20 Berton Braley Poems

Be encouraged by these Berton Braley poems. Berton Braley was born in Madison, Wisconsin, in 1882. He sold his first verse when about seventeen years old. He won a good many prizes and was editor of the University of Wisconsin Sphinx and the Literary Magazine.

In 1915 he went to Butte, Montana, and became a cub reporter on the Inter-Mountain. He afterward joined the editorial staff of the Evening News of Butte, remaining there for about three years. Came to New York in 1909 and freelanced until he became associate editor of Puck. In the vacations during his college career, he has done numerous and sundry jobs such as selling books, clerking, passing coal on the Great Lakes, digging ditches, acting as an attendant at an insane asylum, a guard in a prison, farmhand, ditch digger, miner, and various other situations around the world. These positions gave him an insight into working conditions and working men's viewpoints that have a good deal to do with the success he had achieved in the understanding of men who do the world's rough jobs.

He died on the 23rd of January 1966 but left the world a collection of encouragement and motivation in his poems. While the poems were written many years ago they contain wisdom that still applies today!

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Popular Berton Braley Short Poems:

The Whistler
Poet: Berton Braley

Whistle, old chap; you just go on and whistle;
Never you fret about kickers like him;
Your heart's as light as the down of a thistle;
Who cares if grumblers are grouchy and grim?
Go on and whistle ; don't mind what they say to you;
Most of us thrill to your message of cheer;
Fortune is good and the world's looking gay to you?
Go on and whistle ; it's pleasant to hear!
Whistle, man, whistle - as light as a thistle;
Go on and whistle; it's bully to hear!

Whistle, old fellow; you go on and whistle;
What do we care if you sharp or you flat?
Let the old bachelors burble and bristle;
Who gives a whoop for such people as that?
Go on and whistle - it proves there is Boy in you.
Youth that has lasted for many a year,
Give us the notes of the fun and the joy in you;
Go on and whistle; it's pleasant to hear;
Whistle, man, whistle, as light as a thistle;
Go on and whistle - it's bully to hear!

Whistle, old chap - you just go on and whistle;
Give us your flutings of popular airs;
Whistle in spite of the grouches who bristle;
Whistle away all our worries and cares;
Something there is of the troubadour clan in you
Warming our hearts with your melodies clear;
Toil is forgot as we hark to the Pan in you;
Go on and whistle - it's pleasant to hear;
Whistle, man, whistle - as light as a thistle;
Go on and whistle - it's bully to hear!

More Poems Of Encouragement

The Difference
Poet: Berton Braley

Tragedy stalks about the stage
A picture of gloom and woe
And mouths its agony, pain and rage
For all of the house to know.

But Tragedy, out in the world of men
Is decked in the garb of glee,
And we know it not when it meets our ken
In the make-up of Comedy.

It greets our eyes in the smile of a friend
In sounds in a voice that's gay
And we never learn till the very end
That Tragedy ruled the play.

Though woes be plenty and joys be sparse,
All life is a game grotesque,
So Tragedy plays the part of farce
Or poses in cheap burlesque.

It hides the marks of the scourging rods
And plods through its daily task
And screens its face from the gallery gods
With a grin for a tragic mask!

More Poems About Life

The Impulse
Poet: Berton Braley

Partner, I went to a picture show,
An' gazin' upon the screen,
My old fool eyes began to glow
When they put on a western scene.
The play itself was a foolish reel
Of villains an' gold an' fight,
But the country - partner, it made me feel -
Well, it kinda bedimmed my sight;

For there was the narrow desert trail
That wanders across the way,
An' the dust that swirls in the sudden gale
An' the sage brush, dry an' grey,
An' the coulee deep, an' the water hole
An' the old prospector's claim,
An' all the sights that had stirred my soul
Before I got old - an' tame.

An' those actor folks was western, too,
For they rode with a sort of swing
Like the old time cowboys used to do
When a cattleman still was king.
They rode their bronc's with a careless grace
Through country rough an' bare,
It was only a reel - but my blood would race,
For the scenes that I loved were there!

I guess the country has seen a change
Its wildest of tales is told,
It ain't the west that I used to range
In the rollicking days of old,
But the peaks are white with the ancient snow
An' the sky is the same blue dome,
Partner, I went to a picture show -
An' I reckon I'm goin' home!

More Poems About Change

The Safety Valve
Poet: Berton Braley

There's something in us, every one,
A queer unrest that gets us all,
And till the game of life is done
It irritates and frets us all.
Some seek to drown it deep in drink
Despite the carpers' caviling;
And some in crime and some in - ink;
I'm travelling, just travelling!

The gambler's joy is in the game,
The lover's in his amorous
And fervid wooing. Some for fame
And all it means are clamorous.
I leave the statesman to his state,
The chairman to his gavelling,
The while with heart and mind elate
I'm travelling, just travelling.

From land to land, from sea to sea
Where life is brightest, breeziest,
I take the road that seems to me
The kindest and the easiest;
And so, though swiftly, day by day
My skein of life's unravelling,
I'll still be gayly on my way
Travelling, just travelling!

More Journey Of Life

The Commuter
Poet: Berton Braley

He eats his breakfast worriedly
His eye upon the clock
Then seeks the station hurriedly
And runs the final block.
He has a grave propensity
To miss the 8.15
Which brings that strained intensity
Upon his harried mien.

His day is spent in laboring
For gold with fervid vim
So that commuters neighbouring
May have no edge on him,
And just to make more humorous
His day of toil and fret
His wife has errands numerous
Which he must not forget.

He hurries back in summer time
To mow and rake the lawn.
In winter's greyer, glummer time
When all the grass is gone
He rushes homeward hastily
To shovel off the snow
And heap it up quite tastily
Or make the furnace go.

When shows and things occur by night
He rarely sees them through
His train — ah poor suburbanite
Leaves at 11.02,
And yet with noble bravery
He glories in his chains
Although his life's a slavery
To schedules and trains!

More Poems About Time

The Sea Wind
Poet: Berton Braley

Below the skyline drops the shore,
The long, grim graybacks lift and fall,
Against the bows they crash and roar,
The engine throbs, the sea gulls call,
And salt against my pallid face
There comes the challenge bold and free
Of that world tramp who roams through space,
The wind - the wind of open sea!

Here is no breeze of drowsy lanes
Nor breath of crowded towns and stale,
This is the wind that sweeps the mains
And leaps along the trackless trail,
And with its savor on my lips
The ancient joy comes back to me,
Of those who dared - in Viking ships -
The wind - the wind of open sea!

It blows from out the vasty skies
Across the tumbling sea's expanse,
It stings to deeds of high emprise,
It sings of glamor and romance;
Chill, clean and strong - my pulses leap,
My heart is filled with buoyant glee,
I greet the rover of the deep,
The wind - the wind of open sea!

More Ocean Poems

We Serve
Poet: Berton Braley

Not by cheers alone or the flattering vaunt of speeches
Is the strength of a nation shown in the strain of the crucial hour
But by trust in a righteous cause and a glorious love that reaches
Deep down to a people's soul with its searching and poignant power,

So the flags that float on the breeze have a tarnished and tawdry splendour
If they are not raised aloft by hands that are leal and true,
And the test of our loyal might is the faith that we gladly render,
Not the words that our tongues may speak, but the tangible deeds we do.

All that our fathers dreamed of, all that they ever sought for
When they shivered at Valley Forge and battled at Bunker Hill,
Is again at stake in the world - a guerdon that must be fought for;
It is ours to hold and defend with all of our strength and will;

And if we would keep our banners proudly and freely flying
We must gird ourselves as others have girded themselves of old
And prove by the fact of service, living or bravely dying,
That the torch our fathers carried has never grown dim or cold.

Not by cheers alone, or waving of flags and singing
Is a nation's spirit shown, but only when brain and nerve
Are trained to the instant need - and the nation's call is bringing
Her bravest children forth - crying,
"We Serve! We Serve!"