the hillside bleak and bare.

Whence these churches then, my driver

With their spires so tall and white

Whence this flood of architecture

With no village here in sight

Whence the capitol stupendous

Thus to build in very sport

Whence the rivalry tremendous

Let me here the sad report.

Then the driver winked so slyly

Gave his mouth a cunning twist

Saying, Sometime’s don’t the devil

Head a church subscription list

When you cannot raise a dollar

For a preacher starved and poor

You can easy raise a hundred

Just to spite the church next door.

First there was but one church here, sir

Presbyterian, the old school

Scotch folks mostly, town of Galway

And they worked by strictest rules

With their faces long and pious

Mostly talking’ through their nose

But the young folks they get looser

And for fun and fashion goes.

Well, they got to introducing’

Kinder jerky tunes and hymns

Stead of Psalms, which the old people

Thought the wickedest of whims

Then the young folks got a preacher

Who had long and curly hair?

And forgot the invocation

And shot off a made-up prayer.

And he didn’t wear no choker

And he let his whiskers grow

And at last he went a-courtin’

Of the deacon’s daughter Flo

Well, you bet on old school fellers

Called a meeting’ right away

And they started a subscription

For another church, same day.

Yes, you see their stands a third church

Congregational its name

Sort of third rate Presbyterian

With the name but not the game

This grew out of choosin’ sides, sir

When the other churches split

When they come to swap opinions

Why, they made the doubters git.

There they stand, all in a row, sir

Empty, grand, and cold and bare

You could put the village in ‘em

And have lots of room to spare

Have they preaching, Bless your soul, sir

Preachers dread ‘em like the plague

They would starve a joss house-keeper

And freeze off a wooden leg.

Thus my driver, last December

Told this simple tale to me

And his vision I remember

As he winked a wicked glee

But I could not feel like laughing

Neither chides nor harshly blame

Tho’ he seemed a son of Noah

Showing up a father’s name.

But I gazed up through the moonlight

At the church spires white and tall

Each a moment of passion

Not a beacon-light for all

But their shadows intermingled

On the graveyard’s frozen sod

Making the long, pointing finger

To one ever-loving God.

Here And There

One day, Haroun Al Raschid read

A book wherein the poet said.

Where are the kings and where the rest

Of men who once the world possessed?

They’re gone with all their pomp and show

They’re gone the way that thou shalt go.

O thou who choosest for thy share

The world and what the world calls fair.

Take all that it can give or lend

But know that death is at the end.

Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head

Tears fell upon the page he read.

Christmas Eve

Roll back the mighty flood of years

And lo! The Holy land appears—

The land made rich by prophets tears

And great by sacred song.

Night’s sable shroud has fold in

The silent plains of Palestine—

Hushed is the holy city’s din—

Deep stillness reigns o’er all.

Above, on Bethlehem’s Rugged steep

The shepherds o’er their flocks of sheep

Lone, midnight vigils keep—

Sole watchers o’er the scene.

Anon their thoughts and eyes upturn

To where the shimmering planets burn—

Where on their noiseless orbits turn

The sentinels of the night.

The prophetic calmness of the hour

Comes o’er them as a magic power—

Deep in their soul drops like a shower

Of dew at eventide.

A nameless feeling—a mute contest

Twixt hope and fear is in each breast—

Their words are couched in whispers, lest

A sound disturb the spell.

But see! What light illumes the sky?

Hark, what anthem floats on high

What angel pageant hovers nigh—?

What snowy land is this?

Oh! It is a heavenly throng

Filling the realms of night with song—

Their pains glad are borne along

Upon the trembling air.

The angelic notes exultant swell

O’er the bleak rock and sombre dell

And to the raptures shepherds tell

The Lord, our Christ, is born.

Job Trotter

Job Trotter was a jockey who

Was honest as the day

His horse was very harnesses, too

And never ran away

Upon a bay, Job never rowed

Yet he rode on a bay

He never owed along the road

Although he did all day

Once at a bridal party free

He gave the bride a pup

And told his wife next day that he

Just gave a gallop up

He never would endorse a note

Yet he would often say

Of course I will lend horse an oat

He’ll pacer, won’t he, hay

One day in a driving rein

Job caught a colt, of course

And in his livery had pain

And fell to taking horse

His wife she tried race horses all

To cure him of his whoa

Oh, Job, it’s hard to part, she’d bawl

Big horse shoe love me so

In horse-bit-all Job would have died

Had not one of his cronies

From a de-canter him supplied

With spirited young ponies

Job’s stable had some thorough-bred

Which in a char e eat

Sometimes in nag-ony he said

A night mare he would get

At last Job Trotter run his course

In human race and died

And got behind his weeping horse

To undertaker ride

Horse-chestnuts grow above his head

Horse-radish at his feet

And on his turf but grassy bed

Job’s Trotter stands—to eat.

The Shepherd’s Sabbath Song

This is the Lord’s own day

On