Poetry ~ 2004
April 19, 2004 - 06:29 am
A place to share and discuss your favorite poems.

"Here in this discussion we can do what my poetry group does in my home.
We can allow our feelings to be known...to share through our readings and writings what others may never know of us.
I am so excited by the prospect and I hope you are as well.
Share the poems that have moved you, be they your own or others." ......Annafair

An Index of Poets in Representative Poetry Online -- an invaluable treasury of poetry old and new | Darwinian Poetry-- an experiment in computer-generated poetry influenced by reader's selections


"A man is known by the company his mind keeps."

....Thomas Bailey Aldrich

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April 19, 2004 - 01:16 am
It was so good to come in here and read your poems. I returned Sat from my week at beach and the beach wedding on Friday ..woke sunday am and have lost my voice ..and I mean lost. I will see the doctor later today to see if I need anything for this.

We left last Sat driving down to NC in the rain and it rained most of the time until Thursday. Friday we awoke to a bright sunny day ..but by the time the wedding party gathered at 5:30 PM to go to the beach for the ceremony there was a raw , cold wind coming from the east and I couldnt believe my daughter would still have the ceremony at the beach ..i dont think the minister did either! thank goodness I had included a rain coat with my luggage and used it over my mother of the bride dress, the men were in suits but my daughter, her attendent, the two girls were in summer dresses ..with tiny straps ..and my grandson in summer pants and shirt. I am headachy and feel blah so I may be off a few days if the doctor puts me on antibiotics..Havent talked to anyone yet so dont know if they have any health concerns.. thanks again for posting and sharing..hope to be back later today..anna

April 20, 2004 - 06:38 am
Sure does remind of Emily, Scrawler. Now I can read about Bogan.

Anna----I can't imagine continuing the wedding in the rain!!! Hey, I hope you aren't so terribly sick with this. An awful bug is going around and around. Take good care and try to lick it.

Hugs, Marj

April 20, 2004 - 11:36 am
Having to move on to this page sort of makes me feel like we've lost the other poems. Can't refer back to them as easily. A tiny boo-hoo feeling.


April 20, 2004 - 05:11 pm
The Canterbury Tales" Geoffrey Chaucer c. 1385-1400

The Prologue Here beginneth the book of the tales of Canterbury.

Olde English

Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour, Of which vertu engendred is the flour; Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, And smale fowles maken melodye, that slepen al the night with open yë, (So priketh hem nature in hir corages): Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages (And palmers for to seken straunge strondes) To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes; And specially, from every shires ende Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, The holy blisful martir for to seke, That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.

Modern English

When April with his showers sweet with fruit The drought of March has pierced unto the root And bathed each vein with liquor that has power To generate therein and sire the flower; When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath, Quickened again, in every holt and heath, The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun Into the Ram one half his course has run, And many little birds make melody That sleep through all the night with open eye (So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)– Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage, And palmers to go seeking out strange strands, To distant shrines well known in sundry lands. And specially from every shire's end Of England they to Canterbury wend, The holy blessed martyr there to seek Who helped them when they lay so ill and weak.

Middle English passage from The Canterbury Tales as reprinted from The Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer, ed. W.W. Skeat, Oxford University Press.

Modern English passage from a translation by J.U. Nicolson, Crown Publishers, New York. Copyright 1934 by Covici, Friede, Inc.

April 21, 2004 - 09:57 am
Hi -- I'm back, and welcomed back by your poems.

Anna, take care of yourself. My doctor says you don't get sick from getting chilled, but I don't believe her.But never mind, you did it -- they got married, and you can relax. At my daughters wedding, the minister didn't show up. We were just priming one of the guests to do a fake marraige ceremony, with them getting married later by a judge, when he wandered in, an hour late. He had some story, but it was obvious he had forgotten. But they DID get married, nothing else really matters.

When I got back, the flowering trees out front were just starting to bloom. The next morning they were in full bloom. I feel like they welcomed us back. I see now what I missed in the california Spring -- it was that tender green of the new young leaves. there is nothing like it. Does anyone know a poem that describes it?

Marj: I share your tiny boo hoo.

April 22, 2004 - 06:51 am
Joan- Hi, glad to see you again. I found this one about growth that is very tender to me. I go around my yard daily. And also ponder on the leaves of the trees.

The Old Man Loves To Watch Plants Grow...A Poem

The old man loves to watch plants grow. He needs to look at them right now. They give him hope. The steady force of life that pushes up the seed brings peace, relief. He sees the growth unfold in telling design. Tall bushes press against his window, where he watches new-sprouting leaves and clustered knobs of yellow buds soon becoming small white flowers.

Each day he makes his rounds, inspects the large clay pots in his front yard for signs of growth. Did new green reach the sun? How much have small plants grown since yesterday? He is amazed by a hollyhock transplanted, small, only three inches high, now raging life, filling the pot, grown two feet tall in masses of cupped, green leaves, the stalk not yet appeared that will send it four feet higher. It is rampant, raucous with life, inevitable, light-loving... unless smitten for no reason by the hand of god or mindless passerby.

Copyright by Don Gray

April 22, 2004 - 07:09 pm
On 25 April each year we in New Zealand and Australia put this day aside to remember our ANZACS who served during WW1 and WW2, Korea and Vietnam. We remember and honour those who never came back, the wounded and the ones who did come back and the veterans who are still with us today. I have a poem here which I would like to share with you .. it is written by Ken Bunker - an Australian.

A Tribute to ANZAC Day

With their hair a little whiter, their step not quite so sure
Still they march on proudly as they did the year before.
Theirs were the hands that saved us, their courage showed the way
Their lives they laid down for us, that we may live today.

From Gallipoli's rugged hillsides, to the sands of Alamein
On rolling seas and in the skies, those memories will remain
Of airmen and the sailors, of Lone Pine and Suvla Bay
The boys of the Dardenelles are remembered on this day.

They fought their way through jungles, the blood soaked desert sands,
They still remember comrades who rest in foreign lands.
They remember the siege of old Tobruk, the mud of the Kokoda Trail
Some paying the supreme sacrifice with courage that did not fail.

To the icy land of Korea, the steamy jungles of Vietnam
And the heroic battle of Kapyong and that epic victory at Long Tan
Fathers, sons and brothers, together they fought and died
That we may live in peace together, while at home their mothers cried.

When that final bugle calls them to cross that great divide
Those comrades will be waiting when they reach the other side.

Ken Bunker

There is a famous verse from the poem 'For the Fallen' by Lawrence Binyon ....

'They shall not grow, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We shall remember them.'

Much love to you Anna and all the wonderful posters who have been sending such lovely poetry.

April 23, 2004 - 12:57 am
Marjorie, I would like to print in full that poem of Lawrence Binyon, of which you have posted the fourth stanza == Trevor

For The Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Lawrence Binyon

April 23, 2004 - 11:35 am
Wonderful poems. I have tears in my eyes.

April 23, 2004 - 11:37 am
MARJORIE and TREVOR: come join us in RUBBISH. The subject this week is Australia and New Zealand, and so far, only Australians are playing.

April 23, 2004 - 07:37 pm
Christmas Bells

waxy red


six-pointed tubular flowers

flower in December in Australia

~ Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler)

April 24, 2004 - 11:23 am
I looked up that flower from the poem on Google. Very vivid and pretty.

Oh FairAnna--- are you recovering? We'll all send a resounding loud GET WELL, FRIEND!!! From all over the globe

April 24, 2004 - 08:59 pm
1914 began, he was working on the land with his Mum and Dad
He left behind his girl, joined up to see the world.
It made his Mother sad.

He made it through the war, came back to town
To help his father work the field and rebuild his life somehow.
And everybody called him the ANZAC
ands that's still what they call him now.

He set his mind to stay when his father passed away,
And the river ran dry
He said "I'll take care of you Mum, I've fought before and won, We can win this fight."

All alone he'd work all day untill he'd drop,
Until the place got back to best he didn't stop
There were times he thought he'd been forgotten
But every night at 9 o'clock
The'd stand for that man they called the ANZAC
And those who gave their lives for us
They'd stand for that man they called the ANZAC
For fighting for the land he loves.

At the same time every year we all remember him
At the break of dawn we all stand as one
For all our fallen friends
So drink to that man we call the ANZAC,
We will remeber them.


April 25, 2004 - 10:26 am
The rememberance poems are just wonderful. Such a tribute.

April 25, 2004 - 10:17 pm
I think I've already given you this one, but since we are remembering our fallen soldiers this is one I wrote in rememberance for Americans who died in France in WWI.

Americans in France

They arrived at St. Nazaire And stood before the dawn And shaved by metal mirrors And were proud one and all

The Germans first attacked at Rhine-Marne Canal and the Losses were not heavy But we felt them all

Next the Battle of Belleau Wood Did follow and we crouched And stayed through the cool dawn And tried to see over the wall

Then came the battle of Marne As we pushed the Germans back again Each day one died and then another And we buried them next to the wall

And because we had courage we fought At Aisane-Marne, Amiens, and St. Mihiel Youth ready to be wasted but we endured And we buried them all at the wall

~ Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler)

April 26, 2004 - 10:53 am
I like that Anne- we have so many seeming to fall now in Iraq that we need to be reminded in beautiful words the courage this all takes.

April 26, 2004 - 08:24 pm
While doing a search on the Inuit for Rubbish, I found these Inuit poems: scroll down to see the poems.


April 27, 2004 - 12:49 am
Great to see you Joan and Marj .. we have a lot of fun in 'Rubbish' .. although I feel somewhat addicted I relish the chance to come and see what's going on in my other favourite sites. I haven't been posting very much in poetry recently having been doing some rather tedious computer stuff for my daughter. I also do some voluntary work at the museum and the Hospice. But Joan I have really enjoyed the site you have just given us. I've put it in my Favourites so I can read it all.

I'm wondering if you have read the delightful book simply called 'COD' ? You probably have but if not it is really quite fascinating. It is the story of how the fish was so much a part of various peoples' economy and how it eventaully dwindled and the effects it had. The book written by Mark Kurlansky is full of anecdotes, poetry and recipes too. Being from many generations of fisher people I love it.

If Cod fish forsake us, what then would we hold?
What carry to Bergen to barter for gold?

Peter Daas ( Trumpet of Nordland, Norway..1735)

The codfish lays a thousand eggs
The homely hen lays one
The codfish never cackles
To tell you what she's done
And so we scorn the codfish
While the humble hen we prize
Which only goes to show you
That it pays to advertise

-anonymous American rhyme

April 27, 2004 - 03:16 am
MARJORIE: thats great!! No, I don't know that book, but I'll look for it. Glad you enjoy Rubbish: you add a lot to it.

April 27, 2004 - 03:18 am
I've been kept awake by one of those loopy flies we get at the beginning and end of the season, that stagger around, buzzing loudly.

In a large room 
one man 
one fly


April 27, 2004 - 04:51 am
Great site, Joan. And that fly poem is too funny. I get them in my bedroom in the summer sometimes and takes forever to swat!

Cute codfish rhyme~

Anybody heard from Anna????

April 27, 2004 - 04:54 am
From the Inuit webpage JOanK found. I had to post this- it is morning and their poetry really speaks to me as do American Indian songs/poems/prayers.

"We find songs of longing, of consolation, of praise for a world that did not offer one much, a world that was difficult and demanding: "

And yet there is only One great thing, The only thing: To live to see in huts and journeys The great day that dawns, And the little light that fills the world

April 28, 2004 - 07:44 am
Here I am with tears for all the beautiful poems and laughing at the funny ones..if someone could see me they would wonder ..I thank you all for your contributions and yes I am better but have to confess I did such a stupid thing. I am only 5ft tall, so many things are out of my reach but I still try to reach without help. Just as I was getting well from the whatever I had ,...I was removing clothes from the dryer..one small cloth was pasted to the very back of the dryer...now I must confess I know better than to try and retrieve something really out of my reach ( about 9 years ago I ended up in PT for a frozen shoulder from extending my arm to get a dratted cloth) yes you have guessed I did it again this past Friday. Enflamed the bursa and have suffered all the more because it was my own stupidity that caused it. I have had to wear a sling , take a narcotic for the pain, and suffer twice for the injury to my arm and for the feeling of Anna dont you ever learn.

Today I am off the narcotic and my arm is better, it still hurts but not the fire like stabs that just made me cry ...I see the doctor again this coming Friday and feel he will just shake his head and send me to PT again.

Of course the warm weather has been pushed aside by cold again so I took time to find a poem for you ...I AM SO GLAD TO BE HERE, I feel human again and that is wonderful considering I have felt like the devil,,anna


The wind is tossing the lilacs, The new leaves laugh in the sun, And the petals fall on the orchard wall, But for me the spring is done.

Beneath the apple blossoms I go a wintry way, For love that smiled in April Is false to me in May.

Sara Teasdale

April 28, 2004 - 08:54 am
Oh Anna!! What a very painful episode. I have shoulder pain on and off and it is very disconcerting. Sleep gets disturbed so I have an idea where you are. I hope for rapid & good healing. We are such kids at heart we forget about what we were supposed to have learned.!

April 28, 2004 - 11:39 am
Anna: I'm so glad to see you. I was beginning to get really worried. I'll keep my fingere and toes crossed that your pain is better. I'm a great believer in physical therapy.

I do the same sort of thing with my back. Once I threw it out reaching for the toilet paper. Everyone asked me "How did you hurt iT?",and I was too embarrassed to tell them. LOL.

April 28, 2004 - 10:22 pm
A Minor Bird

I have wished a bird would fly away,

And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door

When it seemed as if i could bear no more

The fault must partly have been in me

The bird was not blame for his key

And of course there must be something wrong

In wanting to silence any song

~ Robert Frost

This is for my cat who spent the whole day covering her ears as she was being sernaded by birds. Poor kitty never did get any sleep.

April 29, 2004 - 04:32 am
Poor kitty. Sometimes they do go on and on and on. There is one that wakes one of my kittys pre-dawn so that sometimes he decides to shake, rattle and roll everything in my bedroom to get me up.


April 29, 2004 - 12:08 pm
Now that post made me laugh out loud...I had a freind who ended up in the hospital reaching for a dress on a hanger..she too was embarrassed since all kept asking REALLY? as if they suspected it was something much worse! And frankly some toilet tissue is placed so your arm and hand reaching is at an awkward angle...I prefer one just in front of me but sometimes it is to the side and towards the back now my arm does not bend that way ....Laughing again..I trust it was a limited time you had problems ....thanks for the humor ...anna

April 29, 2004 - 12:12 pm
All of my cats were house cats and resented the birds at my feeders..sometimes they would sit and chitter at the birds..I cant describe the sound better but I know they were fussing ... I am enclosing a few lines of a verse...because May is almost here ...and I hope she will be a lovely girl ...anna
A Thing of Beauty 
A thing of beauty is a joy forever: 
Its loveliness increases; it will never 
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. 
--John Keats (Lines 1-5)

April 29, 2004 - 01:28 pm

April 29, 2004 - 09:39 pm
I've been posting the names of Canadian poets for RUBBISH. Here is a poem about what it feels like to be an astronaut.


April 30, 2004 - 06:24 am
I keep thinking of the words and what an astronaut must feel ..I prefer to be tethered to earth ...even airplane flights disturb me. How brave to leave what is known behind and venture into the unknown ......I am glad there are men and women who can do that but I am not one..although I think of what can be seen from space ...the whole world ....anna

April 30, 2004 - 06:27 am
Looking for a poem about the month of MAy I found this one instead but loved it so will share with you ..anna

may my heart always be open to little... (19) 
e.e. cummings 

may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living whatever they sing is better than to know and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple and even if it's sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully and love yourself so more than truly there's never been quite such a fool who could fail pulling all the sky over him with one smile

April 30, 2004 - 11:38 am
That Keats poem is so great, Anna. And the one about the birds singing!!!!! I love to hear my house finches warble and watching them fly with their little dips is wonderous. I have 3 pair at my feeder. We have a pair of white butterflys in the garden area- they always come in late April. Dancing around together- or apart.

I wouldn't want to be in a space station. What a love poem that is.


April 30, 2004 - 11:43 am
Bird (haiku) by Agnes Eva

Bird, your world of twigs astounds- building blocks, a perch, and spring mating ground.

I came across this one, I like it.

April 30, 2004 - 01:25 pm
Here's an example of a translation of one of the Japanese Master Issa's haiku. In English, it has 9 syllables.

reed warblers sing the great river still


" Part of writing haiku is finding the 'awe' that is usually passed by without notice--the act of creating a haiku is the act of a focusing our attention more closely than we might otherwise do."

That sure does resonate with me. I wrote one about kittys once but I wonder where it is.

April 30, 2004 - 01:30 pm

If you have time or interest there are some breathtaking ones here.

April 30, 2004 - 03:07 pm
Marj: what a wonderful site. The picture/poem about snow brought tears to my eyes.

I love the Japenese custom of combining picture and verse. Here is another such site. Less well aranged, you have to browse a bit to find things.


April 30, 2004 - 03:30 pm
Joan~ I just saved that to savor in awhile. Thanks.

April 30, 2004 - 03:35 pm
Your site also had pictures of Banff, which I posted on the RUBBISH site.

May 1, 2004 - 04:34 pm
"a bird's song heard in a dream"

Joseph Mayo Wristen


May 4, 2004 - 05:25 am
You can just see that robin going about his robiness.

A Bird Came Down by Emily Dickinson

A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew From a convenient grass, And then hopped sidewise to the wall To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes That hurried all abroad,-- They looked like frightened beads, I thought; He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious, I offered him a crumb, And he unrolled his feathers And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean, Too silver for a seam, Or butterflies, off banks of noon, Leap, splashless, as they swim.

May 4, 2004 - 07:09 am
That's wonderful. It catches the robin to the core.

May 4, 2004 - 10:47 am

The fierce musical cries of a couple of sparrowhawks hunting on the headline,

Hovering and darting, their heads northwestward,

Prick like silver arrows shot through a curtain the noise of the ocean

Trampling its granite; their red backs gleam

Under my window around the stone corners; nothing gracefuller, nothing

Nimbler in the wind. Westward the wave-gleaners,

The old gray sea-going gulls are gathered together, the northwest wind wakening

Their wings to the wild spirals of the wind-dance.

Fresh as the air, salt as the foam, play birds in the bright wind, fly falcons

Forgetting the oak and the pinewood, come gulls

From the Carmel sands and the sands at the river-mouth, from Lobos and out of the limitless

Power of the mass of the sea, for a poem

Needs multitude, multitudes of thoughts, all fierce, all flesh-eaters, musically clamorous

Bright hawks that hover and dart headlong, and ungainly

Gray hungers fledged with desire of transgression, salt slimed beaks, from the sharp

Rock-shores of the world and secret waters.

~ Robinson Jeffers (1887-1962)

I love the imagery in this poem. It reminds me when I was a child I would look out my bedroom window in San Francisco and see the Pacific Ocean and watch the seaqulls diving into the ocean.

May 4, 2004 - 01:13 pm
I love the imagery too.

May 4, 2004 - 04:35 pm
What great poems for those who love birds, who feed them, watch them nest and wheel across the heavens....so many images those poems evoke..the robins in my yard with their heads listening to the stirring of the lowly worm...the sea gull, the pelicans, the egret and my favorite the sandpiper..reminds me of my self ,..bustling about on short legs trying to keep up with the longer legged birds..really great imagery .. really wonderful memories ..thanks thanks thanks ......anna

May 4, 2004 - 04:40 pm
Do I think every year that the azaleas, the iris ,the lilies have never been lovlier ? most likely. Right now I have bouquets of iris in the house ..all colors..tall, majestic..my favorite reminds me of lemon meringue pie...and I watch while the gardenia and the hydrangeas are forming buds to give me perfume from the gardenia and from the hydrangeas summer beauty and winter dried bouquets ..found a poem about MAy and here it is ..just for you...anna
 Beauteous May 
by John Milton 

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, beauteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

May 4, 2004 - 04:59 pm
The birds are poetry in the air I believe.

Images of hope and light and movement and lightness of being.

May is a special month. Not too hot except for a day here and there- at least in Michigan. Greens stay green. There are blooms of some flowers.

May 6, 2004 - 08:10 am
yesterday was such a perfect day..I worked outdoors the whole day..and with sore muscles I did pay ..but I will pay that price a hundred times over, to have again a perfect day...sorry I have to laugh at myself since I often think in rhyme ...here is a poem I love and hope you enjoy it too ..anna


BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest: Hail to Thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, Linnet! in thy green array, Presiding Spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May; And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, A Life, a Presence like the Air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair; Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perched in ecstasies, Yet seeming still to hover; There! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives, A Brother of the dancing leaves; Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves Pours forth his song in gushes; As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated with disdain The voiceless Form he chose to feign, While fluttering in the bushes. 1803.


May 6, 2004 - 03:44 pm
I love that popem. It really captures the way we see birds amoung the trees and flowers. Part of the beauty of birds for me is that elusiveness.

May 6, 2004 - 03:51 pm
I hate to change the subject from birds, one of my favorites. I promise to add more bird poems later. But we can't celebrate Spring without at least one love poem. And few love poems can match the Song of Songs Here is a fragment, familiar to many of you. We may be old, but we can still remember.

Translation by Chana and Ariel Bloch.


Song of Songs Song 712

Come, my beloved, let us go out into the fields and lie all night in the flowering henna.

Let us go early into the vineyards to see if the vine has budded, if the blossoms have opened and the pomegranate is in flower.

There I will give you my love.

The air is filled with the scent of mandrakes and at our doors rare fruit of every kind, my love, I have stored away for you.

May 7, 2004 - 01:13 am
And remember we are not limited to one subject here. Poetry is poetry is poetry...all is welcomed ...I have a poem I wrote about Lilacs I will have to see if I can find it ...

And love poems...how they reach us ...and we are never too old to remember and to love. anna

May 7, 2004 - 09:36 am
To Earthward

Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air

That crossed me from sweet things The flow of - was it musk From hidden grapevine springs Down hill at dusk?

I had the swirl and ache From sprays of honeysuckle That when they're gathered shake Dew on the knuckle.

I craved strong sweets, but those Seemed strong when I was young; The petal of the rose It was that stung.

Now no joy but lacks salt That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain

Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.

When stiff and sore and scarred I take away my hand From leaning on it hard In grass and sand,

The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength To feel the earth as rough To all my length.

What imagery! Can there ever be to much love?

May 7, 2004 - 11:31 am
SCRAWLER: wonderful poem!! Is it yours?

May 8, 2004 - 05:26 am
" Scattering thy gladness without care,"

I have a couple little white butterflies in my yard that are doing that very thing.

I wonder the same thing, Joan. Love is so well expressed thru poetry.

May 8, 2004 - 06:00 am
what a powerful poem ..and I too ask Is it one of yours? I have some love poems I have written but they are so personal I have never shared them. Love is best expressed in poetry is my thinking. Someplace I have read an explanation of poetry but cant recall off hand . I only know I agreed with it...and it seemed to me to say Poetry is not just words strung together but our hearts deepest feelings. anna

May 8, 2004 - 06:13 am
Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I remember this day well as my mother was always pleased with whatever we did for the day but in some ways embarrassed because didnt all mothers care about thier family and since it was the right thing to do there was part of her that felt the right thing did not require praise.......I still have many of the self made cards my children gave me and am as touched by them now as when they first gave them to me. I cant bring myself to throw them aside so when I die they will be there for them.

There are many poems about mother's day and I will post others but when I was young there was an Irish tenor that sang the following and I still can hear it in my mind...anna

M - O - T - H - E - R 
"M" is for the million things she gave me, 
"O" means only that she's growing old, 
"T" is for the tears she shed to save me, 
"H" is for her heart of purest gold; 
"E" is for her eyes, with love-light shining, 
"R" means right, and right she'll always be, 
Put them all together, they spell 
A word that means the world to me. 

Howard Johnson (c. 1915)

May 8, 2004 - 09:43 am
I knew I forgot something. No I can't take credit for it. The poem was written by Robert Frost.

To all mothers out there. Happy Mother's Day!

May 9, 2004 - 09:14 am
While Emily Dickinson wrote this about nature I feel it is also about the nature of mothers.....anna
 Nature - The Gentlest Mother 

By Emily Dickinson

Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill By traveller is heard, Restraining rampant squirrel Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation, A summer afternoon, Her household, her assembly; And when the sun goes down

Her voice among the aisles Incites the timid prayer Of the minutest cricket, The most unworthy flower.

When all the children sleep She turns as long away As will suffice to light her lamps; Then, bending from the sky

With infinite affection And infiniter care, Her golden finger on her lip, Wills silence everywhere.

May 9, 2004 - 09:15 am
That is such a lovely poem, thank you so much, I hadn't read it before.

May 10, 2004 - 10:18 am
I sure do like that. Chuck full of imagery. A beauty.

May 10, 2004 - 10:26 am
Another by Emily.....

If Nature smiles -- the Mother must I'm sure, at many a whim Of Her eccentric Family -- Is She so much to blame?

May 11, 2004 - 10:10 am
Rainy Season

It has been raining for three days

The faces of the giants

on the bill-boards

still smile,

but the gilt has been washed from the sky;

we see the iron world.

~ Charles Reznikoff (1894 - 1976)

For those of us who have lived through three days of rain! Did I fall asleep and miss summer?

May 13, 2004 - 04:36 am
Wonderful image of rain. Wonder what happened to the response I posted the other day to this neat poem.

May 13, 2004 - 07:15 am
I loved the poem about rain. Here, we get not days of rain but thunderstorms that come and go quickly. I went Googling fot thunderstorm poems, and found this (not as good as yours:


May 13, 2004 - 09:11 am
That was fun to read, Joan. And does describe as the storms come thru.

May 13, 2004 - 02:04 pm

~ Charles Reznikoff

Indifferent as a statue

to the slogan

scribbled on its pedestal.

The way an express train

snubs the passengers at a local station.

Like a notebook forgotten on a seat in the bus,

full of names, addresses and telephone numbers:

but of no interest whatever

to anyone else.

Words like drops of water on a stove -

a hiss and gone.

These descriptions of similes made me chuckle.

May 17, 2004 - 05:04 am
I was reading some of his other poetry and saw that one which I liked.

I thought this poem from 1919 edition was powerful:


One shoulder lower, with unsure step like a bear erect, the smell of the wet black rags that she cleans with about her.

Scratching with four stiff fingers her half-bald head, smiling.

May 17, 2004 - 01:21 pm
Yes, I like that poem too Marj.


Not the five feet of water to your chin but the inch above the tip of your nose.

Free Verse

Not like flowers in the city in neat rows or in circles but like dandelions scattred on a lawn.

I like these poems too.

May 17, 2004 - 03:08 pm
This is just great, Scrawler!

Not like flowers in the city in neat rows or in circles but like dandelions scattred on a lawn.

My yard is rather like that---I try not to get it all too standard looking. I have what I name a "birderary". I let bird seeds grow and they get about 10 feet tall. It might be the millet seeds- I do not know. Really interesting - I confine them to one area. The birds love to roost in them and of course eat the seed when it is harvestable.

May 17, 2004 - 09:04 pm
I had not heard of Charles Reznikoff. I like his poems a lot.

Now is the time I see a neighbor who has neatly pruned his redbud into a symmetrical shape and lost all the beauty of those growing in the woods.

Good for you, Marj, letting your birdseed grow.

May 18, 2004 - 10:02 am
Joan- Hi~ Is redbud the same as redtwig dogwood? I have a nice wildish redtwig. I never much like the symetrical pruning.

May 18, 2004 - 01:11 pm
I sprinkle birdseed in my flower pots which attracts the little birds. Yesterday and today I spotted a crow that is going after not the seed but the whole plant. I've scared him away for now, but I suspect he's off chuckling to himself and will be back soon than I think.

May 18, 2004 - 01:17 pm
Scrawler! Neat idea!

I do that on the front porch. Another place for Kittys2 to study their feathered friends.

I hope your plant survives the crow.

May 18, 2004 - 01:25 pm
Millinery District

The clouds, piled in rows like merchandise, become dark; lights are lit in the lofts; the milliners, tacking bright flowers on straw shapes, say, glancing out of the windows, It is going to snow; and soon they hear the snow scratching the panes. By night it is high on the sills. The snow fills up the footprints in the streets, the ruts of wagons and of motor trucks. Except for the whir of the car brushing the tracks clear of snow, the streets are hushed. At closing time, the girls breathe deeply the clean air of the streets sweet after the smell of merchandise.

The basic tenets of Objectivist poetics were to treat the poem as an object and to emphasise sincerity, intelligence, and the poet's ability to look clearly at the world

From his teens, Reznikoff had been writing poetry, much of it influenced by the Imagists, and publishing it himself using handset printing plates. Throughout his writing life, Reznikoff was always concerned to ensure that his work was published, even at his own expense. This appears to have been inspired by a family story of his grandfather, an unpublished Hebrew poet whose manuscripts were destroyed after his death

May 18, 2004 - 02:21 pm
I googled Reznikoff and came upon this audio archives of poetry readings, which contains not only him, but many others as well. It's alphabetical, so you have to scroll down a fair way, and the poems take a long time to load.

Having lived in Israel, I listened to his poem Kaddish and it brought tears to my eyes.


May 19, 2004 - 05:46 am
OH I have missed you but my air conditioner was off for nearly two weeks and I have to confess I am throughly spoiled and hate the heat at night when I cant sleep or think or doing anything but moan and groan.

It was too hot to sit at the computer, too hot to cook or do all the things a household requires..so much complaining at what at best is mild discomfort. Have I become a grump ?

I have enjoyed your sharing and the poems about thunderstorms which are expected here for the next week. My plants will be glad if they arrive since water from the hose is cold and full of chemicals.

This am I have been searching google for some poems about summer and found this one by John Clare 1793-1864...he spent his last years in an insane asylum suffering from mental disease....now here is his poem and the service man assures me all my a/c needed was freon so hopefully I am set for the summer.....anna


The cocks have now the morn foretold, The sun again begins to peep, The shepherd, whistling to his fold, Unpens and frees the captive sheep. O’er pathless plains at early hours The sleepy rustic sloomy goes; The dews, brushed off from grass and flowers, Bemoistening sop his hardened shoes

While every leaf that forms a shade, And every floweret’s silken top, And every shivering bent and blade, Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop. But soon shall fly those diamond drops, The red round sun advances higher, And, stretching o’er the mountain tops, Is gilding sweet the village-spire.

’Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze, Or list the gurgling of the brook; Or, stretched beneath the shade of trees, Peruse and pause on Nature’s book, When Nature every sweet prepares To entertain our wished delay,— The images which morning wears, The wakening charms of early day!

Now let me tread the meadow paths While glittering dew the ground illumes, As, sprinkled o’er the withering swaths, Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes; And hear the beetle sound his horn; And hear the skylark whistling nigh, Sprung from his bed of tufted corn, A haling minstrel from the sky.

John Clare

May 19, 2004 - 06:14 am
What a lovely poem. Air conditioning...hmmm...still in the 50's here most days, dropping to 40's at night...Wisconsin

May 19, 2004 - 06:14 am
Joan- I could not get that poem to play from that website. I'll try it again or maybe access it thru IE rather than AOL.

Pretty poem about May, Anna. I too hope your a/c is all set. Warm and humid weather is not good for me either so I quite understand your dilemma.

Not sure what 'sloomy' is in that May poem.

May 19, 2004 - 06:34 am
Finally did get to listen to R's "kaddish"- quite moving. Thanks for bringing it to the fore.

May 19, 2004 - 05:10 pm
The hyper dictionary says 'sloomy' means sluggish. Just ran across this online dictionary at hyperdictionary.com. I Googled the word because my Webster online dictionary did not have it.

May 20, 2004 - 05:45 am
In the midst of reading The Last Escape I found myself remembering WWII, my brothers there and the people I knew who went and never returned. The St Louis paper ( there were two and I dont recall which) ran each Sunday thumbnail pictures of those that had left for the war and then again those that had perished. I was a romantic and one Sunday in the pictures of those that had left was one of a young Navy Lt..with dark hair and soul full eyes..and I fell in love ..why this young man among thousands ? I dont know but I did ...months later it was there again among those who would never return. I kept those pictures for years, long after I had married , long after my children were grown..now reading this book it all came back and I found a poem I want to share...anna
     Wait for me, and I'll return 
    Only wait very hard 
    Wait when you are filled with sorrow... 
    Wait in the sweltering heat 
    Wait when the others have stopped waiting, 
    Forgetting their yesterdays. 

Wait even when from afar no letters come to you Wait even when others are tired of waiting... And when friends sit around the fire, Drinking to my memory, Wait, and do not hurry to drink to my memory too.

Wait. For I'll return,defying every death. And let those who do not wait say that I was lucky. They will never understand that in the midst of death, You with your waiting saved me. Only you and I know how I survived. It's because you waited, as no one else did.

Konstantin Simonov

May 20, 2004 - 08:07 am
That is sure a special poem- so touching.

May 21, 2004 - 01:05 pm
I thought I had your phone number around here somewhere, but apparently I either do not, or I am just too stupid to put my fingers on it.

Bob and I had to leave the Bash because he became ill. We are now home in Annapolis, and I cannot meet you at eight tomorrow morning. There will be simply oodles of other people in the Hospitality Suite in room 1517 to meet you at that hour. Love you! a very regretful MaryPage

May 22, 2004 - 01:13 pm
Bright Sunlight: ~ Amy Lowell

The wind has blown a corner of your shawl

Into the fountain,

Where it floats and drifts

Among the lily-pads

Like a tissue of sapphires.

But you do not heed it,

Your fingers pick at the lichens

On the stone edge of the basin,

And your eyes follow the tall clouds

As they sail over ilex-trees.

Since we have bright sunshine today in Portland, Oregon as least for the moment I thought I'd share some with you all.

May 24, 2004 - 02:49 pm
In Honor of Memorial Day

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

John Macrae (1872-1918)

May 24, 2004 - 08:21 pm
Thanks for the posts and for the Memorial DAy poem. It has always been one of the most touching poems to me and one I am reminded of each time I pass a military cemetary. My husband is buried at Arlington and I have always found the simple headstones used more moving than an elaborate memorial

I missed seeing MaryPage but did go to Richmond on Saturday and renewed some old friendships and met some netters I have only known here.I always go with full confidence that those I will meet will never disappoint and will always make me glad for meeting them.

Thank you all for coming here ...your thoughts and sharing of poetry makes my life full and beautiful. anna

May 24, 2004 - 11:55 pm
ANNA: you don't have to tell us that you had a good time. Your picture (on the Virginia Bash site) makes that clear. Wonderful to see you, even though not in person: so sorry I couldn't manage to get there.

Here is the link to the page with the first picture of Anna. There is one of her and Ginger a couple of pages later.


May 25, 2004 - 06:55 am
JoanK I guess thanks for the link is in order. I did have a great time but because the people there were the same..great! As soon as I drove away I missed them so, if any reader has never been to a bash please if time and money permits do go! The closest thing to a bash is a family reunion. Like a reunion you meet people known to you but also those whose faces you have never seen and there is the same lifting of spirit when you are there. I have to say those of my friends whom I have never been able to even peek into seniornet think I am a bit crazy for going places and meet all these strangers. It's hard to explain that none are strangers , only friends I had yet to meet..That is someone's quote but it is my banner. anna

May 25, 2004 - 07:00 am
Someone suggested I read John Updikes collection of poems in his book AMEICANA. The poems are about everyday things, and how he looks and feels about them. Here is one I chose for today. I hope you enjoy it too. anna


Show me a piece of land that God forgot- a strip between an unused sidewalk, say , and a bulldozed lot, rich in broken glass- and there, July on , will be chicory,

its leggy hollow stems staggering skyward, its leaves rough-hairy and lanceolate, like pointed shoes too cheap for elves to wear, its button- blooms the tenderest mauve-blue.

How good of it to risk the roadside fumes, the oil-soaked heat reflected from asphalt, and wretched earth dun-colored like cement, too packed for any other seed to probe.

It sends a deep tap-root (delicious, boiled), is relished by all livestock, lends its leaves to salads and cooked greens, but will not thrive in cultivated soil: it must be free.

John Updike

May 25, 2004 - 08:36 am
That Updike poem is just super. I didn't realize he did interesting poetry. I'll have to see if our library has that book.

May 25, 2004 - 01:04 pm
Death of a Soldier ~ Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

Life contracts and death is expected,

As in a season of autumn

The soldier falls

He does not become a three-days personage,

Imposing his separation,

Calling for pomp.

Death is absolute and without memorial,

As in a season of autumn

When the wind stops,

When the wind stops and, over the heavens,

The clouds go, nevertheless,

In their direction.

How sad that we are in yet another war. When will it end? Perhaps only when the reason for war is also gone? If only we could understand what others think and feel, we would be in a better position to stop it. This is my contribution to Memorial Day.

May 25, 2004 - 02:59 pm
Wonderful Updike poem. I like to look at those places as I ride in a car, and visualize the life there.

Wallace Stevens is great too, as always. I was remembering back when the Berlin wall came down, and we thought peace was breaking out aall over. How wrong we were.

May 25, 2004 - 05:07 pm
While I came along many years after WWI it still affected me since my Uncle Tommy had been gassed there and spent the rest of his life in Jefferson Barracks Hospital in St Louis..I was very small the one time I went with my parents ..when I look at pictures of people from concentration camps I see Uncle Tommy. A walking skeleton. The flag my grandmother recieved at his burial hung each appropiate holiday..Memorial Day, Armistice Day >< 4th of July, Flag day ..from the posts on our front porch. I really never understood what it meant but I knew it was important.

Just in my teens at the beginning of WWII ,my three brothers served then, The Korean War was another young generations war, My husband was in pilot training then and did not serve in the country itself, but he wasnt so lucky when Vietnam came along nor my two younger brothers who served ..now I have seen two Gulf Wars. I know I have seen enough wars and felt there effects it seems my whole life.My greatest fear ...my grandchildren will someday serve. Thank goodness my own children did not.

A couple of times I have tried to put in a poem my feelings about the loss of a my best friends brother in the invasion on D-Day..the best one I failed to save on my computer but I am going to share the latest. He was the closest person I knew who died there and even now I feel the pain his family felt and by my friendship I shared too. This is not a poem to enjoy.. ..I also know there are many far superior but it is just one I had to write...anna


Beach at Normandy

You were tall , lanky and my ideal Helen's brother who was always kind Who never treated us like the pests we were Six years of Latin gave you a poise We could imagine you at the Forum Leading Romans in discourse For you Dec 7, 1941 meant a call to arms Answered you left and we were resigned To missing you, to praying for your safety Marrying your sweetheart but I didn't mind I was too young and you were my hero What you desired I wanted, always the best for you Helen kept me abreast of your letters home As I shared my brothers too

One day the news of a invasion D-Day it was proclaimed and for you And for us, a terrible meaning You left your life on that sandy beach My mind could see you there Sprawled, your long form stretched From where you lay, your arms Your hands already clay And the ocean washed you where you lay

Grief still wells up and tears fall down For no longer was it just part of the war To be recalled in history books But it was a living, breathing mind We are poorer for you are gone

and there is no imprint on the sand ....

anna alexander 5/25/04 ©

May 25, 2004 - 10:33 pm
It is so warm and even with the A/C on I cant sleep. So I am enjoying reading my book of Updike poetry.. anna

Montes Veneris 

Thanks to Magellan's radar, we Have maps of Venus and can see, The National Geographic claims, Whole mountainscapes, complete with names.

Beneath sulfuric- acid clouds That never lift their poison shrouds, Heat like an oven's turned to CLEAN Bakes Theia Mons, sere and serene.

Sif Mons, and Gula Mons and Maat (Or Ma ‘at) Mons is where it's at For altitude, equatorwise. Up north, on Ishtar Terra, lies.

The Lakshmi Planum; right next door The Maxwell Montes upward soar And boast a lava peak whose crest Out-towers Earth's Mt. Everest.

Heights innocent of snow and ice And hikers seeking edelweiss, They rise through hellish murk and are Subsumed within the evening star.

John Updike

May 26, 2004 - 03:00 am
Farewell to Thee! But not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of Thee;
Within my heart they still shall dwell
And they shall cheer and comfort me.

Life seems more sweet that Thou didst live
And men more true that Thou wert one;
Nothing is lost that Thou didst give,
Nothing destroyed that Thou has done.

Anne Bronte

May 26, 2004 - 08:12 am
Good to see you here .....I miss everyone when they dont appear..worry they are well or just busy...take care and hope all is fine with you ..that is a lovely thoughtful poem...and good to remember ....Nothing is lost that Thou didst give, Nothing destroyed that Thou has done. Love those lines ..anna

May 27, 2004 - 10:27 am
Anna, I'm glad you wrote the memorial poem and shared it with us. I like reading your thoughts about Helen's brother and war. I wish there didn't have to be all this we are going thru- terrorist fears, Iraq concerns, who is truthful and who is not.

That Updike sure makes me smile.

May 27, 2004 - 11:30 am
Thanks so much for your post...he was such a handsome young man...looked like a young Danny Kaye...and while Helen had a older brother who disdained to recognize us and a young one who was a pest ..This one treated us gently and kind and always greeted me with a hello and welcome smile.. How could I , a short girl child with glasses and straight bobbed hair not be impressed and not fall in love with this young man???

His death marked me for it was the first time in my life someone young whom I knew and cared for died. And even as I write and remember I feel the lump in my throat and remembered pain. I hope his name is remembered when the WWII memorial is dedicated ...anna

May 27, 2004 - 11:33 am
This lady writes as I would write and here is one of her poems ..anna
When Death Comes 

Mary Oliver

When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut; when death comes like the measle pox;

when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering; what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth tending as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Malryn (Mal)
May 28, 2004 - 04:59 am
The Summer issue of the m.e.stubbs poetry journal is now on the web. Poets whose work appears in this issue are Vivienne Ledlie, Patricia Robinson-King, Beatriz Alba del Rio, James E. Fowler, Ward Kelley, John T. Baker, Elisha Porat, T. Ashok Chakravarthy, Ram Mehta, Emery L. Campbell, John Talbot Ross, and R. J. McCusker. Each poem is illustrated with fine art, graphics and watercolor paintings by Ann Dora Cantor. Poets in this issue come from all over the United States and as far away as Israel, India and Australia.

May 28, 2004 - 07:29 am
Anna: Thanks for the wonderful poems.

May 28, 2004 - 01:32 pm
There are so memories of this day ..From my Uncle Tommy's death from gassing in WWI to friends I lost in WWII and those who served all the rest Korea, Vietnam, The Gulf Wars and any number of difficult places not associated with a war but were dangerous and the ones that served and who paid the price. This not a poem per se but still I like the last line and want to share it with you.

Letter to a Wall by Racheline Maltese


I am a story teller. I came here to write about this place, but that is suddenly not what I am doing.

I cried here at your wall today, but I don't know a single person on it.Every time I see a name that reminds me of one I know, I twitch. I do know people who were there. I do know how easily things could be reversed. And I don't know what I'd do without these people. So, I guess I need to thank you for them.

I am only 21. I do not remember the war when it was happening. I did notlearn about it in school. To see these men and women with their shirts and flags shakes me. Seeing the things people have left here shakes me. A picture of Jimi Hendrix, a bottle of Seagrams 7, a pack of cigarettes have reduced me to tears.

I wonder if you watch us, if you see this. If you'd like to say thank you for these gifts. I wonder if we mourn for you or for ourselves.

I came here recently before dawn, and it was empty. The wind was knocking over your flowers, and squirrels were playing on top of your black ledge. I stood at the apex of a wall, I guess at the apex of a war; and it started to pour. I just stood there.

I live near here so I visit often now. Thank you for giving me something to understand...or to try to; these days, there is very little I understand. I can give you nothing but these words.

But I promise I'll bring my kids here one day, make them remember,make it somehow more than just another story.

From the VietNam Veterans' Memorial Wall Page

May 28, 2004 - 07:42 pm
Found it when packing, started reading anthology's instead of doing the job I was supposed to.


Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.

Poetry is a journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly the air.

Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.

Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.

Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.

Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.

Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.

Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during a moment.

May 28, 2004 - 10:19 pm
"Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during a moment" I love that.

May 30, 2004 - 10:16 am
I sure do like the Mary Oliver poem.

And the def of Poetry by Sandburg are great. Each line.

May 30, 2004 - 10:22 am
"Poems speak of the mortal condition; in poems we muse (as we say) about the tragic and glorious issues of our fragile and brief lives: our passions, our dreams, our failures. Our wonderings about heaven and hell -- these too are in poems. Life, death; mystery, and meaning. Five hundred years and more of such labor, such choice thought within choice expression, lies within the realm of metrical poetry. Without it, one is uneducated, and one is mentally poor."

I'm enjoying Googling her name.

May 31, 2004 - 03:46 am
Thanks for them all and I wouldnt be here if I didnt think poetry matters ..all of the definitions are certainly valid and thanks Anneo for posting them ...

A newer poet Dana Gaio ( and I hope that is spelled correctly) wrote a book called Does Poetry Matter? I bought the book and I wont go into detail or quote from it .since I cant locate it at this moment but he gave some very good reasons why it does..and all would be similiar to ones already posted.

In the past I have mentioned a scientific study that was completed last year that proved reading poetry and especially out loud was beneficial ..it lowered blood pressure and had an effect on the health and outlook of the readers. I love all poetry but am saddened that rhymed poetry is considered "old fashioned" and "out of date" and all those derogatory statements..because those are the ones I remember and can even recite from memory ...and I GO WAY BACK there ..

Like recalling the lyrics to the songs I learned years ago recalling poetry soothes me and freshens my memory and always makes me glad even if they are accompanied by tears.

Since I have spent my time watching the dedication of the WWII memorial and remembering those years and the people I knew who served I have no poem to share...but have had plenty of tears and deep appreciation for each who served. anna

May 31, 2004 - 06:47 am
In 1915, inspired by the poem "In Flanders Fields," Moina Michael replied with her own poem:

We cherish too, the Poppy red That grows on fields where valor led, It seems to signal to the skies That blood of heroes never dies.

She then conceived of an idea to wear red poppies on Memorial day in honor of those who died serving the nation during war. She was the first to wear one, and sold poppies to her friends and co-workers with the money going to benefit servicemen in need. Later a Madam Guerin from France was visiting the United States and learned of this new custom started by Ms.Michael and when she returned to France, made artificial red poppies to raise money for war orphaned children and widowed women. This tradition spread to other countries. In 1921, the Franco-American Children's League sold poppies nationally to benefit war orphans of France and Belgium. The League disbanded a year later and Madam Guerin approached the VFW for help. Shortly before Memorial Day in 1922 the VFW became the first veterans' organization to nationally sell poppies. Two years later their "Buddy" Poppy program was selling artificial poppies made by disabled veterans. In 1948 the US Post Office honored Ms Michael for her role in founding the National Poppy movement by issuing a red 3 cent postage stamp with her likeness on it.

May 31, 2004 - 06:55 am
Here is her whole poem from another website:

We Shall Keep the Faith by Moira Michael, November 1918

Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields, Sleep sweet - to rise anew! We caught the torch you threw And holding high, we keep the Faith With All who died.

We cherish, too, the poppy red That grows on fields where valor led; It seems to signal to the skies That blood of heroes never dies, But lends a lustre to the red Of the flower that blooms above the dead In Flanders Fields.

And now the Torch and Poppy Red We wear in honor of our dead. Fear not that ye have died for naught; We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought In Flanders Fields.

May 31, 2004 - 07:04 am
Thanks so much for that poem and the information regarding the Poppy Sales....by the way if you go to discussion on THE LAST ESCAPE Joan Pearson was at the dedication and shared some photos...I am sure she has posted other places as well but I dont want anyone to miss them...


May 31, 2004 - 07:17 am
Since I watched all of the dedication at the Memorial site I have worked on a poem about what I saw and felt...It is hard to capture the deepest feeling and I know there will be many poems about this and most far better than mine but I did want to share..anna

Watching the Dedication of the WWII Memorial  

How different it must be for all those gathered there A sunny day , no stormy clouds in sight A pristine monument , the band, the cheers The music ,, the speeches , the praise Deserved and still ...for the most they moved When at last were home Onward, away from sounds of war The bullets, the big guns roar, the smell Of blood and guts and flesh quickly bent on decay The awful fear, the hopes, the prayers To God or perhaps just to the sky The dreams of home and loved ones there That often quickly dissolved to nightmares Of never seeing them again ...never see The friend beside you or even worse, it Might be me ...who would lay down my life On this wrecked plain, or fall from heaven, Or sink beneath the sea and should it be so What would I want the rest of America to know ? Sometimes you have no choice Not if your own Freedom came at price. It is a toll that is owed To the future , to insure someday all the world Will know ..freedom of heart and soul. I feel among those present there is small gladness It wasn't "me" who was left behind Whose spirit lies in white crossed fields Still when I watch the faces and see the tears There is an emptiness inside for each person there A hurt and pain for those not there to sit beside and receive A country's praise, deserved thanks and accolades.

anna alexander © 5/31/04

May 31, 2004 - 08:25 am
Your newest work really touches my heart. It catches the soul and spirit of Memorial Day so well. I said it before and I'll say it again -- you are a true artist with a real genius for poetry.

Thanks so much for another beautiful, expressive poem.


May 31, 2004 - 06:53 pm
Anna a very tender and beautiful poem.

June 1, 2004 - 12:57 pm
The Beauty of Things: ~ Robinson Jeffers

To feel and speak the astonishing beauty of things - earth, stone and water,

Beast, man and woman, sun, moon and stars -

The blood-shot beauty of human nature, its thoughts, frenzies and passions,

And unhuman nature its towering reality -

For man's half dream; man, you might say, is anture dreaming, but rock

And water and sky are constant - to feel

Greatly, and understand greatly, and express greatly, the natural

Beauty, is the sole business of poetry.

The rest's diversion: those holy or noble sentiments, the intricate ideas,

The love, lust, longing: resons, but not the reason.(end poem)

Scrawler's thoughts:Some summer thoughts on a summer day!

June 1, 2004 - 01:12 pm
Fair Anna- your poem gave me goosebumps. I did not get to see the dedication. Not even PBS carried it and I don't have cable.

"to feel Greatly, and understand greatly, and express greatly, the natural Beauty, is the sole business of poetry" I like that Scrawler.

June 1, 2004 - 01:21 pm
Joan Pearson "---Last Escape: The Untold Story of Allied Prisoners of War in Europe, 1944-45 ~ John Nichol & Tony Rennell~ Book Club Online" 5/31/04 5:45am

She did a superb presentation.

June 1, 2004 - 08:46 pm
I appreciate your comments regarding my poem..and Scrawler I am glad you had summer thoughts :BEAUTY IS THE SOLE BUSINESS OF POETRY: that is a powerful statement ...I find poetry takes a lot of out of me..I never decide to write a poem THE POEM DEMANDS I WRITE IT...makes me see with new eyes and makes me feel ..sometimes it is beauty I see and sometimes it is pain I feel...and for me it is hard to move and go on.

Thanks Marjv for the link to Joans wonderful report of the dedication ceremony...it made my own memories stronger and it was written so well O felt I was there too. And of course her personal pictures ...a wonderful contribution to the whole expierence.

I am sharing a poem I memorized years ago ..at least the first verse. For some reason I thought it was written by a different poet and part of another poem..A search engine is a wonderful thing for I looked it up this evening and here is the whole poem...anna

What is So Rare As a Day in June 

AND what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For our couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, And hark! How clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now, Everything is upward striving; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, 'Tis for the natural way of living: Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake, And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. James Russell Lowell

June 3, 2004 - 10:45 am
Wanted a poem about summer and this is the one I found...enjoy anna

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day? (Sonnets XVIII) 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

-- William Shakespeare

June 3, 2004 - 05:35 pm
Well I love birds and have two feeders plus I also do ground feeding since the doves prefer it ..I truly like all birds..that is not the truth I am not fond of starlings..when they are draped on my trees they look like undertakers ..waiting for the bodies to drop. So when I read this poem I thought AH HA ...anna

To a Group of Starlings 

All day you’ve chased the nuthatch, the titmouse,

the purple finches in the trees, and now

you strut down the street like overgrown boys,

raccoon coats hiding your matchstick legs,

the sidewalk your grand runway, and you’re

boys on newspaper boxes, little drummers

playing buckets and pails, shoe-shine men calling,

hustlers, shiny watches, the old shell game.

Birds of midnight sheen, of oil and ink,

of trashcans in the alley, you’re

my hard-times bird, my hand’s shadow.

You swarm over the roofs like thought

before it falls, you shoot from the furnace

with the coming rain, dirty stars, faraway flames. Joelle Biele

June 4, 2004 - 05:50 am
I LOVE the starling poem. I'm with you -- they are the only birds I can't bring myself to love. this captures the mixed feelings I have about thm.

 you’re my hard-times bird, my hand’s shadow. You swarm over the roofs like thought before it falls, you shoot from the furnace with the coming rain, dirty stars, faraway flames. 


June 5, 2004 - 10:20 am
I am not sure if I did something wrong or
 if my computer is beind difficult but the last two posts are
 waaaaaaaay off center...hope it improves 
..I will restart my computer when I am back from shopping.
..I am glad you are like me JoanK ..they feed at my feeders,
 drape themselves often in my trees..
they look like ragged bits of cloth hanging there...
black shreds...
but I dont begruge them the food..
Actually that is not the truth but I 
wouldnt want you to think I dislike 
 any living thing...anna

June 6, 2004 - 11:04 am

Be strong! We are not here to play, to dream, to drift. We have hard work to do and loads to lift. Shun not the struggle, face it: 'tis God's gift.

Be strong! Say not the days are evil. Who's to blame? And fold the hands and acquiesce, O shame! Stand up, speak out and bravely, in God's name.

Be strong! It matters not how deep entrenched the wrong, How hard the battle goes, the day is long: Faint not, fight on! Tomorrow comes the song.

-- By Maltbie D. Babcock (poem carried by 2nd Lt. John Burkhalter who landed on Normandy Beach on June 6, 1944. John Burkhalter was an ordained pastor in the Southern Baptist Church when he enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1942.)

June 6, 2004 - 03:12 pm
I have stopped trying to read poetry, becuase this forum is double paged and impossible to handle, for some reason.Perhaps we should tell someone, it may be easily fixable.


June 7, 2004 - 04:08 am
Whatever is going on, Anna, you need to report it. What a pain to try to read .

June 7, 2004 - 08:02 am
I hope this won't inhibit this wonderful site.

I tried hitting enter TWICE when I want to end a line. It works, Hitting it once doesn't.

So if we hit enter twice at the end of each sentance, it should be readable til the problem is fixed.

June 7, 2004 - 11:52 am
Whispers of Immortality:

Webster was much possed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin; And breastless creatures under ground Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls Stared from teh sockets of the eye! He knew that thought clings round dead limbs Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, ws such another Who found no substitute for sense, To seize and clutch and penetrate; Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow The ague of the skeleton; No contact possible to flesh Allayed the fever of the bone

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye Is underlined for emphasis; Uncorseted, her friendly bust Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brzilian jaguar Compels the scamepring marmoset With subtle efuence of cat; Grishkin has a maisonnette;

The sleek Brazilian jaguar Does not in its arboreal gloom Distil so rank a feline smell As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even the Abstract Entities Circumambulate her charm; But our lot crawls between dry ribs To keep our metaphysics warm.

~ T. S. Eliot

Interesting imagery!

June 7, 2004 - 02:26 pm
The postings seem to be back to normal now. I tried to alert the webmaster about the problem, but only got a computer reply that said the webmaster button at the bottom of the page is no longer on line !

However I guess someone has got through to the powers that be, as things seem normal now. == Trevor

June 7, 2004 - 03:35 pm
For whatever reason I have no idea why this site was impossible to use..I posted elsewhere and there was no problem but I am pleased, nay OVERJOYED it has returned to normal...anna

June 7, 2004 - 03:41 pm
IN Memory of Ronald Reagan who was one of us..by that I mean he came from a family many came from and he looked beyond that alcoholic father and weary mother ..and never loved them less as far as I could tell. Whenever I think of death I think of Robert L Stevensons poem and here it is..anna
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) 

Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

June 8, 2004 - 01:33 pm
Anna- don't you have someone to contact about what is happening?

It still is being difficult. I"m sure it is the Senior Net program not anyone's computer.

June 9, 2004 - 06:22 pm
Do you mean to tell me there is still a problem...???mine is working fine now...is everyone having a problem? Let me know and I will email the webmaster or send an email to Marcie...anna

June 9, 2004 - 06:26 pm
Since there is so much about Ronald Reagan I have looked into some of my favorite poems regarding death ...Since in his last letter to the public he expressed somewhat the thoughts of this poem.

I am not being very good now since I am glued to the TV ..I figure at my age this may be the last Presidential Funeral I will see ...I am moved by the whole expierence ...anna
Christina Rossetti 

1830 - 94


When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply, I may remember, And haply may forget.

June 9, 2004 - 07:00 pm
Now Anna thanks, as is the poetry,


June 10, 2004 - 08:42 am
The Sea Gypsy

by Richard Hovey from Songs of Vagabondia, by Richard Hovey, Small, Maynard and Company

This is a classic example of the romanticism with which sea-wandering was viewed in popular culture.

I am fevered with the sunset, I am fretful with the bay, For the wander-thirst is on me And my soul is in Cathay.

There's a schooner in the offing, With her topsails shot with fire, And my heart has gone aboard her For the islands of Desire.

I must forth again to-morrow! With the sunset I must be Hull down on the trail of rapture In the wonder of the sea.

I just posted this in the Rubbish game as a topic for sailing. Pretty neat poem I think.

June 10, 2004 - 08:51 am
So good to see you both here. I hope your problem has been resolved ,I did check with Marcie as to where and to whom I should address a problem so if that is still needed please let me know.

Marj that is one of my all time favorite sea poems and thank you for that ...I am off to the library to get some books but will share another one of my favorite sea poems upon my return.

It is funny I grew up in the middle of the country and was 21 before I saw an ocean but I knew I would love it when I did and I did ..it pleases me to know that I am only about 25 miles from VA Beach but am really closer to the Atlantic ..perhaps only 10 miles...I dont like to go "in season" but when their are few people......and while I like to share it with others there is something about being alone on a beach that comforts me....thanks for the poem...I am off..anna

June 10, 2004 - 10:32 am
I have to laugh when I read this poem...it was one I memorized..or I should say it stuck in my mind. When I went to Europe years ago I refused air flight..we could do that then...there were many who said why would take 7 days to cross when you could do it in hours..this was the poem I quoted ....anna

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

John Masefield

June 10, 2004 - 11:07 am
Just a favorite of mine--- tells the heart's yearning for what it feels is soul deep.

June 10, 2004 - 12:49 pm

Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Noose give, Gas smells awful; You might as well live. ~ Dorthy Parker

She does have a point. Don't you think? I knew she was a great mystery writer, but I didn't realize she was also a poet.

June 10, 2004 - 01:13 pm
I never knew she was a mystery writer..In fact when I read her biography I found she wrote screen plays as well. But I have known her long for her witty acerbic poems...this one is called surprise but a lot of her poetry was a surprise to me..especially at the age I first read it..anna

Dorothy Parker - Surprise 

My heart went fluttering with fear Lest you should go, and leave me here To beat my breast and rock my head And stretch me sleepless on my bed. Ah, clear they see and true they say That one shall weep, and one shall stray For such is Love's unvarying law.... I never thought, I never saw That I should be the first to go; How pleasant that it happened so!

June 10, 2004 - 03:52 pm
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep browned Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold.
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific------and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Not at all sure why, but remembering Masefield, brought this to mind.


June 10, 2004 - 06:41 pm
At the service for Ronald Reagan in the rotunda, the chaplain of the House of Representatives, Rev. Daniel Coughlin, read a poem that had the phrase 'the wheel turns' in it several times. A newscaster said the poem was by T.S. Eliot.

Evidently the phrase is not the title nor the first line. Has anyone heard of this poem? How does one track it down? I tried but it's like looking for a needle in a haystack.

I loved the poem because of the reference to the turning of the wheel of life, death, and birth again.


June 10, 2004 - 08:36 pm
I don't think it's actually a poem... I think it's from his play, "Murder in the Cathedral," which was about Becket's murder, as I recall.

Let me see if I can find the actual quote.

EDIT: Here is something I found:

"TS Eliot's play, *Murder in the Cathedral*, deals with the killing of Thomas a Becket in a way that connects interestingly with the idea of "Roy-qui-ne-ment". The play supposes that Becket might have two very different motives for accepting death at the hands of the knights. He might do it because he perceives that his death will be viewed as a martyrdom, and he will gain an undying glory by his death... or he might do it because in the purity of his heart he must stand up for the Church against the King, asserting the primacy of the Kingdom of Heaven...

What makes the play so interesting is that fact that in either case he will die the same death -- indeed the Tempter who tempts him with the prospect of a glorious martyrdom, and the still small voice of conscience which prompts him to give his life in service to his Christ, speak the identical words:

You know and do not know, that action is suffering,
And suffering is action. Neither does the actor suffer
Nor the patient act. But both are fixed
In an eternal action, an eternal patience
To which all must consent that it may be willed
And which all must suffer that they may will it,
That the pattern may subsist, that the wheel may turn and still
Be forever still.

The difference, then, is not between two actions, nor even between the two different forms of words -- but only between two possible motives for those words and that action. For to go to his death in hope of martyrdom would be a "lie", in that it would involve him being unfaithful to his spiritual task, while to go to it in obedience to spiritual necessity would be a "truth", in that it would be the fruit of his faithfulness... "

June 11, 2004 - 12:23 am
I keep thinking in doing some recent research I came across a poem about a wheel turning...but now I am confused..did I read it in my search or recall it from the CC of the chaplains speech?

I too could not find it in the exact form I remembered...but I did find another poem I have always liked...anna

Alfred Lord Tennyson - Crossing The Bar 

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar.

June 11, 2004 - 03:51 pm
Thank you all again for the poems. As usual, I come here to find solice after a hectic few days.

I love the sea poems: I have always loved the sea, and never lived close to it. I, too, crossed the Atlantic by ship, rather than fly, but unfortunately the weather was so rough, we couldn't go on deck.

Zinnia: great to see you here. I read Eliots poem twice, and need to read it about ten more times. It is very zen, isn't it.

June 11, 2004 - 08:08 pm
Funny that is why I come here ...to share those poems that mean something to me and to read the poems that mean something to you who post.

Isnt it stange that every poem we share brings each of us a gift..of someones deepest thoughts and feelings and for the time we read it and think of it ..we too feel what they felt and know what they knew...I was looking for a poem..not a special poem or author but one that spoke to me and this is the one I found...anna

Mary Oliver - The Summer Day 

Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean-- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don't know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do With your one wild and precious life?

June 12, 2004 - 06:02 am
Oh, Anna~ that one by Mary Oliver is super. We have the one life---even the one minute while I'm typing this response.

Did you ever think while you were waiting by the microwave for something to warm- say for 55 seconds (which is what I use to warm my coffee) that that time is now gone forever?

June 12, 2004 - 06:31 am
I think of it all the time which is why I am determined to make the most of each moment. I feel such a sadness for those who waste thier minutes on hate and ugliness and never see the beauty of God's world and His people. How terrible it must be to reach death's door and realize your minutes are gone. You dont get another chance.

Somedays a line or title from a poem comes to me ...and today this poem was one that nudged me to look it up...with so much in the news about death..I guess that is what prompted my mind to recall and here it is...anna

 Death Be Not Proud 

by John Donne (1572-1631) DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so, For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then; One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

June 13, 2004 - 09:11 am
Morning Poem by Mary Oliver

Every morning the world is created. Under the orange

sticks of the sun the heaped ashes of the night turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches --- and the ponds appear like black cloth on which are painted islands

of summer lilies. If it is your nature to be happy you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination alighting everywhere. And if your spirit carries within it

the thorn that is heavier than lead --- if it's all you can do to keep on trudging ---

there is still somewhere deep within you a beast shouting that the earth is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies is a prayer heard and answered lavishly, every morning,

whether or not you have ever dared to be happy, whether or not you have ever dared to pray.

What an understanding of people and a gift for image Mary Oliver has- reminds me of an essence of Emily Dickinson- and so I came across this poem and like it. I have felt both ways she talks about.

June 13, 2004 - 09:41 pm
MARJ" I loved that poem. I googled Mary Oliver, and found "Wild Geese"


You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -- over and over announcing your place in the family of things.

June 14, 2004 - 01:50 am
Thanks so much for posting her poems ..I have never found one I didnt like.....Today is FLAG DAY ...June 14th and while I found a number of poems about it this is the one I chose...anna

The American Flag 

Joseph Rodman Drake

When freedom, from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle-bearer down And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land.

June 14, 2004 - 06:09 am
The Wild Geese is really a touching poem- deep down. A call to people to listen to each other I find in there.

June 14, 2004 - 08:11 am
There was a closing prayer about how Reagan's death would bring us to the Lord more clearly,.... dearly, ... we would be drawn to Him more nearly... anyone catch the whole text or where I could find it?

June 14, 2004 - 09:04 am
It's from the musical "Godspell" , the song "Day by Day".

[FREDRIC NIETZSCHE] Day by day Day by day Oh Dear Lord Three things I pray To see thee more clearly Love thee more dearly Follow thee more nearly Day by day


June 14, 2004 - 09:22 am
Thanks for the reply to Debrah ...That is not something I would know but my oldest daughter would have recognized it immediately ..when she lived at home she and her younger siblings were part of the local little theater group ( I made costumes ) and she sang in their production of Godspell and when I read the words I recall her doing that..she has been here for the weekend so I will tell her about the request and the reply ..thanks again ...anna

June 14, 2004 - 12:50 pm
God ~ Samuel Greenberg

I followed and breathed in silence.

What if its task is beheld?

My feeding thee has lent all

Which broke the current thread breeze

That kept the sprout of pregnant seas

Of weathered promising call.

The filing shades he only changes,

Tells the logos, its unearned dew

Not to feed, as if from cages,

His cloak that perfumes fragrant hew;

What of all the bulging mountains,

Sordid earth and rotting clays?

If then sense is suction fountains,

That same thought is but its ways.

June 15, 2004 - 04:09 am
This was a new poet to me...and was surprised to find he was only 23 when he died...makes you think ...what other poems he might have given us...anna

June 15, 2004 - 04:12 am
I really hate to hurry the seasons but when Summer is here I keep thinking the year is half over. Does that make me a pessimist? But I found a lovely summer poem by Amy Lowell and share it today..anna

 Amy Lowell  

Some men there are who find in nature all Their inspiration, hers the sympathy Which spurs them on to any great endeavor, To them the fields and woods are closest friends, And they hold dear communion with the hills; The voice of waters soothes them with its fall, And the great winds bring healing in their sound. To them a city is a prison house Where pent up human forces labour and strive, Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man; But where in winter they must live until Summer gives back the spaces of the hills. To me it is not so. I love the earth And all the gifts of her so lavish hand: Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds, Thick branches swaying in a winter storm, And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake; But more than these, and much, ah, how much more, I love the very human heart of man. Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky, Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake Lazily reflecting back the sun, And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns. The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops The green crest of the hill on which I sit; And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer, The very crown of nature's changing year When all her surging life is at its full. To me alone it is a time of pause, A void and silent space between two worlds, When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps, Gathering strength for efforts yet to come. For life alone is creator of life, And closest contact with the human world Is like a lantern shining in the night To light me to a knowledge of myself. I love the vivid life of winter months In constant intercourse with human minds, When every new experience is gain And on all sides we feel the great world's heart; The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!

June 16, 2004 - 08:01 am
From my little book of poems by Dana Gioia I share this poem. There are others but this one I keep returning to and think about ..anna


So much of what we live goes on inside– The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches Of unacknowledged love are no less real For having passed unsaid. What we conceal Is always more than what we dare confide. Think of the letters that we write our dead.

Dana Gioia

June 16, 2004 - 08:29 am
That is really an outstanding poem. Thanks Anna. Definite thought food there.

How often are people depressed because they conceal all this or that- or pay to have someone listen to them. Not much listening goes on in this busy world. Tho, another thought is that if we receive solace thru prayer with our confidences they may not need to be uttered. And sometimes they still need to be said for a healing. Rambling here.

June 16, 2004 - 08:33 am
I googled that poet- lots of interesting articles about him.

June 16, 2004 - 02:20 pm
Not sure if this is possible, but if any one has any Poems about the feelings and emotion one has when their life is changing around them, tucked away in their memory, would love to read them about now.I just mean that kind of directional thing where we are not sure what is coming next.


June 16, 2004 - 04:23 pm
I am sure there are ..I need to think of them ..for me my husbands death forced me to face the future and that is when I started writing poetry. I know there are many there but am not sure that is what you are looking for.

I do know one thing I discovered..if I were to survive I HAD TO MAKE NEW MEMORIES...or as I have often said to my family when to them I changed from Mom to a person they werent sure about...If I DONT MAKE NEW MEMORIES THE OLD ONES WILL DESTROY ME...and that is the truest thing I ever recognized...let me think and of course other readers may have something in mind immediately ...let me know if what I have written resonates with you ....anna

June 16, 2004 - 06:26 pm
New Life  
by Paul Bodet 

I've been sitting around this life for years, Not enough laughs and too many tears. Trying to figure out where it all went, These wasted years that I have spent.

Searching for something to go beyond, Life's a stone skipping across a pond. At the last skip, it hits with a splash, Down the stone sinks, gone in a flash.

Pushing and pulling, it's tearing apart, Poking and prodding an underused heart. This dark velvet curtain that hides my soul, Living this life has taken it's toll.

In a flash of bright light, the curtain is torn, Tumbling down all tattered and worn. Revealing new life, a child within, Born free of hate, of suffering and sin.

Now my eyes see what has never been told, Striving forth happy, confident and bold. Into a world that's unfamiliar but friendly, Into this new life my spirit will send me.

Living and laughing, loving it all, I stood myself up and answered the call. The darkness has gone, replaced by the light, I gave up the darkness with hardly a fight.

I've been sitting around this life for years, With laughter aplenty and hardly a tear. Now I can see just where it all went, Cherish every moment of this new life I've spent.

June 16, 2004 - 06:32 pm
by Tina K

I must go back to my tree again, To that lovely tree where I cried. And all I ask is a whispering breeze And a serene cerulean sky.

And the rustle of leaves, and the creak of the boughs, And the grit that clings to the bark; And the grooves of ancient forget- me- nots The tinder for memory's spark.

To rest once again in utter peace In those gnarled and knotted limbs, To drift in blissful transcendence And to make my peace with Him.

This would be a better poem, I think if all the "ands" were removed. I'm sorry... I can't help thinking like an English teacher.

June 16, 2004 - 06:42 pm
by Bobi

If I can endure for this moment, whatever is happening to me. No matter how heavy my heart, or how dark the moment may be. If I can but keep on believing, what I know in my heart to be true. Then darkness will fade into morning, and with this dawn a new day, too.

That one was pretty good for a short poem, except it lost the meter in the last line, and I think it needed some semi-colons instead of full stops. These are not poems from anyone I know. I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that Annafair can write something quite marvelous that will just fit the bill!

June 16, 2004 - 07:15 pm
Those are so perfect....and thank you for posting them. I know anneo will appreciate it ..when one feels a need for that kind of poem it is such a relief to find one ...we all have these little achy spots and for me a poem that reaches them ...soothes them, calms them is a gift ...anna

June 16, 2004 - 07:18 pm
Here is one that I suspect was written specifically for Anneo, even if the author didn't know it at the time. Written by an Aussie to boot! The line spacing is the poet's.

New Beginning  
© Debbie C Hunt, Victoria, Australia, April 28, 2004 

See the beauty Feel the softness Smell the sweetness Hear the harmony Taste the freedom.

Make up your own ending.

Envisage the new beginning.

Imagine Heaven... Like only you can.

Here is a link to the poem. http://www.schools.ash.org.au/herberton/bushscene/poetry2004/2004newbeginning.htm

I think this was probably written by a teenager, which is also very appropriate for Anneo, considering all the young people she has mothered, sheltered, and guided during the past ten years at the Youth Hostel. For anyone who doezsn't know it, Anneo and George and the hostel were featured in SeniorNet's annual report last year and I'll go and find a link if I can.

EDIT: Here it is - http://www.seniornet.org/php/default.php?PageID=7286


"BushScene is an International Teen Magazine developed by the students and staff of Herberton State School Secondary Department, Far North Queensland, Australia. We invite young people around the world to contribute items to existing pages so that we can provide a truly world wide perspective."

June 16, 2004 - 07:31 pm
And like you I have looked for a poem as well...I am impressed if that was written by a teen ager ....

searching for something special for anneo and found a poem that seemed to say POST THIS ONE FOR ANNEO..and here it is ..anna
 Across the Fields to Anne  

By Richard Burton

HOW often in the summer-tide, His graver business set aside Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed, As to the pipe of Pan, Stepped blithesomely with lover’s pride Across the fields to Anne.

It must have been a merry mile, This summer stroll by hedge and stile, With sweet foreknowledge all the while How sure the pathway ran To dear delights of kiss and smile, Across the fields to Anne.

The silly sheep that graze to-day, I wot, they let him go his way, Nor once looked up, as who should say: “It is a seemly man.” For many lads went wooing aye Across the fields to Anne.

The oaks, they have a wiser look; Mayhap they whispered to the brook: “The world by him shall yet be shook, It is in nature’s plan; Though now he fleets like any rook Across the fields to Anne.”

And I am sure, that on some hour Coquetting soft ’twixt sun and shower, He stooped and broke a daisy-flower With heart of tiny span, And bore it as a lover’s dower Across the fields to Anne.

While from her cottage garden-bed She plucked a jasmine’s goodlihede, To scent his jerkin’s brown instead; Now since that love began, What luckier swain than he who sped Across the fields to Anne?

The winding path whereon I pace, The hedgerow’s green, the summer’s grace, Are still before me face to face; Methinks I almost can Turn poet and join the singing race Across the fields to Anne!

June 16, 2004 - 10:03 pm
Listen you pair, you are meant to be cheering me on my way, not reducing me to tears. They are simply beautiful, and will print them off and keep them for the time I am waiting for telstra to hook up our landline. Thanks, with love and gratitude.


June 17, 2004 - 10:51 am

Each day's a new beginning, We sail an unknown course, But if we trust the Master And seek Him as our source, He'll guide our ship of hours As we strive to chart our way, And we'll feel a reassurance That will comfort all the day. For when we ask our Father To help us at day's end, He'll strengthen and sustain us With love to overwhelm.

Virginia Borman Grimmer

June 17, 2004 - 11:12 am
Here is a good place to search poetry by title, subject, author, words you remember, etc. http://www.poetryconnection.net/search.php

Amy Lowell - A Coloured Print by Shokei

It winds along the face of a cliff This path which I long to explore, And over it dashes a waterfall, And the air is full of the roar And the thunderous voice of waters which sweep In a silver torrent over some steep. It clears the path with a mighty bound And tumbles below and away, And the trees and the bushes which grow in the rocks Are wet with its jewelled spray; The air is misty and heavy with sound, And small, wet wildflowers star the ground. Oh! The dampness is very good to smell, And the path is soft to tread, And beyond the fall it winds up and on, While little streamlets thread Their own meandering way down the hill Each singing its own little song, until I forget that 't is only a pictured path, And I hear the water and wind, And look through the mist, and strain my eyes To see what there is behind; For it must lead to a happy land, This little path by a waterfall spanned.

June 17, 2004 - 03:02 pm
Those are fantastic....each one for Anneo- I need them also it seems. Thanks.

June 17, 2004 - 03:17 pm
I'm not going to give it away but you ain't seen NUTTIN' yet! I am fair to bursting with anticipation of a posting. C'mon, mystery person, POST!!! We all neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed your post!

Please? Please? Pretty please with sugar on it?

June 17, 2004 - 04:46 pm
Had a long chat with Zinnia this afternoon..so long she may have to have the phone excised from her ear..How patient she was.. and I read a poem I have written for anneo ..and here it is ..BTW in spite of Zinnia's enthusiasm I think all of the poems posted are wonderful and dont truly feel mine is in the same category but it is from the heart to anneo..anna
Needing a new song 

Oh help me, I need a new song. The old one served me well and long, Still it is time I move along To other places, other faces., A new home pale in color Pink the artist would say. And it will be a new life for me. I regretfully leave behind The old one, It was fair And I will always miss it there. But now I need a new song, A verse to sing while I grow new wings, A melody to lift my heart, To challenge me to new start. The old one will still be there, Cherished, kept intact , I will Place it in a camphor box, All lined with silk and seeded pearls. And when my new song is complete, Each word and phrase etched on my heart, Some cold and chilly winter day Before a roaring flame to keep me warm, I will curl up on a sofa there. Bring out my camphor box, Open the lid and invite the old song To come out, to join me where I can sing each sweet remembered note. The past glories of my old song will float In my new home and I will smile, And a sweet memory will reveal How blessed I am to have had you both, My old song and now my new. Blended now in one sweet refrain . Thank you life for giving me All these warm and blessed memories.......

anna alexander June 17, 2004© Just for anneo

June 17, 2004 - 04:55 pm
How wonderful/ Anno is indeed blessed to have a friend like you.

June 17, 2004 - 07:02 pm
Now you can all understand why I was near to dampening my bloomers waiting for Anna to post that poem! I knew her brain would kick in and she would write something marvelous and I just wish I had one-tenth of her talent. I think she wrote that poem yesterday and she called me this morning and read it to me and I just cried like mad.

Anna, thank you so much for that beautiful poem. You are far, far too modest because your poetry is exquisite. As I said in a later email, if you are channeling as someone suggested, I think you must be channeling William Butler Yeats. And BTW, did you know that Anneo is also of Irish extraction, so that also probably resonates?

I hope she gets back here before they are completely moved and have no phone or online for a bit!

June 18, 2004 - 12:55 am
Thanks seem somehow inadequate. I think you understimate your talent, but then the genuinely talented usually do, that way they strive for perfection.

It never ceases to amaze, how through this wonderful site we are so often, offered friendship and solace. My heart has a new lighter beat today, somehow I know we will be okay. Thanks to you all, and hopefully Telstra will get us back on air before too long, or else I shall feel I am no longer entirely whole.


June 18, 2004 - 07:57 am
Anna! That is most beautiful. And so real and full of love.

And so are you the mysterious one that Zinnia was talking about???? I din't quite know what she was getting at.


June 18, 2004 - 09:19 am
Yes, Anna was the Mystery Person. I couldn't say her name or everyone would have guessed what I was hinting at.

June 18, 2004 - 10:23 pm
A little poem by Walter de la Mare. He seems to have been attracted by the sibilants, like those used in that fragment from Shakespeare, " This emerald Isle, set in a silver sea."


Slowly, silently, now the moon
walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silver thatch;
Couched in his kennel., like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and a silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.


June 19, 2004 - 03:20 am
You have chosen one of my very favorites...I have even been working on a poem about both the poet and this poem. My poem to be starts by saying "I think I have been affected by the poet de la mare for when I see the moon turn silver my back yard" -----I have a few more lines but that is the beginning..

While we are sweltering with heat and humidity how are you doing there? We become so insular thinking every place must be the same.I think I need a poem about WINTER!!! Would the thought of cold make me feel cool? Could hope so anyway !!! anna

June 19, 2004 - 07:55 am
This is a poem by Helen Steiner Rice ...anna

It's So Nice To Have A Dad Around The House 
  by: Helen Steiner Rice, 


DADS are special people No home should be without, For every family will agree They're 'SO NICE TO HAVE ABOUT' - They are a happy mixture Of a 'SMALL BOY' and a 'MAN' And they're very necessary In every 'FAMILY PLAN' - Sometimes they're most demanding And stern, and firm and tough But underneath they're 'soft as silk' For this is just a 'BLUFF' - But in any kind of trouble Dad reaches out his hand. And you can always count on him To help and understand - And while we do not praise Dad as often as we should, We love him and admire him, And while that's understood, It's only fair to emphasise His importance and his worth - For if there were no loving Dads This would be a 'LOVELESS EARTH'.

June 19, 2004 - 02:23 pm
de la Mare's poem is great to read along- it will be fun to see what you finish about that one, Anna.

We had a total weather change- what a wonderful relief from the heat and humidity. Dry clear air. 70s.

June 19, 2004 - 02:28 pm
For Anna-

First snow falling on the half-finished bridge.

June 19, 2004 - 06:42 pm
That brought a chuckle ......I love snow ..for about a day ...now if scientists can come up with a way for the streets and sidewalks to stay clear I would love it even more.

I have written several poems about snow...not always in praise I must confess..but I do like to see the world in a snowy dress!


June 19, 2004 - 06:49 pm
I love seeing Basho here. My favorite of his winter poems:

Winter storm 
In a world of one color 
The sound of wind

June 19, 2004 - 07:47 pm
My first word when I read that was a sighed OH YESSS....absolutely perfect...........thanks anna

June 19, 2004 - 09:42 pm
ANNA It is winter here as you say. But so far in Auckland it has been a remarkably mild one. It's not that maximum temps have been high ( 60-65 F ) but the nighttime minimums don't fall below 50F. No chance of frosts around here, and lawns and hedges keep growing like mad, darn it.

Way down south, the mountains are having snow storms, and on the slopes, the ski fraternity is having a good season. == Trevor

June 20, 2004 - 01:19 pm
Every day was his day,...anna

Fathers Day 

My father died when I was twenty-one More years ago than I care to remember Still the woman I am today is who She is because of what he stood for.

Tolerance I learned from him Never to judge someone by skin Color, or ethnic background Or any of a hundred things We use as criteria to determine Who we choose for friends

We had a comfortable living Earned by his efforts and desire To give us the best he could. Yet it was what he gave us On quiet summer evenings Sitting on the green vined porch The soft answers to our questions The condemnation for anything Mean or hurtful The gruff, loving care he showed us In all he did. The fair way he treated Us. The love he held for our mother, His mother, and family members. He taught me to be myself To be a leader, and not a follower To take responsibility for my behavior He reminded us to be lenient in our Dealings with others and to be strict With our dealings with ourselves He trusted us to be the best in whatever we did Encouraged our dreams Woke us on a hot summer’s eve to Eat ice cream he carried home On the bus. Greeted us at the breakfast table on A winters day with fresh doughnuts From the bakery near his bus stop This may not be a poem but it is truth About a man who taught me what to Look for in the man I married So he too would be a Father Not just the man Mother married. anna alexander 5/19/1997 all right reserved

June 21, 2004 - 08:53 am
ANNA: how like my father: you bring him back to me. I was lucky to have him longer than you did, but something has been missing from my world since he left. Even after all these years, I still hear him chuckling at something funny, looking at me quietly when I am less than my best, smiling when I do better.

June 21, 2004 - 10:54 am
What a lovely tribute to your father! It really touched my heart as I remembered my own. Papa was the same in many ways, different in others, flawed as we all are, and yet perfect in my memories. I tried to spend the day with happy memories of him and succeeded pretty well, but I cried about him this morning as I remembered how he held my hand everywhere we went on the day he died. My daughter was telling me how her in-law grandpa also is not a physically demonstrative person and yet suffers willingly her hugs and it reminded me of my dad. He acted stiff and embarrassed and yet if I seemed to forget, he would kind of sidle and lean... LOLOL!!! SO holding my hand that day was a major event and one that comforts me a lot.

Hugs and thanks,


June 22, 2004 - 03:43 am
If my poem in honor of my father gave you the gift of remembering yours I am pleased in a special way. Fathers are different then mothers..you will smile at that but I have seen they often feel awkward especially dealing with daughters. As a rule they are so much larger and strong so a daughter seems fragile and they fear to treat her like they would a son. My father was a gentle man but it was when I was ill he would show his tenderest side..Childhood diseases then were so severe it caused parents to fear and so when they came to me ..my father spoke soft words and gave me his worried and caring looks...his reassuring words comforted me and let me feel I would recover and be all right...I think of him often ..and always with a grateful thought...21 was too young to see him go but I had him when it was most important ......the years when I was a child..anna

June 22, 2004 - 03:47 am
I hope you like this one...my son inadvertantly mowed some lilies down that came up in a otherwise weedy spot. He thought they were weeds ..so I will have to dig the bulbs and plant them elsewhere..this poem resonated with me ..anna
Rose Pogonias 

A Saturated meadow, Sun-shaped and jewel-small, A circle scarcely wider Than the trees around were tall; Where winds were quite excluded, And the air was stifling sweet With the breath of many flowers,-- A temple of the heat.

There we bowed us in the burning, As the sun's right worship is, To pick where none could miss them A thousand orchises; For though the grass was scattered, Yet every second spear Seemed tipped with wings of color, That tinged the atmosphere.

We raised a simple prayer Before we left the spot, That in the general mowing That place might be forgot; Or if not all so favored, Obtain such grace of hours, That none should mow the grass there While so confused with flowers.

Robert Frost

June 23, 2004 - 09:41 am
Truly amazing. Found it on ABC news website. He died today.

Making Real Sense of the Senses

Our eyes are for looking at things, But they are also for crying When we are very happy or very sad. Our eyes are for listening. But so are our hearts. Our noses are for smelling food But also the wind and the grass and If we try very hard, butterflies. Our hands are for feeling. But also for hugging and touching so gently. Our mouths and tongues are for tasting. But also for saying words, like "I love you," and "Thank you God, for all of these things."

Excerpted from Heartsongs, by Mattie J.T. Stepanek, Copyright © Sept. 2001. Published by VSP Books/Hyperion

June 23, 2004 - 11:11 am
I just cried when I heard last night that he died. I saw him on Oprah a long time ago and I have that book. He was such a courageous little guy and gave so much in the midst of his suffering. The loss is a terrible one, but I'm so glad his suffering has finally ended.

June 23, 2004 - 12:57 pm
What a little guy he was. Good Morning America showed part of an intnerview with him this morning. A special gift to this world

June 23, 2004 - 01:39 pm
If you like my poems let them
walk in the evening,a little behind you

then people will say
"Along this road i saw a princess pass
on her way to meet her lover(it was
toward nightfall)with tall and ignorant servants."

E.E. Cummings


June 24, 2004 - 01:12 pm
Here are 3 spring & summer poems I wrote - enjoy

spring breeze brought moment of sunlight to the hidden fern ~ Anne M. Ogle

light mist around us a faint green where the maple was ~ Anne M. Ogle

at the edge of the aluminum flower pot Monarch butterfly fanning ~ Anne M. Ogle

June 25, 2004 - 02:41 pm
Anneo is moving and will be off the internet until she is hooked up ..and Scrawler thank you so much for you poems. I loved each one and they were so vivid you could see the picture your words painted .

I have nothing right now to share I am in between severe Tstorms forecast, the storms themselves and adjusting to a new computer. We had two go through today and have more to the West which are expected in about an hour..gotta go thunder again..BBL anna

June 25, 2004 - 02:45 pm
Scrawler Anne---thanks bunches. I like those very very very much.

Absolute essence of Haiku. I sent them to Kitty.

A wonderful Friday smile.

June 25, 2004 - 08:02 pm
Lovely, Anne. Thank you.

June 26, 2004 - 08:28 am
It would seem we are in for some nice weather ..no Tstorms ..but it is summer and I am sure they will come again. Nice to have a breather though and pre-computers I loved a summer Tstorm...how we change. I have a small book of poems by John Updike and will share some of his poetry for several posts..They all give you something to think about...

Saying Goodbye to Very Young Children

They will not be the same next time. The sayings So cute, just slightly off,will be corrected. Their eyes will be more skeptical, plugged in the more securely to the worldly buzz of television, alphabet, and street talk, culture polluting their gazes'dawn blue. It makes you see at last the value of those boring aunts and neighbors (their smells of summer sweat and cigarettes, their faces like shapes of sky between shade-giving leaves) who knew you from the start, when you were zero, cooing their nothings before you could be bored or knew a name, not even your own, or how this world brave with hellos turns all goodbye.

John Updike

June 26, 2004 - 10:49 am
Oh, excellant!

June 27, 2004 - 09:54 am
The poet in him has chosen bits and pieces of America. He is not always kind so please remember that when I post some of his works. It is his view of his expierences and for me some of them are reminders of things I no longer see. The following one reminded me of when I was first married and vistied my husband's family at Christmas. From the midwest with coal furnaces and heat registers I found a home with a furnace that heated water, changed to steam and warmed the house through upright coiled radiators. A wonderful place to sit for a minute when returning from a frigid outdoors, a perfect place to allow a bowl of bread dough to rise...here is Mr Updike's poem .anna



Not theirs the stoves inflammatory drama, or the refrigerator's frosty glamour, or the trim glazed hauteur of window frames, but the warmth of the fire, we feel on our knuckles a kiss of heat like a dog's nudge, and remember that the room lulls our blood not my accident but by basement-base thermodynamic plan.

With their thick fins and many spines these cast iron soldiers stant at attention in the least obstrusive corners, like museum guards, sleepy and dull, in rooms of glowing treasure- ourselves. Their weeping, whistling valves declare a love of us that makes them throb and simmer: they call out for our praise for their fidelity, but are, cobwebbed untouchables, ignored.

John Updike

June 27, 2004 - 07:55 pm
This reminds me of the steam radiators when I was a child. I, too, ignored them, although I've often missed them since. My "modern" heating system is not nearly as good.

My strongest radiator memory: my mother insisted that I eat an egg every morning for breakfast. I hated them. One day I got a brilliant idea (I thought). When she was out of the room, I would quickly hide my egg behind the radiator.

This worked beautifully until one day, when my mother said she was having a repairman come in. "There's an awful smell coming from the diningroom radiator: I think a mouse must have died back there". "Can I spend the day at my friends?" I asked, and hightailed it out of there. She never figured out what that "strange mess" in the radiator was, but I wound up eating my eggs after that.

June 27, 2004 - 08:05 pm
One of the proposed books for August is "The Wasteland" by TS Eliot with Deems as the leader. Any of you interested? I've never read poetry in this way, and am going to try it.

June 27, 2004 - 08:13 pm
OH my that is funny, OUr youngest son hated brussel sprouts but we had a rule at the table ..YOU HAD TO TAKE TWO BITES of a food.. and if yuo didnt like it you didnt have to eat any more (at least that time) he was just a little fellow then ..and when I was getting ready to do laundry I found these odd lumps..dried chewed brussel sprouts..It was so funny and we never told him about it ,,just never insisted he eat them.Now that he has a little boy who pulls some of the same tricks I share the stories with him...anna Re The Wasteland For me I think not...I have already made some committments and dont have room on my plate for more..but will check in..enjoy and feel free to share here..anna

June 28, 2004 - 07:22 am

Religeous Consolation

One size fits all. The shape or coloration of the god or high heaven matters less than that there is one, somehow, somewhere. hearing the hasty prayer and chalking up the mite the widow brings to the temple. A child alone with awful verities cries out for there to be a limit, a warm wall whose stones give back an answer, however faint.

Strange, the extravagance of it-who needs those eighteen-armed black Kalis, those musty saints whose bones and bleeding wounds appall good taste; those joss sticks, houris, gilded Buddhas, books Moroni etched in tedious detail? We do, we need more worlds. This one will fail.

John Updike

June 29, 2004 - 07:05 pm
the newspaper is listing the places where there will be a fireworks display on the 4th ..and I thought of this poem..anna

Concord Hymn 
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sung at the completion of the battle monument on April 19, 1836

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set today a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

June 29, 2004 - 07:16 pm
Just want to let you know that I had an email from Anneo, sent from the library there in Quilpie. She's still working hard to get the cable, or even a tentative commitment, but no luck yet. And now even the library is closing until the 9th for relocation, so she will be absolutely out of contact. She says it's freezing there in the mornings now but warms up nicely in the daytime.

The move is over and now they are getting organized at the new house, and both feeling happy and content. It's always nice to have the actual move overwith and to just be able to work on setting up house and getting used to a new location and a new lifestyle.

She asked that I pass this news on to her friends here.



June 29, 2004 - 07:19 pm
Glad to hear that, Karen. We miss her.

June 29, 2004 - 08:00 pm
I am so relieved they have completed the move..That is the most daunting and now they can take their time to settle in. How disappointing to have another delay in getting their land line in..and the library closing as well!! Goodness..I will keep them in my thoughts and send them warm ones to help hold back the chill..

Thanks again..and You take care of you!! Love..anna

June 30, 2004 - 05:53 am
Updike is such an interesting poet, Anna. Love the one about radiators. Rather whimsical.

July 1, 2004 - 03:54 am
When I am researching a poem I find another one that speaks to me..that is what happened today..by the way I have had a lot of Tstorms which have kept me away...anna enjoy the poem

At Night

Amy Lowell

The wind is singing through the trees to-night, A deep-voiced song of rushing cadences And crashing intervals. No summer breeze Is this, though hot July is at its height, Gone is her gentler music; with delight She listens to this booming like the seas, These elemental, loud necessities Which call to her to answer their swift might. Above the tossing trees shines down a star, Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous joy Quickens nor dims its splendour. And my mind, O Star! is filled with your white light, from far, So suffer me this one night to enjoy The freedom of the onward sweeping wind.

July 1, 2004 - 09:45 am
That is just lovely.

July 1, 2004 - 03:24 pm
That is great. Stormy winds have their music.

July 1, 2004 - 03:59 pm
John Hollander's poem "Sparklers" celebrates fireworks on a grand scale, on a national scale, and also by the end of the poem on an intimate scale.

Oh, say can you see how our old ten and two and one Our thirteen starters twinkling, an original star Flared up, a July fourth supernova, (memory Watching starry rockets now in grandstands, or along Chilly beaches) Can you see how then it exploded Westward, southward, urging the hegemony of light On hills of high, darkened cloud, unwilling plains, milky Rivers and one-candled mountain-cabins of the night? Democracy which closes the past against us (said Tocqueville) opens the future up: but as you sit here With me on the high rocks at Cape Eleutheria, Truthful in your shawl, all the light that ever was shines In your eyes, later to burn off tomorrow's blankness.

July 2, 2004 - 07:31 pm
Oh Gosh yes that is a wonderul poem ..a new poet as well..I love the thoughts . the pictures he paints and most of all I love the last lines ..now if someone wrote that to me I could forgive them any sins they might have...anna

July 2, 2004 - 07:50 pm
and found this ..hope you enjoy it sometimes you just find jewel when you are'nt looking ... ..anna

Carl Sandburg - Good-night 

MANY ways to spell good night.

Fireworks at a pier on the Fourth of July spell it with red wheels and yellow spokes.

They fizz in the air, touch the water and quit. Rockets make a trajectory of gold-and-blue and then go out.

Railroad trains at night spell with a smokestack mushrooming a white pillar.

Steamboats turn a curve in the Mississippi crying in a baritone that crosses lowland cottonfields to a razorback hill. It is easy to spell good night.

Many ways to spell good night.

July 2, 2004 - 08:14 pm
The American Flag

Joseph Rodman Drake

When freedom, from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle-bearer down And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land.

Visit this site if you’d like to see more patriotic poems: http://www.twilightbridge.com/hobbies/festivals/independence/poetry.htm Some nice ones there!

July 3, 2004 - 04:13 am
I almost posted that poem...but chose this one because I liked it too..Morning has always been my favorite time of day and I like to rise early while it is still quiet, before the day truly begins..so I chose this poem.....hope you enjoy anna

Inward Morning  
Henry David Thoreau 

Packed in my mind lie all the clothes Which outward nature wears, And in its fashion's hourly change It all things else repairs. In vain I look for change abroad, And can no difference find, Till some new ray of peace uncalled Illumes my inmost mind.

What is it gilds the trees and clouds, And paints the heavens so gay, But yonder fast-abiding light With its unchanging ray?

Lo, when the sun streams through the wood, Upon a winter's morn, Where'er his silent beams intrude, The murky night is gone.

How could the patient pine have known The morning breeze would come, Or humble flowers anticipate The insect's noonday hum--

Till the new light with morning cheer From far streamed through the aisles, And nimbly told the forest trees For many stretching miles?

I've heard within my inmost soul Such cheerful morning news, In the horizon of my mind Have seen such orient hues,

As in the twilight of the dawn, When the first birds awake, Are heard within some silent wood, Where they the small twigs break,

Or in the eastern skies are seen, Before the sun appears, The harbingers of summer heats Which from afar he bears.

July 3, 2004 - 05:16 am
I too enjoy the mornings. There is a wonderful kind of beauty.

July 3, 2004 - 09:08 pm


4th !


July !

July 3, 2004 - 09:16 pm
thanks for that wonderful greeting I have yet to learn how to do that......I found myself singing today and this is what I sang...be glad there is no voice with this as I am really not a singer !!!!!Sing along with me...anna
It's a grand ole flag  
It's a high flying flag  
Forever in peace may it wave  
The emblem of the land I love  
The home of the free and the brave 
Every heart beats true  
Under the red,white and blue  
Where there  is never a boast or a brag // 

Should auld acquaintence be forgot ? Keep your eye on the grand ole flag!

George M Cohan

July 3, 2004 - 10:48 pm
I'm singing right along. There were tons of fireworks on the reservation tonight. I could hear them but not see them and it broke my little ol' heart not to be able to get there. I love fireworks and I really love the 4th of July. But maybe I'll get a chance tomorrow night because they have them for three or four nights usually.

July 4, 2004 - 05:02 am
Now you can have the music to sing along with


Lots of the classics in music......... http://members.tripod.com/~rosemck1/jukebox-patriotic.html

July 4, 2004 - 07:18 am
Loved that link..and especially the showing of the different flags that have been flown..I have a replica of the 76 flag My BIL worked on the Bicetntennial Commission and sent us one. It was embroidered and lovely. I hesitate to fly it since it seems there is always someone even in a nice neighborhood like ours removing flags or other outside things...

ZINNIA I too LOVE fireworks..I miss the ones from the past when every nieghbor would do a small display...we would sit on the front porch and watch for at least an hour each 4th there was never a problem until someone shot off Roman Candles and one of the balls hit a roof and set it afire..It was put out quickly but the next year NO ONE SHOT OFF ROMAN CANDLES! hugs ..anna

July 4, 2004 - 11:17 am
Thanks so much for the music. I've been playing it and tapping my feet.

My fourth of July plans are rained out. We usually go to the field behind my neighbors house, where all the neighbors gather and watch the city fireworks several miles away. Not as grand as the display downtown at the Washington Monument, but a lot homier.

July 4, 2004 - 11:25 am
Here is another favorite I didn't see on the other site: (I can't get the music, maybe you can)


July 4, 2004 - 01:57 pm
Pitcher ~Robert Francis

His art is eccentricity, his aim

How not to hit the mark he seems to aim at,

His passion how to avoid the obvious,

His technique how to vary the avoidance.

The others throw to be comprehended. He

Throws to be a moment misunderstood.

Yet not to much. Not errant, arrant, wild,

But every seeming aberration willed.

Not to, yet still, still to communicate

Making the batter understand too late

Perhaps on this 4th of July you'll take in a baseball game and watch the pitcher "communicte(d)/making the batter understand too late". Have a safe and happy 4th of July.

July 5, 2004 - 01:40 pm
I found this poem under something called moving poems ..these are poems published on buses to be read by passengers and passerbys. Google showed this and two others used in July 1999 ..enjoy , anna
In Sleep 
Under moonlight 
the valley opens calmly 
to the sea pushing back, pushing back, 
unaccountably gentle, 
digging at the gravelly beach, and, 
under moonlight, 
to the shallow shoveling of your breathing 
in, in sleep, 
and out at the night.

David McAleavey

David McAleavey teaches English at George Washington University and is the author of four books of poetry, most recently Holding Obsidian (Washington Writers Publishing House, 1985). He has edited an anthology of Washington writers, Evidence of Community (GW University, 1984), and a collection of essays, Washington and Washington Writers (GW, 1986).

July 5, 2004 - 07:37 pm
Interesting, especially since I went to George Washington University (50 years ago). I'll look for his books.

July 6, 2004 - 05:30 am
Tell us what you find Please...While I have books of poetry all round me ..there are four cluttering my computer desk this minute I still love to google and find someone new , at least to me..here is one I found today..anna
Sonnet: At Ostend, July 22nd 1787  
by William Lisle Bowles

How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal! As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, So piercing to my heart their force I feel! And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall, And now, along the white and level tide, They fling their melancholy music wide, Bidding me many a tender thought recall Of summer-days, and those delightful years When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, The mournful magic of their mingling chime First waked my wond'ring childhood into tears; - But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy, once heard, and heard no more.

July 7, 2004 - 05:20 am
This morning I opened a book of poems...it is titled Americans' Favorite Poems ..edited by Robert Pinsky and Maggie Dietz ...People shared the poems that meant something to them..This poem was offered by an 18 year old student...and I offer it to you. anna

The Echoing Green 
William Blake 1757-1827 
From Songs of Innocence

The sun does arise, And make happy the skies; The merry bells ring To welcome the Spring; The skylark and thrush, The birds of the bush, Sing louder around To the bells' cheerful sound; While our sports shall be seen On the echoing green.

Old John, with white hair, Does laugh away care, Sitting under the oak, Among the old folk. They laugh at our play, And soon they all say, 'Such, such were the joys When we all -- girls and boys -- In our youth-time were seen On the echoing green.'

Till the little ones, weary, No more can be merry: The sun does descend, And our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mothers Many sisters and brothers, Like birds in their nest, Are ready for rest, And sport no more seen On the darkening green.

July 7, 2004 - 01:36 pm
by John Keats


When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the lead In summer luxury,—he has never done With his delights; for when tired out with fun He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

July 7, 2004 - 03:24 pm
Very nice!!

July 7, 2004 - 03:34 pm



These shriveled sinews and this bending frame, The workmanship of Time's strong hand proclaim; Skilled to reverse whate'er the gods create, And make that crooked which they fashion straight. Hard choice for man, to die -- or else to be That tottering, wretched, wrinkled thing you see: Age then we all prefer; for age we pray, And travel on to life's last, lingering day; Then sinking slowly down from worse to worse, Find heaven's extorted boon our greatest curse.

"This English translation, by Richard Cumberland, of "Old Age" is reprinted from Greek Poets in English Verse, Ed. William Hyde Appleton. Cambridge: The Riverside Press, 1893."

July 8, 2004 - 12:28 am
In winter I still find crickets but when reading the poem it came to me I havent seen a grasshopper in a long time..This year I have only seen a couple of Japanese beetles when I used to see a lot ..chewing up my roses. Now I wonder why?

Last year for the first time in years and this year as well I welcomed fireflies ..unseen for a number of years. I dont recall how long ago we used to have dragonflies and then all of sudden they too disappeared. This year they are back and I have no idea if they are distructive but seeing them gives me pleasure.

Old age

Now that gives one pause..and we are certainly fighting to keep it at bay....suceeding ???hard to say...thanks for the posts I love to see what treasures you find to share...anna

July 8, 2004 - 12:31 am
You're up late, Anna.

July 8, 2004 - 01:11 am
So are you ..but my computer has been off most the day. We had a lot of Tstorms to come through today...for myself I am glad the really severe ones did not hit here..But the news was full at 11PM of locations near that suffered from downed trees, power lines , etc and no electricity. I never lost power but just sat in a chair and heard the the thunder, the pounding rain and slept so here I am when I should be sleeping ..now I am going to bed...take care all.

July 8, 2004 - 07:13 am
Here is another poem from the book I mentioned ...edited by Robert Pinsky ..a 84 year old lady chose this one..Like me she has lost her hearing and this poem meant that to her, then like the poem she mentions all the losses she has endured ..something I think we can all relate to..so here it is..anna

One Art  
Elizabeth Bishop 

The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

July 8, 2004 - 10:26 am
Those two aging poem do give one pause.

July 8, 2004 - 11:09 am
I was feeling a bit elderly yesterday... LOL!!! My little guy (Drewie is 4, almost 5) said to me that he wished I didn't have old skin and that I had young skin like his. He said that he wished I were 7 and then we could go outdoors and play together, if we asked our Mommy. But then he said that he will always take very good care of me because if he does, then I will never die. He said that people are supposed to take very good care of their Grammies. I told him that I love how he takes care of me, but everyone dies sooner or later and that I will die some time but I will go to heaven and I will watch over him. He said that I can't go without him and since I can't come back, he will have to go with me, because I would have no one there to take care of me and he would be too lonely without me.

July 8, 2004 - 01:41 pm
Oh Wow! Zinnia. What a conversation- he does love his granny.

July 8, 2004 - 01:59 pm
ZINNIA: what a wonderful conversation. We may be old, but grandchildren are a source of joy that makes all the yucky stuff worthwhile.

"One Art" is one of my favorite poems too: I've been meaning to post it for some time.

I read it at a poetry meeting, and when I read it to my daughter to practice, she said she didn't understand it. I think she is too young. People of our age understand it perfectly.

Bishop wrote it on the death of a beloved friend. In Bishop's papers people later found I think it was 14 rough drafts. She worked very hard to get that feeling of effortlessness in the elaborate format she is using.

July 8, 2004 - 03:09 pm
I loved "One Art" and thank you, Anna, for posting it.

Joan - That's why I am so glad that we all have one another here because even when our children love us and care for us and are attentive to us, they can't really understand what it's like to BE us at this time in our lives.

Drewie has been with me for most of his life, and nearly all of it that he can remember, so he is very attached to me and is just learning to be attached to his Mommy, who has been here since March and will regain custody in September. Strangely enough, though, I think he has more of an understanding than my daughter's do - perhaps because he has limitations because of his lack of age and strength and I have them because I have a lot of age and little strength. I need to write a poem about him... every morning he comes into my room with a big smile on his face and says that we are "best buddies in the whole wide world," so no matter what else happens, the day always begins with a big smile and a hug and a noisy smooch on the cheek. I wonder what will happen when he is older and being attached to one's old grammie isn't cool anymore.

July 8, 2004 - 08:01 pm
Heelo all, at a friends house and trying to use her computer, not with a great deal of success though, printed off some poems to take home though. I think I feel a little happier today, more settled and comfortable even without my computer.

Anna, did you get my e-mail, or did I use wrong address.


July 9, 2004 - 06:27 pm

July 9, 2004 - 06:31 pm
Anno: good to hear from you, even occasionly. Looking forward to your having a computer again.

July 9, 2004 - 06:39 pm
First let me tell anneo I did get her email and have mailed a long letter to her and George. I have no idea how long it takes for a letter to travel from the east coast of USA to Australia..but it is on its way.

Oh Zinnia ..whar a touching and sweet and precious story of you and your little grandson..How wise they are.. Yesterday I visited two of my grandchildren in their new home..actually they have two new homes..the parents have been divorced and my daughter remarried so they have that house where I visited yesterday and their dad has rented a wonderful condo near and so they go there too. Yesterday I had to take a tour of their rooms ..all of the furnishing are new and wonderful. My 8 year old grandson has a wonderful bunk bed thing..he sleeps on the top and then there are drawers on each side of a desk with all the things he loves ..computer etc..and below that hidden in a bottom drawer ..what we used to call a trundle bed..and when I said can I sleep there when I come to spend the night ...and Bless his heart he said How about tonight? When I said I ahd to check his sister's room out he whispered IT"S A LITTLE MESSY! I love my 6 grandchildren and enjoying them at the ages they are now 11-4..because I know in a few years I will be outmoded and outdated as they reach their teens..but I will always cherish these years..and yes it is so wonderful to be able to have each other for friends ..that understand all the aspects of life and ageing ..GOD BLESS and thanks for ALL OF YOU> anna

July 9, 2004 - 06:44 pm
A retired school teacher chose this poem because she said it is the kind of love every woman desires..what do you think??anna

I Loved You 
  by: Alexander Pushkin (1799 - 1837) 

I loved you; even now I may confess, Some embers of my love their fire retain; But do not let it cause you more distress, I do not want to sadden you again. Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly, With pangs the jealous and the timid know; So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely, I pray God grant another love you so.

July 10, 2004 - 01:17 pm
I don't know anna. Seems like you'd be the over overwhelmed object. What do others think. Marj

July 11, 2004 - 08:08 am
That is something to think about isnt it? Perhaps we wouldnt want to really be loved that deeply..it sort of puts a burden on the beloved doesnt it ? Ah Poetry ..it is often a mystery ..meaning one thing to one reader and another thing to someone else.

I am still reading the book I mentioned where people from all walks of life and all ages have shared why a particular poem is thier favorite.

Three people chose this poem, an 18 year old female student who said"The poem leaps at you, and something moves inside-metamorphosis. It's not just a poem." A 52 year old male professor of English "This is the poem that changed my life forever. Nothing compares to the excruciating beauty of this poem." A woman who is a school teacher 57 "This poem transports: it reminds me of those deeply moving, surprising moments in life when the sheer joy of existence envelopes me and I know even I can evolve."

And here is the poem and what do you think? anna

 A Blessing

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, they begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to me And nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, Her mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom.

James Wright

July 11, 2004 - 08:54 am
Another favorite of mine. What is the name of that book?

July 11, 2004 - 09:18 am
The title of the book is Americans' Favorite Poems edited by Robert Pinsky and Maggie Dietz I am very fond of it because I like to see who nominated a poem and why.

It is full of special poems ..some I think too long to post but it gives me pleasure to read it and I am sure any lover of poetry would enjoy it too.

By the way the above poem really spoke to me ..for I too have had such special times in my life when I felt outside myself and would have gathered the whole world in my arms for a hug..and yes my soul blossomed..anna

July 11, 2004 - 06:02 pm
He expresses a joy as breaking into blossom. What a way to express it!. Hard for words at those times.

Thanks for posting that.

July 11, 2004 - 07:21 pm
What I love best about this book of poetry are the reasons people choose a poem..Poetry has always helped me..When I suffered loss, was lonely, happy, sad whatever state my heart,mind and soul needed something to soothe, or cheer , or weep or laugh ..POETRY WAS THERE and that is what this 80 year retired schoolteacher said ..Here are his words and the poem he chose.." I first read this poem in junior high school English class. As one recently our of an orphanage I felt the desperateness of the statement " I all alone beweep my outcast state" When I came to the metaphor of the lark , my voice quivered with exultation at the recoverey of the grace of fortune. The love element then meant less to me than the reversal of fortune, but later I would recite this sonnet in that sense. In boot camp during WWII, I walked on guard duty from midnight to 4:00 A.M. on a freezing winter night, and to distract myself from the cold, went over all the poems I knew. Shakespeare's lark reminded me of Shelly's "To a Skylark" and then I went on to Poe's "The Raven" and when I ran out of birds, I turned to Edna Millay. The time passed, the chilling wind not diminished but less noticeable. Poetry helped." I just love the fact he gave credit to poetry when he was 80 for something that happened when he was young..and here is the poem he chose...anna

Sonnet 29 "When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes"

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least: Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee,--and then my state (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings'.

William Shakespeare

(1564 - 1616)

July 12, 2004 - 10:32 am
That brings tears to my eyes!

Thank you so very much for that poem.


July 12, 2004 - 01:02 pm
I am so glad I posted it as well ..I often need to be reminded of what blessings I have known. anna

July 12, 2004 - 01:10 pm
Sorry I missed your call! I was in the middle of changing the baby's diaper because his mommy is having oral surgery.

July 12, 2004 - 01:12 pm
From Shakespeare to John Updike and his book of Poems Americana..His poetry is rather hard hitting..seeing things as they are and some to ponder and think about. It was my intention to use his poems for a series and I mislaid his book..and picked up the Robert Pinsky work. When cleaning up my room (Ahem something I dont do often enough) hidden under some oddments I found my Updike book..and here is a poem he wrote that sort of caught my thinking..anna


The superrich make lousy neighbors- they buy a house and tear it down and build another, twice as big, and leave. They're never there: they own so many other houses, each demands a visit. Entire neighborhoods called fashionable, bustling with servants and masters, such as Louisburg Square in Boston or Bel Air in L.A. are districts now like Wall Street after dark or Tombstone once the silver boom went bust. The essence of the surperrich is absence. They like to demonstrate they can afford to be elsewhere. Don't let them in. Their riches form a kind of poverty.

John Updike

July 12, 2004 - 01:40 pm
Poem #1457 ~ Emily Dickinson

Summer hs two Beginnings Beginning once in June - Beginning in October Affectingly again -

Without, perhaps, the Riot But graphicer for Grace - As finer is a going Than a remaining Face - Departing then - forever - Foever - until May - Forever is deciduous - Except to those who die -

Something to think about on a hot summer day!

July 13, 2004 - 06:38 am
An Emily Dickinson

TWO butterflies went out at noon And waltzed above a stream, Then stepped straight through the firmament And rested on a beam;

And then together bore away Upon a shining sea, Though never yet, in any port, Their coming mentioned be.

If spoken by the distant bird, If met in ether sea By frigate or by merchantman, Report was not to me.

Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.

Don't know which edition this is from- didn't say on the website from which I copy & pasted.

Butterflies are really busy at this time of year. And can be elusive as Emily seems to say.

July 13, 2004 - 06:57 am
I have had a wonderful invasion of butterflies..beautiful ones . large ones and they are welcome to my back yard....Loved the poems ..and had to smile ..what a contrast to the John Updike one..

Emily seemed to see all the beauty of the world..and Mr Updike viewed with a different eye..although perhaps it was a difference in time ...anna

July 13, 2004 - 07:16 am
And a difference in what he/she were led to comment on also, Anna. Updike is straight to the point about his descriptions and dislikes. Thanks for that one. Keep them coming. It gives food for thought.. Glad to hear you have bflys visiting you.

July 13, 2004 - 08:47 am
There are several he chose to write about and this is one I chose to share...anna


Two railroads crossed here,making the depot hot property for an army that could take it. Grant won out, and rode the rails to Vicksburg. The little city now uncoveted by any side,reposes in the hope of Shiloh's bloody glamour rubbing off as peaceful golddust-tourist traffic. This veranda knew the boots of Beaurgard

and of Ulysses,too. What epic times when bayonet and cannonball dispersed the souls of country boys in gray and blue! An iron lozenge forged to fit the wheels that roll east-west and north-south marks the spot a throng died for. I stood there all alone.

John Updike

July 13, 2004 - 11:30 am
It may be of interest to know that in Japenese haiku all poems about butterflies take on a particular meaning, since they are assumed to refer back to an ancient poem about a man who fell asleep and dreamed he was a butterfly. Upon awakening, he was confused, and didn't know whether he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he was a man.

July 13, 2004 - 02:20 pm
Joan, that is neat background!

Finally the monarchs are here. Saw one on the milkweed flower the other day.

July 13, 2004 - 08:36 pm
I can only remember seeing one...but have seen lots of others ..there is one that we saw emerge from a cocoon in a gallon jug one year..the children found the cocoon and we put it in this jug and I dont remember it has been so many years ago but it emerged and was a swallowtail in with blue markings >>I wish I had thought to take a picture but we did release it ..I can recall how perfectly lovely it was.

I once had a dream that was so vivid when I woke I wondered if the dream was reality and reality only a dream...and thinking you were a butterfly ...sounds rather nice ...anna

July 13, 2004 - 08:44 pm
All this talk of butterflies inspired me to search for a poem and I like the one I found ...how about you? anna


by: Victor Hugo (1802-1885)

The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings, That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide, With muffled music, murmured far and wide. Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays, Of the fond hearts within a billet bound, Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound, The messages of love that mortals write Filled with intoxication of delight, Written in April and before the May time Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime, We dream that all white butterflies above, Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love, And leave their lady mistress in despair, To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair, Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies.

July 13, 2004 - 11:39 pm
When I worked, I was on the eighth floor of my building. I looked out on a view of all concrete and office buildings. But I discovered that the eighth floor is just the height at which monarch butterflies migrate. So I would be looking out at this concrete wasteland and butterflies would start flitting by in ones and twos. Great!

July 14, 2004 - 05:05 am
I like the V Hugo poem. This line is great: "playthings for the wind's playtime, " It talks of white bflys- I always have several of those dancing in the air.

July 14, 2004 - 01:55 pm
at the edge of the

aluminum flower pot

Monarch butterfly fanning

~ Anne M. Ogle

Here's my contribution with my own butterfly poem. Enjoy!

July 14, 2004 - 05:07 pm
Thank you, Anne. It's lovely

July 14, 2004 - 07:09 pm
Hello everyone, just at Carol's so saying a quick hello and reading the poetry whilst I am here. Lovely to see it all, no time to go searching myself but do keep up the good work.


July 15, 2004 - 08:13 am
Loved the butterfly poem

and anneo good to see you here ...we are waiting along with you for you to be RE CONNECTED....

I must tell you all this poem is not about butterflies but the one I chose about last nights torrential rain, vivid lightening , strong winds shaking the trees and pounding thunder. We lost electricity about 4 times..thankfully only momentary but it was a First Class storm and it started about 8pm and was midnight before it ceased ..I slept in and have found a poem to share this am...anna

A Cap of Lead Across the Sky 
Emily Dickinson

A Cap of Lead across the sky Was tight and surly drawn We could not find the mighty Face The Figure was withdrawn --

A Chill came up as from a shaft Our noon became a well A Thunder storm combines the charms Of Winter and of Hell.

July 15, 2004 - 11:23 pm
Excellant, as usual from Emily. I love thunderstorms. For years I counted them, and kept records of them -- I don't know why. When I would go on vacation, my friends would count thunderstorms for me, and we all became thunderstorm watchers.

July 16, 2004 - 03:15 am
JoanK. You counted thunderstorms, and kept records of them ? Perhaps because you were payed to, ie you were a weather person ?++ Trevor

July 16, 2004 - 09:18 am
Great Emily storm poem. She did it superbly.

Love that about counting storms, Joan. I enjoy storms. When my kids were little I would get them up at night when a big storm came across the late at the cottage . To this day they both enjoy them also.

I like Scrawler's monarch poem.

July 16, 2004 - 09:47 am
While we are having a respite the weather man is saying there will be more this weekend. The paper while writing of the nearly 100,000 who lost power mentioned this has been the worst season for Tstorms in ten years. That would make it 1994 the spring my husband died. He loved Tstorms and would do all the things they tell you not to do when they came. He would take a chair out on the little porch and gather all that thunder and lightening to his soul. I love Tstorms but only when I can view them safely from indoors or in the comfort of an auto...I have found many poems about Tstorms and share this one because it is true ..when I hear thunder I think of him..anna


Anna Akhmatova - You Will Hear Thunder

You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

July 16, 2004 - 10:00 am
Thought you might like to read this..I know I wanted to know about her ..it is a long but very informative piece...anna


July 16, 2004 - 10:49 am
What a glorious poem that is! I love thunder and lightning, too. When I lived in the high desert, we used to sit outdoors in lawn chairs enjoying the lightning shows that were frequent in the distant mountains. We would scurry if they came our way, but that happened seldom.

July 16, 2004 - 11:06 am
Thanks for posting the excellent link. It is so fascinating I encourage others to read it. Anna was certainly a poet of her time.

This is from the link conclusion.

"Akhmatova's life spanned the time between the pre-Revolutionary and post-Stalin eras of Russian history. Despite terrible persecution and censorship by the State, her poetry gave voice to the Russian people during times of great upheaval in Russian society. She did so with verse that is original and strikingly modern. Akhmatova outlived her persecutors, and her life has become a symbol of truth and integrity.

The poetry of Akhmatova fulfills the Acmeist ideal of "beautiful clarity." In her poems she uses everyday speech and simple language, and her poetry appealed to all segments of Russian society. Today she is known as one of the four great Modern Russian lyric poets. "

July 16, 2004 - 05:05 pm
The thing I always remember about her is the story of her standing in line for a chance to see a friend who is in prison. Here is the story and the poem she wrote:


July 16, 2004 - 05:14 pm
No. I'm not a weather person. I once saw a map of the number of "Thunderstorm days" per year in various areas of the US. For our area, it listed 20-40 per year. "Oh, that's too low" said my daughter, and for the next two years we made a game of counting thunderstorm days, trying to beat 40/ year (We did, but not by much. I think we averaged 45. Too bad I decided to stop this year; it would have been even higher). I learned a lot about thunderstorms, and still perk up my ears when I hear one.

July 17, 2004 - 07:48 am
I have found the perfect summer poem....and here it is..anna

Philip Larkin - Mother, Summer, I  

My mother, who hates thunder storms, Holds up each summer day and shakes It out suspiciously, lest swarms Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there; But when the August weather breaks And rains begin, and brittle frost Sharpens the bird-abandoned air, Her worried summer look is lost,

And I her son, though summer-born And summer-loving, none the less Am easier when the leaves are gone Too often summer days appear Emblems of perfect happiness I can't confront: I must await A time less bold, less rich, less clear: An autumn more appropriate.

July 17, 2004 - 07:57 am
Here is a link to the poet Phillip Larkin


July 18, 2004 - 11:01 am
I enjoyed Larkin's poem. Sometimes I feel exactly how these lines suggest:

"Too often summer days appear Emblems of perfect happiness I can't confront: I must await A time less bold, less rich, less clear: An autumn more appropriate."

With all the terrible tornados, etc. this summer and flooding here and there I would think most people would fret about summer storms as he describes the mother.

July 18, 2004 - 05:10 pm
Since summer is here and for me much to hot ..although I cherish the ripe tomatoes from my vine in the backyard. I bite into one and savor that unique taste...after my flowers it is the one fragrance I crave..the sharp smell and then the first sliced sprinkled with a bit of olive oil and flakes of basil....that is sumptous dining. However I keep searching for summer poems and keep finding poets unknown to me ..what unexpected treasures..here is one from my search today..anna

Andrew Lang 

THE flags below the shadowy fern Shine like spears between sun and sea, The tide and the summer begin to turn, And ah, for hearts, for hearts that yearn, For fires of autumn that catch and burn, For love gone out between thee and me.

The wind is up, and the weather broken, Blue seas, blue eyes, are grieved and grey, Listen, the word that the wind has spoken, Listen, the sound of the sea, - a token That summer's over, and troths are broken, - That loves depart as the hours decay.

A love has passed to the loves passed over, A month has fled to the months gone by; And none may follow, and none recover July and June, and never a lover May stay the wings of the Loves that hover, As fleet as the light in a sunset sky.

July 18, 2004 - 05:13 pm
Here is a link to Andrew Lang


July 19, 2004 - 10:44 am
Emily Dickinson wrote a lot about nature and summer seems to have been her favorite..anna This one appealed to me since I have seen so many bugs and beetles and slugs..they all LOVE SUMMER

Emily Dickinson - These are the Nights that Beetles love --  

These are the Nights that Beetles love -- From Eminence remote Drives ponderous perpendicular His figure intimate The terror of the Children The merriment of men Depositing his Thunder He hoists abroad again -- A Bomb upon the Ceiling Is an improving thing -- It keeps the nerves progressive Conjecture flourishing -- Too dear the Summer evening Without discreet alarm -- Supplied by Entomology With its remaining charm --

July 19, 2004 - 12:34 pm
Oh, I like that Emily poem. Beetles everywhere. What a clever lady she was to sort of tease with that poem.

July 19, 2004 - 12:35 pm
This webpage has some fun summer haikus.


July 19, 2004 - 05:25 pm
A haiku by Issa

A giant firefly: that way, this way, that way, this - and it passes by.

July 19, 2004 - 11:25 pm
Great! Typical Issa.

July 20, 2004 - 12:59 pm
the summer sandpipers skitter past my sandcastle slither into the sea

~Anne M. Ogle

To all those who are enjoying the beach on this hot summer day!

July 20, 2004 - 02:16 pm
This is a nice poem I ran across while looking for something else. It is from this URL:



©2/28/98 Carol Snyder Halberstadt

Imagine having a hundred grandmothers
call you
walking where their birth cords
grow to trees
and the grass
is woven by your feet
when they sing the rain
around you
like a blanket.

July 20, 2004 - 02:19 pm
My favorite sea bird..my oldest daughter even did a small counted cross stitched panel of sandpipers..they make me laugh with thier quick step hurrying across the sand. I do the same when the sand is hot but dont look as cute..and here is a poem I found ..enjoy..anna PS I had to rearrange this my computer is misbehaving...
Carl Sandburg - Sandpipers 

TEN miles of flat land along the sea. Sandland where the salt water kills the sweet potatoes. Homes for sandpipers—the script of their feet is on the sea shingles—they write in the morning, it is gone at noon—they write at noon, it is gone at night. Pity the land, the sea, the ten mile flats, pity anything but the sandpiper’s wire legs and feet.

July 20, 2004 - 02:33 pm
We were posting at the same time and when I checked my post there was yours with that wonderful poem and the link..thanks for both..hugs to you .anna

July 20, 2004 - 02:41 pm
I forgot to say that the author is a Native American woman and there is at least one more poem there, although the site isn't about poetry.

The last part is my favorite, the part about "when they sing the rain around you like a blanket."

July 20, 2004 - 05:22 pm
What wonderful read. I love to watch Sandpipers. Thanks to Anna & Scrawler for those. And the Grandmother poem is simply wonderful- Native American writing/art/literature is so simple and complex and true to the core.

July 21, 2004 - 06:32 am
There is something in Mary Oliver's poems that reaches me...here is one I would share this morning...I live in an area that used to be a forest and has several small ponds and waterways..the heron and the egrets have survived encroaching civilization and remind us when we see them fly that their beauty is better than ours..anna

Mary Oliver - Heron Rises From The Dark, Summer Pond  

So heavy is the long-necked, long-bodied heron, always it is a surprise when her smoke-colored wings

open and she turns from the thick water, from the black sticks

of the summer pond, and slowly rises into the air and is gone.

Then, not for the first or the last time, I take the deep breath of happiness, and I think how unlikely it is

that death is a hole in the ground, how improbable that ascension is not possible, though everything seems so inert, so nailed

back into itself-- the muskrat and his lumpy lodge, the turtle, the fallen gate.

And especially it is wonderful that the summers are long and the ponds so dark and so many, and therefore it isn't a miracle

but the common thing, this decision, this trailing of the long legs in the water, this opening up of the heavy body

into a new life: see how the sudden gray-blue sheets of her wings strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing takes her in.


July 21, 2004 - 07:57 am
The heron poem is beautiful. Quite right that Mary used the "she" for the heron-seems to fit perfectly.

After reading the Sandpiper ones yesterday I hunted and found this poet and her Sandpiper. She is very interesting. Celia Thaxter is her name. http://seacoastnh.com/poems/celia2.html

Sandpiper By Celia Thaxter (1872)

Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit,-- One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach,-- One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. He starts not at my fitful song, Nor flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong; He scans me with a fearless eye: Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be tonight, When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky: For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

July 21, 2004 - 09:12 am
Two marvelous sandpiper poems!

Anna, I got goosebumps when I read that one; Marj, I could nearly smell the salt air and feel the wind.

July 21, 2004 - 09:31 am
Wonderful poems. I started a life-long love affair with birds as a child watching the sandpipers skitter back and forth on the beach. And the Herons: they fly over my house every morning at dawn: when I'm out, I greet them.

As I'm posting, I see another sandpiper poem. Yes, yes. There we are walking on the beach early, before anyone else is up. Now, with my mobility problems, I thought I had lost that walk on the beach, but this poem gives it back to me

July 21, 2004 - 11:29 am
How special a poem is ..you have been given a walk on a beach and I have been given the ability to fly, to skitter along behind some one walking on the beach.. I have a whole page or two of one line comments from famous poets and others about how important poetry is...When I find them I will start sharing them.

And what a find ..that wonderful poem about the sandpiper and a beach lover..I grew up in middle America but once I visited the beach on the eastern coast of USA I knew I had found my souls home..and while there are many gulls and pelicans I love the sandpiper best of all. Thanks to everyone for not only sharing poems you have found but your thoughts..that is a treasure that is truly priceless...anna

July 21, 2004 - 01:24 pm
I too was walking on the beach with the Sandpiper. The way they can peck in the pebbles and sand for a bit of food is just so neat. Gathering driftwood before the waves get it is so right. I have been very fond of sandpipers for years.


July 21, 2004 - 01:31 pm

July 21, 2004 - 03:34 pm
Do you have room for another poster? I don't write as well as most of you but I like what I do. I'm not well educated or even well versed but I'm satisfied.

I've also written a "Sandpiper" poem.. just have to learn how the posting is done here.. meanwhile you might be able to read it here:


Thank you for allowing me to join in..


July 21, 2004 - 05:31 pm
You are most welcome and after reading your poem and the wonderful choice of background NEVER NEVER NEVER SAY YOUR POETRY IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH!!

My writing only began ten years ago after my husbands death ..it was a time of heavy grief and my mind just seemed to know what I needed. I write for myself first..if someone enjoys it or relates to it I consider that a bonus. Please come often and share your poems and your thoughts...

Education doesnt make a poet..a heart, a soul , that sees and hears and feels is what makes a poet >>and I would say you have all of those..anna

July 21, 2004 - 06:54 pm
I would have to disagree with you... I've seen your poetry and it's very well done. Nice to see you here!

July 21, 2004 - 07:27 pm
Last might I dreamt of fireflies and poetry, so I thought to look around a bit online and see what I could find. I like this one a lot:


Someone identified only as "MonketCat4" wrote the following poem, displayed on the above link:

Flitting through vast darkness; 
The sky, burnt to midnight 
Becomes the stage 
Where fireflies 
Beckon the imagination, 
And I cant take my eyes off them. 
Sparks of simplicity 
Furiously dashing 
Across nothingness, 
Turning it to something 
Far more beautiful 
Than words can describe. 
I lie upon the cool grass 
Imagining myself 
Lying upon a bed of flames 
That tease the darkness overhead. 
And the fireflies, 
Caught up in my dream, 
Dance as sparks above me. 

July 21, 2004 - 11:12 pm
JENNY: wonderful poem. Please stay and share more with us.

I love the firefly poems. For years, they disappeared from our area, but now I'm so glad they are back.

My favorite firefly poem I've posted before. Written by Chin-ge shortly before she died:


How easily iy lights up how easily it goes out- the firefly.

July 22, 2004 - 07:53 am
Like you they disappeared from my yard and LAST year there they were in abundance ..I wrote a poem about them ..a rather sassy one if I recall will have to look it up for you ..

Summer is such a strange time to me...all the things we did as a family we no longer do..of course my family is now all married with grandchildren and they do different things than we did as a family. The mothers all work ..one is an RN another a RD and another a very busy lady with a local company. So even if it is summer the children for the most part are at day care or a variety of summer camps...

Anyway I found a poem that rather resonated with my feelings at this time..anna

Edna St. Vincent Millay - I Know I Am But Summer To Your Heart 

I know I am but summer to your heart, And not the full four seasons of the year; And you must welcome from another part Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear. No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing; And I have loved you all too long and well To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring. Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes, I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums, That you may hail anew the bird and rose When I come back to you, as summer comes. Else will you seek, at some not distant time, Even your summer in another clime.

July 22, 2004 - 08:24 pm
Thank you all for welcoming me here... it's a great thread.

I don't believe I've seen a firefly since I was a little girl and lived way out on a ranch in the country... how many things are lost in the past, never to be enjoyed again? But your thoughts and words did bring that wonderful sight back to me... thank you.

And the Edna St.Vincent Millay poem.. how I wish I could write like that.. fantastic.


July 23, 2004 - 11:10 am
I did not like this firefly poem one bit. I think Robert Frost sounds cold and lifeless.

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies, And here on earth come emulating flies, That though they never equal stars in size, (And they were never really stars at heart) Achieve at times a very star-like start. Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.

July 23, 2004 - 11:17 am
MARJ: I agree with you.

July 23, 2004 - 11:22 am
I saw that one a lot in my searching, but didn't post it for the same reasons. I completely agree with you. It's not at all lyrical or evocative, I thought.

July 23, 2004 - 11:50 am
I agree ...I will have to find my own poem and post it ..I always thought of them as stars upon my yard and although I guess it was unkind I went to sleep many a summer eve watching that soft glow from the ones I captured in a jar...gotta go wont be back until tomorrow sometime ..company is due to arrive and tomorrow am I am hosting a 40th birthday party for my son for about 30+ family and friends ..so hugs to all anna

July 23, 2004 - 12:19 pm
Have a great party!

Hope you find your firefly poem soon.



July 23, 2004 - 12:45 pm
I forgot the title for that RFrost poem- Fireflies in the Garden.

Anyway, they are such beautiful creatures. I don't care one twit if I know the scientific reason they light up the night- they are pure enchantment. Don't have any in the city here but I can bring up the memory show easily.


July 23, 2004 - 05:52 pm
Sheez, George and I both think this Frost poem marvellous. Surely its meant to be tongue-in-cheek and amusing. Since flys are the bane of our life here in Quilpie, we loved this. It is rather like Ogden Nash and seems a little gauche, but we both think the gauchery is very carefully controlled and contrived.


Anyone wants to post some Ogden Nash, George would be thrilled.

July 23, 2004 - 07:56 pm
I stopped by here last night and wrote a nice long post and then must have hit the wrong button because it vanished..

I wanted to thank you for the warm welcome... Fireflies, I don't think I've seen any since I was a young girl and lived way out on a ranch in the country...

Also I love Edna St. Vincent Millays writing... how I wish I could write like that.

Have a great evening.. Jenny

July 23, 2004 - 08:45 pm
Since some are writing about Fireflies, and ANNEO asked for an Ogden Nash poem for George, I offer this:-

The Firefly by Ogden Nash

The firefly's flame
Is something for which science has no name
I can think of nothing eerier
Than flying around with an unidentified glow on a person's posteerier

July 23, 2004 - 08:49 pm
Now THAT'S funny!!

July 23, 2004 - 10:19 pm
I am setting here at 1am laughing out loud ..my dog is looking at me with a quizzical brow! By the way I found my firefly poem but as I think I mentioned it was a bit sassy ...You know I never know how a poem will turn out.Sometimes I start with a poem I think will be serious and it takes a turn and is hopefully a bit amusing...then I start out writing a poem that is meant to be pleasent and when I type the last line it becomes a sad poem ..so this is just one I wrote one night ..nothing spectacular /just my thoughts that day...anna


I have missed you in my yard You golden blinking stars From the remembered days of youth When we gathered you in mason jars And could not sleep lest your glow Disappear too soon

Tonight as dark crept across the sky And softly pressed the green of earth Before the first star announced Day had passed and night was near I stepped out and found you there A hundred or more sending a message In your Morse code

Science says it is your way Of finding for yourself a mate Announcing with your glowing wink Your availability for all to see I hope before the dawn arrives You find someone to share your days As your blink stills it glowing beat Switches off, fades and dies You enter glory with a satisfied sigh. And hopefully so will I.........
anna alexander  
17 June 2002   ©

July 23, 2004 - 10:40 pm
I'm really having a time figuring out how to read these boards.. thought I had it by checking "subscribe"... but something isn't working, maybe my brain. lol. Sorry for the almost double post.


July 24, 2004 - 08:52 am
When you click "Post My Message," the discussion automatically comes up again and shows you that your post is there. And it initially shows with two buttons a bit to the right of your name - EDIT and DELETE.

A double post can be caused by hitting the "refresh button" after you have posted your message. If you happen to do that, you can get rid of the second one by clicking on the DELETE button and going through the delete process, but you must do that within half an hour.

You can also cause a dual post if you use the BACK button to go back and edit your post. You need to use the EDIT button and that also must be done within half an hour.

Click on my name and email me if there is an way I can help you.

Do you remember a poem I wrote in the far distant past that began, "'Voulez vous,' the tiger said, (I think he knew some French), Running quickly to her side, he grabbed the tasty wench"? Or am I confusing you with someone else?

July 24, 2004 - 12:29 pm
I love your firefly poem. Sassy is good!

July 25, 2004 - 06:51 am
I think I've got it now, at least I hope so. I don't remember that poem, but I would like to read it.. Sounds very funny.


July 25, 2004 - 12:40 pm
That is the message from the skies.. a brief respite is all it gives before it repeats again and again..so of course I sought a poem about rain and here it is...anna

Robert Frost - A Line-Storm Song 

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift. The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves In the wood-world's torn despair Than now these numberless years the elves, Although they are no less there: All song of the woods is crushed like some Wild, earily shattered rose. Come, be my love in the wet woods, come, Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind And bruit our singing down, And the shallow waters aflutter with wind From which to gather your gown. What matter if we go clear to the west, And come not through dry-shod? For wilding brooch shall wet your breast The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells But it seems like the sea's return To the ancient lands where it left the shells Before the age of the fern; And it seems like the time when after doubt Our love came back amain. Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.

July 25, 2004 - 03:11 pm
What a marvelous poem! And thank you so much for my poem.. it brought tears to my eyes and I really appreciate having it!


I may be thinking of someone else. About 8 years ago, I wrote a poem that began that way for Virgi1938 on AOL SeniorNet and I thought that used to be you, but I have been known to be wrong on many occasions. Each line began with a letter (or number) in your screen name. I can remember most but not all of it. In other words, the screen name ran down the left side and each letter or number was the beginning of the lines.

Here is what I can recall and I hope I remember the rest...LOL!!!

Starting with this...


and going to this...

"Voulez vous," the tiger said,
(I think he knew some French).
Running quickly to her side, he
grabbed the tasty wench"
1 der if You'd dine with me,
"nein," ?????

July 25, 2004 - 03:14 pm
Wow what a memory you have.. yes that was me. I think I need to eat more blueberrys.. memory's gettin' slow.. Love it.


July 25, 2004 - 03:18 pm
Believe me... I would not have remembered but for having read so much of your wonderful poetry and also having written the poem.. and I can't even recall ALL of that, but maybe it will come floating up from the tar pits of my brain some time!

Or they might even come bubbling up out of the primordial ooze in one of these computers!

July 28, 2004 - 04:10 am
I had a poem about a bird to post here but I wanted to tell you why and instead I found myself writing my own poem about my yesterday. I hope you enjoy it ..for it was a lovely sight.anna

Yesterday while I was out I saw a hawk swoop across the sky It circled and swung against the faded light, The remmnants of a storm Did it spy some victim skulking on the ground ? Or did it just feel the joy of soaring effortlessly through the air I dont know but I am glad that I was there To see him revel in his flight, to see him swoop and turn His brown wings gliding with joy through the windless day Oh if I could be like him to know the freedom of his flight Instead I am tethered to the earth, to the coming night.

anna alexander 7/28/2004

July 28, 2004 - 06:25 am
Love it, Anna~!!! Hawks are a favorite bird to watch- you did good~watching them ride the thermals is a joy.

July 28, 2004 - 07:24 pm
And soar they do.. Hawks are really something to watch. I once had a hawk. Well, hawks never belong to anyone, but my then hubby brought it home from the field where he had been working.. it was injured. I put it in a big cage in my back yard. I bought chicken gizzards to feed it and soon it ate from my hand.. through the wire of course. He was a super watch hawk.. screeching at the top of his lungs whenever anyone came into the yard. When his wing was healed, I opened the cage, he hopped out, turned, looked at me and flew away..


July 29, 2004 - 07:19 am
I can see that..grateful but rather haughty in the end..yes he seems to say I am grateful but I cannot stay ...I am a hawk , created to be free and without looking back he flees...they are wonderful birds ..and when I saw the one I was writing about we were in a waiting pattern between rainstorms and he just looked so joyful..like a child that the rain had kept indoors.. it was a joyful sight..more so because this an urban area..and I dont see hawks often..we are fortunate to live about 10-15 minutes from my home a 5000+ acre city park ..perhaps he came from there..but it was just gift...to see him..anna

July 29, 2004 - 07:26 am
This is a poem I posted in Poetry Challenge but decided to also post it here..mostly because this has been our weather pattern all summer and continues..In fact the forecast is more of the same for the next week ..We are informed it has been the wettest July in 10 years..and after awhile the continous gray sky weighs you down..or at least it affects me that way ..and that is what this poem says and I still feel the heaviness of the air ..talked to friends in California and wish so much we could share...their sunshine for a our rain ..at least for a little while..anna

No place to go  

The promised thunderstorms arrived Clouds a hundred shades of gray Boiled upward and suddenly Lightening like a surgeons knife Sliced across the sky Slitting the belly of clouds Releasing a hundred millions drops of rain It poured across my roof Flowed down, a weighted curtain Across the window glass. Funny how something so gray Was still translucent and I could see Gusty winds tossing fresh green leaves Branches newly formed swayed And shook in an anxious dance. Torrents of water pounded the skylights Demanding entry and angrily beat The plastic dome. It seemed to desire To be an unwanted , unwelcome intruder in my home A momentary pause fooled me Into believing the storm was gone A quick ray of sunlight , a brief respite A fleeting calm Again the thunder breached the peace A celestial river coursed downward from the sky Drowned me in its flow And I am caught in its undertow

anna alexander May 20, 2004©

July 29, 2004 - 12:19 pm
Anna, I am interested in your last line of that very descriptive poem.

Thinking you mean something like your whole self was caught up into the storm emotionally.

All your senses became involved.

Or shall I say all the narrators emotions and senses.

July 30, 2004 - 09:37 am
You have "hit the nail on the head" I felt very caught up in that storm ..it was quite a storm to be exact and when the sun came out I felt such relief only to have it start again as fierce as before..there was nowhere to go...I think I felt imprisoned by that storm..the rain could have been bars ..it was so heavy and came so hard ..thanks for "seeing" the poem ..anna By the way I had no idea when I wrote that poem how it was going to end...the ending just seemed right and came at the right minute.

July 30, 2004 - 09:51 am
With August almost here I wanted a poem about August and found this one by Dorothy Parker..and of course poems always mean more than words..anna BTW I think the performing stars are the Persied Meteor Shower which gives us quite a show in August
Dorothy Parker - August   

When my eyes are weeds, And my lips are petals, spinning Down the wind that has beginning Where the crumpled beeches start In a fringe of salty reeds; When my arms are elder-bushes, And the rangy lilac pushes Upward, upward through my heart;

Summer, do your worst! Light your tinsel moon, and call on Your performing stars to fall on Headlong through your paper sky; Nevermore shall I be cursed By a flushed and amorous slattern, With her dusty laces' pattern Trailing, as she straggles by.

July 30, 2004 - 11:06 am
I thought this poem had some neat thoughts about summer.
Smell of hot concrete, metal and tar  
hint of fresh mowed grass  
perfume of rain, sunshine and roses  
-is the scent of summer.  
Stepping one foot within each square  
of narrow, hand poured walks  
leaving wet barefoot impressions  
-is the image of summer 

Warbles and chirps, twitters and caws wafting from leafy boughs the barking of squirrels at prowling cats -is the music of summer

Warm sudden wind of approaching thunder electricity charging the air caress of cool rain refreshing the earth -is the touch of summer

Through all my senses runs a thread of time tinged with the memory of summer.

by Yvan

July 30, 2004 - 11:21 am
Sounds just like the city summers of my childhood .....\You took me home again ,.anna

July 30, 2004 - 06:35 pm
MarjV. that line:- the barking of squirrels at prowling cats.

Reminds me that it has been found that squirrels have high frequency calls which they use to alert their fellow squirrels when danger is near. The sounds, like those of bats, are inaudible to humans. They are highly directional, and unlike bat calls, which operate as an echo sounding device, these are used to convey messages, rather than just issuing a general alarm signal.

Isn't nature wonderful ? ++ Trevor

July 30, 2004 - 11:53 pm
trevor: that's fascinating. Thanks.

Love the poem, Marj. It sounds like my childhood too.

July 31, 2004 - 07:24 am
Trevor: that is just fascinating. You know until this poem I never thought of the squirrels as barking. What an apt description. they sure bark at my kittys. And yesterday I watched a black squirrel chew off the pieces of twine and stuff them in his mouth with which I had tied part of the tree cat barrier. I don't want my kittys climbing the high tree in the backyard so I have this neat thing- only the squirrels must object.

And to quote your line, Trevor "isn't nature wonderful"????. Phooey, when it makes me redo something. Must have wanted the twine for its nest. 'cause up it went the neighbors tree.

July 31, 2004 - 07:50 am
Well I never knew they barked of course even if they were audible to most humans they wouldnt be to me since I have a hard time hearing loud noises. I do See them chattering at my dog when she is out although it is obvious they dont consider her a threat. They dont run all the way up the tree but just out of her reach and fuss.

Good to see you Trevor and thanks for that bit of information..anna

July 31, 2004 - 12:26 pm
What was new in January is now past midlife and the year is winding down. The plum gave its fruit and the apples are now golden globes and the year is winding down. The fields are yielding thier harvests and the hay is rolled like muffins toasting in the August sun and I am begining to yearn for Autumn for cool days and cooler nights and there is already a heaviness to the light ..the trees are burdened with thier leaves who cling close to the branches knowing thier days are numbered and the year is winding down. And there is a pinch of pain when ere I take a breath for like this year I too am winding down and know some morning I will feel the changes of the seasons Another guard will be at the gates and Autumn will be with us for the years are winding down.. anna alexander 7/31/2004

well I came here to post a poem and I will but sometimes when I am at my computer I feel a poem inside and I am afraid to let it go..I cant say the above is finished but it is there for you to read and for me to retrieve ..and here is the poem I found..anna

“I Heard a Thousand Blended Notes” 

I heard a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What Man has made of Man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure - But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What Man has made of Man?

- William Wordsworth

July 31, 2004 - 12:54 pm
Thanks for your poem, Anna. Precisely you can tell the year is winding down just as you say. The greens are not the same green. The sparrows are already caucusing- like they are gathering to go somewhere -but they don't migrate. I like how you describe the light change.

August 1, 2004 - 05:20 am
The light change , the morning haze, always bring a touch of sadness to me. Even in their beauty. However, most people would agree there is sadness in beauty.

August 1, 2004 - 05:48 am
Anna's poem in Post #340 was very descriptive.

I like Wordsworth, too. Great poems, Thanks

August 1, 2004 - 06:20 am
I need to copy my poem and paste in works and see where it will take me ...but thank you for your kind comments. I was trying to find a special poem for today and came across one that if read by the young will require explanation. It is a poem about the sea cables that were strung (what year) to bring the world closer together through voice contact. With wireless now I wonder are they obsolete? I can recall studying something about them many years ago ..so here is the poem I found..anna

The Deep-Sea Cables  

(W Heath Robinson - 1909)

The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar - Down to the dark, to the utter dark, where the blind white sea-snakes are. There is no sound, no echo of sound, in the deserts of the deep, Or the great grey level plains of ooze where the shell-burred cables creep.

Here in the womb of the world - here on the tie-ribs of earth Words, and the words of men, flicker and flutter and beat - Warning, sorrow and gain, salutation and mirth - For a Power troubles the Still that has neither voice nor feet.

They have wakened the timeless Things; they have killed their father Time Joining hands in the gloom, a league from the last of the sun. Hush! Men talk to-day o'er the waste of the ultimate slime, And a new Word runs between: whispering, 'Let us be one!'


August 1, 2004 - 06:22 am
Wonderful poem. The cables may be obsolete, but that world is still there.

August 1, 2004 - 09:56 pm
The cables are still in operation. A new one was laid across the Pacific, joining Singapore, Hongkong, Japan, Australia, New Zealand Hawaii, California, just 2-3 years ago...

That's an interesting poem of W. Heath Robinson. I wonder how he came to be called 'Heath'. Perhaps he gave it to himself as a joke... ++ Trevor

August 1, 2004 - 10:38 pm
Yes.. they would have to be still in operation, especially since the internet needs to use them! Wireless is great but there are a lot of things it can't do... at least not YET.

August 2, 2004 - 05:37 am
I am glad they still do the job for which they were made to do. From whatever I read about them I do recall it was a dangerous task and even now an awesome one.

Trevor I think Heath must have been an old name and of course we have Heathcliff from Wuthering Hieghts..but I have known at least one boy named Heath..it amazes me how inventive people are with names. My youngest is named Charah ..who was named after her great aunt who was named after a relative and the orginal name was coined from Charles and Sarah ..combining their two names and coming up with Charah.

Names always have fascinated me and for years I was unhappy with mine since Anna seemed so ordinary.

Th poem I chose for today resonated with me. When I was young I was the favorite neice of an aunt and uncle and accompanied them on vacations etc. ( I think now it was because I was the talkies of all the nieces and nephews) every August we would drive from St Louis to Arkansas to find on the back roads wild blackberries. When we had enough to carry home my aunt would can them and give my mother at least 6 jars for the winter. Mother would make blackberry cobbler with that dark fruit and it was wonderful. My aunt also made jam and one year my uncle had her put some in a tiny glass like a shot glass and he said that was the amount I picked!! Which is perhaps true since the bushes and vines were wild and I was afraid of snakes etc and was very small as well. Anyway from MAry Oliver comes this poem Enjoy..anna

Mary Oliver - August   

When the blackberries hang swollen in the woods, in the brambles nobody owns, I spend

all day among the high branches, reaching my ripped arms, thinking

of nothing, cramming the black honey of summer into my mouth; all day my body

accepts what it is. In the dark creeks that run by there is this thick paw of my life darting among

the black bells, the leaves; there is this happy tongue.

August 2, 2004 - 09:14 am
I love Oliver's work. Thanks for that one, Anna. Like what you write- it touches my inner self. Marj

August 2, 2004 - 04:26 pm
so then I looked online and found this:

Summer heat-George MacLean Akurunwa

The mad sun of summer that belches fire with rancor from the uninhibited space above, now seems to be sitting permanently on my roof, crackling and stirring up hell.

Why does the sun always flame? Why does its flame always rage in summer?

How does the river keep its water away from the thirsty lips of the angry sun? How is the sea able to swell and leap over the scalding hands of summer heatwave?

Today, the sun with its yellow teeth and fiery breath threatens above my roof like a tyrant, keeping me imprisoned in my own house.

But with all the harshness of the sun, when the night comes and its sparkle dims, the magic of the day suddenly dies.

August 3, 2004 - 06:20 pm
Now I like that ..in fact the whole poem..Thanks for looking it up and sharing it here .. Here is todays poem

Americans favorite poems ..my little book of poems edited by Robert Pinsky and Maggie Dietz The poems themselves were chosen by Americans and t they tell why a poem is special to them . The one I am posting was chosen by a 32 year old reporter who lives in San Francisco . That is not his home town and the poem tells of his journey by train away from home and family.

I also chose it because I made the same journey from Virginia to Sacramento after my husband died. Train travel is unique You are driving through the land in a train. It was a journey my husband and I made by car but this time I went where no cars can go. This poem describes my journey west and my feelings . It is quite different , train travel. I marveled at the plains, the mountains , the sky and woke at night to see where America lies asleep . I am glad the reporter found this poem for it speaks to me…anna alexander

Night Journey

Now as the train bears west Its rhythm rocks the earth, And from my Pullman berth I stare into the night While others take their rest. Bridges of iron lace, A suddenness of trees, A lap of mountain mist All across my line of sight, Then a bleak wasted place, And a lake below my knees. Full on my neck I feel The straining of a curve, My muscles move with steel , I wake in every nerve. I watch the beacon swing From dark to blazing bright: We thunder through ravines And gullies washed with light. Beyond the mountain pass Mist deepens on the pane: We rush into a rain That rattles double glass, Wheels shake the roadbed stone, The pistons jerk and shove, I stay up half the night To see the land I love.

Theodore Roethke 1908-1963

August 3, 2004 - 08:41 pm
Sights and sounds are both so different at night. I think during the day sounds are muffled by living and when people and other living things sleep you can hear clearly the sound of the real world...the way it's supposed to be...peaceful.


August 4, 2004 - 09:06 am
Lover of poems. A 48 year old homemaker says "When someone asks why I love poetry I read "Names of Horses" to them and they always say"OH, I didnt know poetry could be like that" And then they say they too love poetry'". I guess it does take a special poem to make one realize poetry is so immense and wonderful ..I loved this poem she loved, because I realized I could name the names of my beloved and long gone pets...so to Prudence, Katie, Rebel, Patches, Napoleon, Bonnie, McGregor,Rusty and all the pets that made my life blessed and special this poem reminds me of you..anna

Name of Horses

All winter your brute shoulders strained against collars, padding and steerhide over the ash hames, to haul sledges of cordwood for drying through spring and summer, for the Glenwood stove next winter, and for the simmering range.

In April you pulled cartloads of manure to spread on the fields, dark manure of Holsteins, and knobs of your own clustered with oats. All summer you mowed the grass in meadow and hayfield, the mowing machine clacketing beside you, while the sun walked high in the morning;

and after noon's heat, you pulled a clawed rake through the same acres, gathering stacks, and dragged the wagon from stack to stack, and the built hayrack back, uphill to the chaffy barn, three loads of hay a day from standing grass in the morning.

Sundays you trotted the two miles to church with the light load a leather quartertop buggy, and grazed in the sound of hymns. Generation on generation, your neck rubbed the windowsill of the stall, smoothing the wood as the sea smooths glass.

When you were old and lame, when your shoulders hurt bending to graze, one October the man, who fed you and kept you, and harnessed you every morning, led you through corn stubble to sandy ground above Eagle Pond, and dug a hole beside you where you stood shuddering in your skin,

and lay the shotgun's muzzle in the boneless hollow behind your ear, and fired the slug into your brain, and felled you into your grave, shoveling sand to cover you, setting goldenrod upright above you, where by next summer a dent in the ground made your monument.

For a hundred and fifty years, in the Pasture of dead horses, roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs, yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter frost heaved your bones in the ground - old toilers, soil makers:

O Roger, Mackerel, Riley, Ned, Nellie, Chester, Lady Ghost.

August 4, 2004 - 09:27 am
It has a rhythm in the story it is telling. I like it. You can feel the train moving if you sort of squint your eyes and read the poem shutting out everything else.

August 4, 2004 - 09:32 am
What images in the horse poem.!!!!!

The starkness of the euthanasia is difficult- as it is for every cherished companion we choose to help.

August 4, 2004 - 10:12 am
Well I sat here and cried as I remembered Ol'Horse who had many cancers and the vet said, The kindest thing to do...and Joe, the ranch manager said he would do it. He did exactly as the poem so eloquently protrays and Ol'Horse has been feeding the flowers by Pelter Creek every since then. faith

August 4, 2004 - 09:05 pm
I posted one of Julian's poems in the other discussion, "Poetry Challenge," a little bit ago and thought I would post this one here. He is an old friend and this is another poem from one of his books. These are my people, and when I read this poem, I hear the death songs; I see everything Julian describes as clearly as a photograph. It is a poignant but beautiful picture.

© Julian Quarles, Hampshire County

Old as he was,
the Indian held the Shining
spoke of the Spirit Way,
taught us of raids
and drowned river ice
as far as Crow Mountain.
He called it Tastshe-wah.

And he said:
I will show you of shields,
Medicine, of Stone-that-leaps-fire
and He-Who-Cradles-Sky

In the grey windfall,
his breath was The People.
Antelope-headed, he prayed
in the Old Way
with only a stick and a
thong of striped feathers.

The Song of the Owl
we'd never suspected.

Silence came to him
out of the stone hills.
He knew by then
that Death was a Woman,
knew by only the silhouette
of things
whence Power came,
and gave us our Vision
by rattle of hare bones
shook in a circle.

I was ten, sister thirteen,
spelled by his ghosts,
wearing the ankle-bones
like charms.
From the high haywagon
he spoke of Whole Earth, While Sky,
and painted our cheeks
with bright blue crescents,
making us strong.

His name meant Bird-Who Waits,
and when he died
shadow of orchid flared
from the temples of bare rock,
and cool dust
rose like an aura into
the stars' syntax.

It was the Way
the still havens
we know rustled with shells
and stones,
and we alone
heard under the spirit dark
the ancient whistling of geese
at last
across the Washita.

August 4, 2004 - 09:33 pm
Liz is a long-time friend and SeniorNetter from AOL, although I don't know if she has been there of late, because I have not. She is a remarkable poet and writer/storyteller, and also a word traveler and world-class photographer. She is published all over the place and you can find her books by typing "Liz Larrabee" in quotes in any search engine.

She also has a couple of websites, one of which I made for her, for some of her photography. If you go to this link, you can see her photography there and there is also a link to one of her earlier books, "Random Pieces," poetry about her memories of the depression. http://www.fortunecity.com/victorian/thumbnail/887/index.html

Free Food © Elizabeth Larrabee

Have you ever stood in line at the commissary on Rantoul Street, the storefront where depression-poor people picked up grapefruit, eggs, butter, cheese? Leftovers.

Well, Mama and Papa weren't so happy about having to take a hand-out from the government but to tell the truth I looked forward to Thursday afternoons. And holding Papa's hand in the long line. Waiting to see if perhaps there might be? Oranges.

August 5, 2004 - 08:04 am
Two wonderful poems ..and the second one is one I know about..My father was a railroad man and was never unemployed but I had a number of friends were truly affected by the depression..I know that regular collections of clothing etc were given out at school along with canned goods.

I am glad my children and grandchildren have always had access to fresh fruit year around but I dont think they will ever feel the joy of finding an orange or an apple in thier Christmas stockings. All fruit when I was young was seasonal and to this day I can recall the pleasure of the first apples in the fall appearing at the grocery store, oranges and tangerines and my favorite pears Each was treated like a jewel ,, wrapped in special tissue..I always felt if I had been Eve it would not have been an apple tree that would have appealed but a pear tree.

One other thing as I see my grandchildrens closets full of clothes ..while I was an only girl and never wore hand me downs from an older sister I was the recipient of some wonderful home made clothes from older girls in our neighborhood. My mother was a skilled seamtress and made all of my clothes but the clothes from some the girls in the neighborhood were really very original and had the look of expensive fabric and detailing my mother never used.

Some of my freinds were embarrassed to admit the clothes they wore were not new ..but not me...I felt so proud they had given me these lovely garments. I sometimes look at the clothes my family buys for thier children ..and think ..these are the tackiest clothes I have ever seen..LOL we would NEVER have been caught in some of these garments ...how times have changed!! anna

August 5, 2004 - 03:59 pm
A Red Box

She searched through the cupboards again
hoping she might have missed something.
But she hadn’t.
Alone on the shelf
sat a half empty jar
of peanut butter.

And at the table
sat five children.

She searched through her purse.
Four pennies.
She ran her hand down
between the cushions on the sofa.
What’s this?
A Nickel? Yes, her heart leapt.
Hope surged where none had been.

“God don’t let me down.”

Nine cents. What can you buy
with nine cents?
She continued the search,
in the medicine chest.
her housecoat pocket
the toy box.
And then in the window sill
behind the bed
she spotted something
gleaming in the sun.
Three pennies.
Three pennies.
Now she had twelve cents
wrapped in a handkerchief
clutched in her hand
she walked to the store.
Twelve cents.
“What can I get for twelve cents?
Bread? No that’s thirty-one cents.
Muffin mix? Sometimes it’s on sale
five for a dollar.
No. That would be twenty cents.”

When there on the shelf
sat a single box of crackers.
She checked the price.
Twelve cents.

a feast
comes in a red box.


August 5, 2004 - 06:00 pm
Your poem made me weep..I dont have anything to share this moment that could meet your poem..love ,anna

August 5, 2004 - 10:02 pm
The last two poems put me in mind of a period in my life. They are well in the past. Who said, that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger. How nice to see it was a poetic time and now I'm looking back and smiling.

August 6, 2004 - 06:48 am
That is a very astute observation ..good to see you here. I have found a poem about August although it does not remind me of the Augusts of my childhood. It is a month that always made me sad. The end to my freedom. Summer as a child was a lazy time but only in a small way for it was spent in special ways and looked forward to for the picnics, the trips to a park to find some shade and a cool breath neath the trees, homemade ice cream, sleeping on the porch..reading , reading, reading...no teachers admonition to apply myself, no books I had not chosen. Now all was endng, mother was busy making new clothes for school , a trip to the stores for new shoes, notebooks, pencils..all the accouterments needed for another school year.None of which is mentioned in this poem but it made me feel August...anna

In August 

FROM the great trees the locusts cry In quavering ecstatic duo--a boy Shouts a wild call--a mourning dove In the blue distance sobs--the wind Wanders by, heavy with odors Of corn and wheat and melon vines; The trees tremble with delirious joy as the breeze Greets them, one by one--now the oak Now the great sycamore, now the elm.

And the locusts in brazen chorus, cry Like stricken things, and the ring-dove's note Sobs on in the dim distance.

Hamlin Garland

August 6, 2004 - 10:50 am
Magnetic Poetry ©Karen Weston 08-08-2004

Onstage coffeehouse: Enter Callow Youth, Emaciated Uniformed: Undershirt, tattered jeans, sandals Sunglasses, beret; Cape ceremoniously discarded. Painfully studied disinterest Slouches onto a stool, Stifles a practiced yawn; Cigarette dangles from chapped lips. Trancelike affectation, Stuck in the Sixties. Random words, Chosen blindfolded from a box, Loosely related, Sonorously intoned. Believes these ramblings deathless prose. Tragic but amusing.


I love the kind of poem you just posted... it really paints a picture in my mind. One can feel August in that poem. Although I seem to be railling this morning, I do enjoy "abstract" poetry, also, as long as it can evoke something and isn't just some formula stringing of nonsense together and calling it poetry. I liken that to "The Emperor's New Clothes," but I do realize that others might enjoy it and find something in it that I don't. I also enjoy abstract art and saw some STUNNING stuff last night. My jaw is still dropped.

August 6, 2004 - 12:05 pm
Perhaps it is our age but you have caught what I remember from the 60's ..I used to wonder if my mild youthful rebellion bored my parents as much as some of my oldest daughter's friends ,,,well described in your poem ............bored me...anna

August 6, 2004 - 03:24 pm
I think I would kind of like it if some of my kids friends had rebelled. As silly as some of those rebels were, they at least recognized that they were building a new life and had the possibility of making something different, instead of thewholesale buying into life as seen on TV of my kids friends.

I really liked In August -- it did bring back my childhood, not so much in detail, but in mood.

August 6, 2004 - 03:26 pm
Maryal posted this poem in the discussion of The Wasteland:

Ars Poetica 

A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit, Dumb As old medallions to the thumb, Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges where the moss has grown-- A poem should be wordless As the flight of birds.

A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs, Leaving, as the moon releases Twig by twig the night-entangled trees, Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves. Memory by memory the mind-- A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs.

A poem should be equal to: Not true. For all the history of grief An empty doorway and a maple leaf. For love The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea-- A poem should not mean But be.

--Archibald MacLeish

August 6, 2004 - 04:43 pm
That's a wonderful poem. I had just suggested in Poetry Challenge that we write a poem about poetry... or poets... and here you are, having read my mind.

August 7, 2004 - 07:04 am
Thanks for bringing that poem to our attention...and it is so the way I feel about poetry. I wrote a little poem once about poetry ..and it said I dont want to dissect you, try to find why, I just want to enjoy you to let you be and reveal yourself to only me...anna just in case you think the last line reveals a selfish bent what I meant was each person who reads a poem sees and feels it alone. What it means to one person it will speak differently to another..so I just love the poem and say HOORAY he captured my feelings perfectly..anna

August 7, 2004 - 07:08 am
Have spent an hour trying to find just the right poem to share today. I cant really tell you why this one said POST ME but it did and here it is ..anna


Summer Dawn By William Morris 1834-1896

PRAY but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, Think but one thought of me up in the stars. The summer night waneth, the morning light slips Faint and gray 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars, That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold Waits to float through them along with the sun. Far out in the meadows, above the young corn, The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun; Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn Round the lone house in the midst of the corn. Speak but one word to me over the corn, Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn.

August 7, 2004 - 06:39 pm
The following is not poetry, exactly; more like prose masquerading as verse. But still, it has a certain rhythm that appeals to me. Trevor.


I like working near a door. I like to have my work-bench close by, with a locker handy.

Here, the cold creeps in under the big doors, and in the summer hot dust swirls, clogging the nose.
When the big doors open to admit a truck-load of steel, conditions do not improve.
Even so, I put up with it,
and wouldn't care to shift to another bench, away from the big doors.

As one may imagine, this is a noisy place with smoke rising,
machines thumping and thrusting, people kneading,
shaping, and putting things together.
Because I am nearest to the big doors
I am the furtherest away from those who have to come down to shout instructions in my ear.

I am the first to greet strangers who drift
in through the open doors looking for work.
I give them as much information as they require,
direct them to the offices,
and acknowledge the casual recognition that one worker signs to another.

I can always tell the look on the faces
of the successful ones as they hurry away.
The look on the faces of the unlucky I know also,
but cannot easily forget.

I have worked here for fifteen months.
It's too good to last.
Orders will fall off
and there will be a reduction in staff.
More people than we can cope with
will be bought in from other lands:
people who are also looking
for something more real, more lasting,
more permanent maybe, than dying....
I really ought to be looking for another job
before the axe falls.

These thoughts I push away, I think that I am lucky
to have a position by the big doors which open out
to a short alley leading to the main street; console myself
that if the worst happened I at least
would have no great distance to carry my gear and tool-box off the premises.

I always like working near a door. I always look for a work-bench hard by -- in case an Earthquake occurs and a fire breaks out, you know ?


August 7, 2004 - 08:40 pm
I can see why this appeals to you and I wish I had heard better in my classes for I know we covered poems just like this one. I still have all the notes and fact sheets from my classes. Everyone helped as much as they could but still my hearing is so poor I missed a lot.

Does anyone know what this type of poetry is called? You have posted poems by this poet before and he writes in a very powerful way ..You can feel the worry in this man's voice but notice he remains helpful?How easy it would be to try to push people looking for a job away to keep his secure. And even as he worries and even dispairs he sees some positive reasons why he is lucky to be located by those doors in case something unlikely occurs.. I love this poem and the man he writes about..

What a great attitude..I just love it all..thanks so much for stopping off and sharing this with us.

BTW as we approach autummn where are you in the cycle of seasons? thanks again..good thoughts to you and yours ..anna

August 7, 2004 - 08:41 pm
I enjoyed that poem... it sure did convey the poet's feelings and a picture of his working life and motivation.

Poetry/poems don't have to rhyme... and that poem sure as shootin' meets the definition of poetry. Thanks for sharing!

This particular piece falls under the category of "free verse," as do many great poems. Free verse doesn't usually rhyme, usually has lines of all different lengths, and there isn't any metrical pattern.

Prose is ordinary written or spoken language, so prose poems are ordinary language gussied up as in (1) suggestive power as well as... sense, and (2) intensity of imagination, below.

poem noun 1 a composition in verse, usually characterized by concentrated and heightened language in which words are chosen for their sound and suggestive power as well as for their sense, and using such techniques as metre, rhyme, and alliteration

2 a literary composition that is not in verse but exhibits the intensity of imagination and language common to it example: a prose poem

3 anything resembling a poem in beauty, effect, etc.

August 7, 2004 - 08:59 pm
Thanks so much for sharing that information I was hoping you would stop by and tell us in what category this poem belonged. When I read your definitions I remembered.. I knew it was a poem ..but couldnt recall the material from my class. I tried very hard to make sure I understood and read all the fact sheets given but that has been 4 years ago and now I just write. hugs to you . hope your grandson had a wonderful birthday..anna

August 7, 2004 - 09:17 pm
Great birthday for Drewie and thanks! His step-grandma and step-great grandma and grandpa drove all this way to spend it with him. We had a party at Chuck-E-Cheese and thank heavens for pre-existing partial loss of hearing.

Thanks for the vote of confidence, but as you said before, I really think that it's better for all of us to simply enjoy the poetry and not worry too much about the details when doing so, like forms and meter and whatnot. I really think we could get so mired down in that sort of thing that we would miss the point of the poetry.

It's like riding in a car and thinking I have to know all about the make and model and the workings of an internal combustion engine...LOL!!! All I really care about is the color, the line, and bottom line, the most important thing is whether it gets me from point A to point B.

On the other hand, I think it's fun and good exercise to read about and maybe try different forms, just to change our own rhythms, joggle them about, and open them up a bit. I also thought it was fun to learn about the internal combustion engine, but my tires still go flat, as do many of my poems.

August 8, 2004 - 12:09 am
ZINNIA: I agree completely, and am sorry I've been guilty of that.

I laughed about Chuckie Cheeses. I'm not sure Chuckie Cheeses isn't responsible for many of our hearing losses. LOL I'm going to be visiting my grands in a few weeks, and am thinking of bringing ear plugs.

August 8, 2004 - 12:44 am
THE OLD BUSH SCHOOL by John O'Brien 'Tis a queer, old battered landmark that belongs to other years;
With the dog-leg fence around it, and its hat about its ears,
And the cow-bell in the gum-tree, and the bucket on the stool,
There's a motley host of memories round that old bush school -

With its seedy desks and benches, where at least I left a name
Carved in agricultural letters - 'twas my only bid for fame;
And the spider-haunted ceilings, and the rafters, firmly set,
Lined with darts of nibs and paper (doubtless sticking in them yet),
And the greasy slates and blackboards, where I oft was proved a fool
And a blur upon the scutcheon of the old bush school.

There I see the boots in order - "'lastic-sides" we used to wear -
With a pair of "everlastin's" cracked and dustry here and there;
And we marched with great "high action" - hands behind and eyes before -
While we murdered "Swanee River" as we tramped around the floor.

Still the scholars pass before me with their freckled features grave,
And a nickname fitting better than the name their mothers gave;
Tousled hair and vacant faces, and their garments every one
Shabby heirlooms in the family, handed down from sire to son.
Ay, and mine were patched in places, and half-masted, as a rule -
They were fashionable trousers at the old bush school.

There I trudged it from the Three-mile, like a patient, toiling brute,
With a stocking round my ankle, and my heart within my boot,
Morgan, Nell and Michael Joseph, Jim and Mary, Kate and Mart
Tramping down the sheep-track with me, little rebels at the heart;
Shivery grasses round about us nodding bonnets in the breeze,
Happy Jacks and Twelve Apostles hurdle-racing up the trees,
Peewees calling from the gullies, living wonders in the pool -
Hard bare seats and drab gray humdrum at the old bush school.

Early rising in the half-light, when the morn came, bleak and chill;
For the little mother roused us ere the sun had topped the hill,
"Up, you children, late 'tis gettin'." Shook the house beneath her knock,
And she wasn't always truthful, and she tampered with the clock.

Keen she was about "the learnin'," and she told us o'er and o'er
Of our luck to have "the schoolin"' right against our very door.
And the lectures - Oh, those lectures to our stony hearts addressed!
"Don't he mixin' with the Regans and the Ryans and the rest" -
"Don't be pickin' up with Carey's little talkative kanats" -
Well, she had us almost thinking we were born aristocrats.
But we found our level early - in disaster, as a rule -
For they knocked "the notions" sideways at the old bush school.

Down the road came Laughing Mary, and the beast that she bestrode
Was Maloney's sorry piebald she had found beside the road;
Straight we scrambled up behind her, and as many as could fit
Clung like circus riders bare-back without bridle-rein or bit,
On that corrugated backbone in a merry row we sat -
We propelled him with our school-bags; Mary steered him with her hat -
And we rolled the road behind us like a ribbon from the spool,
"Making butter," so we called it, to the old bush school.

What a girl was Mary Casey in the days of long ago!
She was queen among the scholars, or at least we thought her so;
She was first in every mischief and, when overwhelmed by fate,
She could make delightful drawings of the teacher on her slate.
There was rhythm in every movement, as she gaily passed along
With a rippling laugh that lilted like the music of a song;
So we called her "Laughing Mary," and a fitful fancy blessed
E'en the bashful little daisies that her dainty feet caressed.

She had cheeks like native roses in the fullness of their bloom,
And she used to sing the sweetest as we marched around the room;
In her eyes there lurked the magic, maiden freshness of the morn,
In her hair the haunting colour I had seen upon the corn;
Round her danced the happy sunshine when she smiled upon the stool -
And I used to swap her dinners at the old bush school.

Hard the cobbled road of knowledge to the feet of him who plods
After fragile fragments fallen from the workshop of the gods;
Long the quest, and ever thieving pass the pedlars o'er the hill
With the treasures in their bundles, but to leave us questing still.
Mystic fires horizons redden, but each crimson flash in turn
Only lights the empty places in the bracken and the fern;
So in after years I've proved it, spite of pedant, crank, and fool,
Very much the way I found it at the old bush school.

Not too sure whether you will enjoy this, some wonderful poems written here and thought you may like to read an Australian poem, that does not have great literary merit, but tells a great tale.

The Marist Brothers taught it to me in primary school, and we rote learned it, so I can still repeat most of it unassisted. It is still to be decided whether that was good teaching, but sure enjoy walking around with a head full of poetry in my old age.I had been looking on here and practising how to submit so hope I have it right.

August 8, 2004 - 01:41 am
That's really enjoyable!! I didn't go to a school like that, but reading the poem, I began to believe that I had.

I also had to learn poems by heart in school. Unfortunately, I remember only fragments now.

August 8, 2004 - 03:11 am
You have posted the poem in the right place...thanks so much ..like Joan when you read it you almost feel you attended a school like that ..and to me that will always be a successful poem ...one that takes you along and makes you feel you were there...

I cant remember if any teacher had us memorize poetry or not ..all I know my head is full of bit and parts of poems I did memorize. Once in awhile a whole poem will come back and it gives me great joy to recite it out loud. I feel so smart LOL

Please share more ...for poetry lovers each poem is like cooling rain after a hot dusty day ...anna

August 8, 2004 - 08:37 am
Great fun reading the bush school poem. Thanks.

I had a teacher who "made" us memorize large sections of poems like "Hiawatha".

August 8, 2004 - 10:32 am
How lovely that you've come here to join us and I see that you've added some info to your profile, which really helps us all get to know you.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading that poem and I really do think it has a great deal of merit, literary and otherwise. I've been a fan of Australia and things Australian for about thirty years, and you've added a nice bit to it.

C.J. Dennis is one of my favorites and I have one of his books. And now I'll have to check up on the author of the poem you posted because I really enjoyed that one. The pictures it painted and the feelings it evoked were marvelous.

Have you also been to the "Poetry Challenge" discussion here on SeniorNet?

I remember memorizing and reciting in school (at least one teacher called it "declaiming" and encouraged us to be dramatic). I always thought it was a grand thing to do, although I was quite shy and small-voiced when it came my turn. They don't do it here anymore and I think it's a tragic loss for children not to be exposed to a lot of poetry when they are young. I just recently read, also, how much it helps improve thinking skills and brain function, calming the brain in some way.

Anna - I don't think you are guilty of anything at all. I don't think it wrong at all to be curious about forms or to try to learn them, or to try to figure out what form something might be. Like you, though, I hope people will come here and not be discouraged thinking they have to know all the academics of poetry, rather than just enjoying what they enjoy.

Someone mentioned somewhere that there are three venues for poetry here on SeniorNet and I keep forgetting to ask if you know where I can find the third. I've never seen it in all my time here.

EDIT: I found it here: Vic Tory "Poets Press#4" 9/15/03 8:45am It says it is the place to post our original poems. Don't know why I never noticed it.

August 8, 2004 - 10:39 am
I can still recite "Barbara Fritchie" and "Flanders Fields" and quite a lot of "Sonnets from the Portuguese." I can also remember a lot of the dramatics when we had the teacher who was so enamored of "declaiming." But at least she taught us to try and get the feeling of the poetry, rather than simply chanting the words. Ah... Miss Wills! What a gift you gave us!

Miss Wills was a spinster who lived alone with a beloved and pampered Boston Bull Terrier; black dress, white lace collar, affected a British accent but often lapsed, and "teddibly, teddibly" dramatic. She always cautioned the girls to keep the shades drawn at night... LOLOLOL!!

Gosh.. I've gone on an incredible jaunt down memory lane because of Rob's post and those that followed!



August 8, 2004 - 01:48 pm
Karen! Miss Willis sounds like a character for a novel. Thanks for the memory picture.


August 8, 2004 - 02:39 pm
I really cant remember if I had a teacher that encourage us to memorize a poem..but with Rob's posted poem and all this talk of memorizing I remembered a poem I had memorized..HA HA how many memorizes can fit in a post??

This afternoon I had need to do some shopping and while in the car I found myself reciting various poems..this is one I found stored in whatever special place was created for remembering..

I checked it out and found it is a much longer poem and I dont think I have ever read it all but here is the part I recalled and it was delicious to walk down the path that led to this poem. anna
The Barefoot Boy  
John Greenleaf Whittier 

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy, - I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art, - the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, - Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

August 8, 2004 - 03:01 pm
When I found part of the poem I shared the whole poem was there with lovely oldfashioned paintings..they reminded me of some of my old books with delicate illustrations..I didnt copy the url thinking it would be no problem to return and give it to you..I am sorry to say this time when I typed in the same thing I was taken to a number of places...and none was the first one..so if yuo are interested in reading the whole poem I will allow you to research ..anna

August 8, 2004 - 05:21 pm
ZINNIA & ANNA thanks for pointing out that 'prose poems' have a legitimate place in the world of poetry. I expect that rhyming verse, with its more rhythmic metre, is, like popular song, much more easy to remember and recite, or sing.

And those like me, who could never write poetry, not even doggerel, can get our pleasure in reciting rhyming verses committed long years ago, perhaps to school child memory.== Trevor

August 8, 2004 - 07:06 pm
Whilst we are down memory lane.


SOFTLY along the road of evening,
In a twilight dim with rose,
Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew
Old Nod, the shepherd, goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him,
Their fleeces charged with gold,
To where the sun's last beam leans low
On Nod the shepherd's fold.

The hedge is quick and green with briar,
From their sand the conies creep;
And all the birds that fly in heaven
Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
Yet, when night's shadows fall,
His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,
Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,
The waters of no-more-pain;
His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
"Rest, rest, and rest again."


Well you are an interesting bunch. Zinnia I should have mentioned John O'Brien wrote The Old Bush School,he was a prolific Australian writer, not as popular as Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson, but well respected nevertheless.Trevor I can't write verse to save my life either, am in awe of those who can, its a particular talent I believe.

August 8, 2004 - 11:54 pm
I had a lovely High School teacher, Mr. Rabkin. To be honest, he had the face of a bulldog but the spirit of a prince. He made all of us memorize the introduction to "The Canterbury Tales". I never realized poetry could be so vile. I have been a devotee of poetry from that forth. He may have been unorthodox, but he knew how to recruit poetry fans.

August 9, 2004 - 12:36 am
ROBATKIN: ah, Banjo Patterson. Waltzing Matlda was one of the songs we memorized a kids, even though as Yanks, we didn't understand half of it! Could you share some more Australian poetry?

August 9, 2004 - 12:41 am
I used to love to memorize poems when I was a kid -- the longer and more romantic the better. Did anyone else fall in love with The Highwayman when they were a girl?


August 9, 2004 - 05:13 am
I am enjoying all the poems ...and yes Rob please give us more Autralian poems and Trevor you too!

Joan I loved the Highway Man ..but couldnt get the link to work..I loved the dramatic poems since I could "declaim" isnt that the word Zinnia's teacher used?? I think children are by nature dramatic and if not suppressed enjoy being so. So it is a bit sad poetry isnt promoted as a subject.

For some reason I found the link to the whole of The Barefoot Boy and hope if interested you will click on the link and enjoy the poem and the lovely illustrations ..anna


August 9, 2004 - 11:06 am
This poem caught my eye .when I was in my 20's and studying some of the great philosphers I made a startling discovery..To me it seemed there is no truly original thought ..for every thing I thought was original with me had already been said by someone else. Men of reknown and history.

I consider myself a WHY? child Always asking WHY this and why that ..and the one thing that has always intrigued me was why was a tree called a tree, why is grass said to be green or a rose a rose and who decided to call red red??

So when I found this poem I had to smile and share it with you.. Howard Nemerov was born in 1920..Eventually graduated from Harvard, was a pilot in the Royal Canadien group of the US Army Air Corp WWII...After the war he married and began a distinguished career teaching at various Universities ending up at Washington U in 1969 where he was Distinguished Poet in Residence .He stayed there until his death in 1991. He was USA Poet Laureate from 1988-1990 anna

The Makers 
by Howard Nemerov 

Who can remember back to the first poets, The greatest ones, greater even than Orpheus? No one has remembered that far back Or now considers, among the artifacts, And bones and cantilevered inference The past is made of, those first and greatest poets, So lofty and disdainful of renown They left us not a name to know them by.

They were the ones that in whatever tongue Worded the world, that were the first to say Star, water, stone, that said the visible And made it bring invisibles to view In wind and time and change, and in the mind Itself that minded the hitherto idiot world And spoke the speechless world and sang the towers Of the city into the astonished sky.

They were the first great listeners, attuned To interval, relationship, and scale, The first to say above, beneath, beyond, Conjurors with love, death, sleep, with bread and wine, Who having uttered vanished from the world Leaving no memory but the marvelous Magical elements, the breathing shapes And stops of breath we build our Babels of.

August 9, 2004 - 02:12 pm
I can even see fodder for a couple of haiku there... I wonder if that would be plagiarism.

Joan Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! The Highwayman! I surely do remember thinking how romantic he was.

Robatkin - I really love what I have read of Banjo Patterson and I'm enjoying John O'Brien as well. It has also solved a mystery for me because I had read part of "TANGMALANGALOO" before but didn't know the name or the author.

Anthology - Hello and nice to meet you. I loved your description of your teacher. I truly do believe that they gave us a priceless gift in teaching (and sometimes forcing us to learn) poetry. I'm saddened that there's not enough of it taught in the primary and secondary schools here anymore.

August 9, 2004 - 02:39 pm
Humanity i love you

because you wuold rather black the boots of

success than enquire whose soul dangles from his

watch-chain which would be embrassing for both

parties and because you

unflinchingly applaud all

songs containing the words country home and

mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because

when you're hard up you pawn your

intelligence to buy a drink and when

you're flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shop and

because you are continually committing

nuisances but more

especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you

are prepetually putting the secret of

life in your pants and forgetting

it's there and sitting down

on it

and because you are

forever making poems in the lap

of death Humanity

hate you.

I can't begin to understand this poem, but I think every time I read a newspaper or watch TV I have the same feelings toward "Humanity."

August 9, 2004 - 02:47 pm
I suspect he is saying that he loves humanity and finds it interesting to observe because humans are so human... we all have feet of clay.

August 9, 2004 - 03:08 pm
We Yanks often find words we don't understand when reading Australian poetry, so I thought I would offer this link to The Macquaries Dictionary of Slang. http://www.macquariedictionary.com.au/anonymous@582202071+0/-/p/dict/slang.html

Macquaries is the widely-used dictionary in Oz, like our Webster's, et. al., but this is just the dictionary of slang, not the "real" Macquaries.

There are many other Aussie slang sites online, but a lot of them have words that aren't likely to be found in poetry, much less in polite company... LOL!

We also have to bear in mind that we have differing views of what is rough talk and what is not, same as we do with the English (Pommies).

August 9, 2004 - 04:38 pm
Bob - I am a student of strine, and have learned a fair bit, but I'd like to ask what are "Happy Jacks," (I think it's a kind of bird but I'm not sure and it doesn't sound like a bird in the poem), "Twelve Apostles," and those talkative "kanats." I can't find any of them in Macquaries or anywhere else.

Hugs and thanks,


August 9, 2004 - 07:00 pm
That's the second time in a row my links didn't work. here is The Highwayman link again:


August 9, 2004 - 07:04 pm
Eureka!! It's been driving me nuts. I tried to quote a poem to someone the other day, and couldn't find the reference. You know how it is: I couldn't let it go till I found it.

By the Japanese author Mori Ogai:

A poem should be like a crystal bowl filled with ice – deliciously transparent, leaving no spot invisible.

August 9, 2004 - 09:07 pm
Son of Mine (To Denis)
by Oodgeroo Noonuccal previously known as Kath Walker

My son, your troubled eyes search mine,
Puzzled and hurt by colour line.
Your black skin as soft as velvet shine;
What can I tell you, son of mine?

I could tell you of heartbreak, hatred blind,
I could tell you of crimes that shame mankind,
Of brutal wrong and deeds malign,
Of rape and murder, son of mine;

But I'll tell you instead of brave and fine
When lives of black and white entwine,
And men in brotherhood combine--
This would I tell you, son of mine

The above poem was written by an indigenous poet, who in later life took on a tribal name, and was very well respected here. She is a genuine Australian, Joan. So glad you like the Aussie poetry. I enjoyed going back to the Highwayman, as well, great stuff.

Re the language problem, Zinnia, kanat means undersized, useless and perky and it is assumed it is a corruption of gnat. Twelve apostles alias apostle birds grey birds with brown wings. Happy jacks, lousey jacks, happy families are all odd names given to Gray-crowned Babblers, a group of birds that tended to hang around the farms and chicken coops making incessant noise. Neither species is particularly attractive, and I can still remember my Mum hurling things at them through the kitchen window, when they started their raucous "laughter".

The verse about humanity touched a cord with me, had never struck it before. This is a great forum Anna, nice way to relax, read a bit of poetry before my afternoon kip.

August 10, 2004 - 03:48 am
Rob I too find this a great place...and am so glad you have found us for you add an extra dimension to this "home". To say I love poetry would be an understatement since it has been there for me since I was a child. It has comforted me , delighted me, strengthened me and educated me. It is concise ..often one poem will be equivilent to reading a whole book.

And I love that a computer brings us together and makes us "one world"

Today I will be acting as a patient advocate in a program our church sponsors. A gentleman who has no family here except his church family will be undergoing surgery. I will take him to the hospital where our pastor will meet us for prayer and comfort.He is having a lamnectomy to relieve pressure on his spine. 3 years ago he underwent triple by pass and then a round of chemotherapy for lymphoma found in his lungs when they did the pre-op for the by pass. The chemo has damaged his bones and he has been trying Pt for 4 small fractures in the lower vertebrae..

I expect this to be a long day and am taking a book, a notebook, pens so I can write if I am inspired and good thoughts for a complete recovery. But it also means I most likely wont be here.Although when he had the by pass the hospital where it was performed had computers in the cafeteria and you could eat in a sort of nook and check your email etc. NOW isnt that wonderful? technology never ceases to amaze me.

In fact modern medicine amazes me too...everyone who stops by today please hold him in your thoughts. hopefully before I go to bed tonight I can give you a report. hugs all around ..anna

August 10, 2004 - 06:17 pm
Joan! Love that Japanese poem

"Son of Mine" is remarkable!

How went the day, Anna?

August 11, 2004 - 02:36 am
Everything went well. It was a long day and I am still tired, John looked great and rested after surgery but of course he slept through it while I waited in nice looking waiting room in what for me were uncomfortable sofas and chairs. They were attractive and full of soft ,cushioned seats but I am only 5' and if I sit with my back against the back of the sofa my feet stick out so to have my feet at least near the floor I have to sort of perch and after awhile it is just plain tiresome..I just got up and walked around the area a bit and waited. We were there at 10:30 and he was taken to surgery at noon with the operation scheduled for 12:45. It was nearly 5PM before he was in his room. And I was only allowed to wait there about 10 min before he arrived. Our pastor was there in the AM and we had a prayer and he returned about 30 minutes after John was in the room to offer thanks.

As soon as I could see he was comfortable about 6:30 I left to go home so I could call his family in Iowa, take care of my dog, and a another friend took me out to eat. By the time I was in my home it was nearly 9..John called and sounded really great ..to ask I bring some of his medicine back. He had been told to bring all of his medicine to the hospital but they said I had to take it away. However he has to take calcium and codliver oil which they dont provide so I have to take that in this am and also his glasses which I forgotten to leave for him . Also he asked if I would stop and bring him one of those Angus Beef hamburgers for lunch. LOL

I looked up a poem on being a friend and chose one by Edgar Guest who was a daily contributer to the St Louis Globe Democrat when I was a young girl. He has been called America's favorite poet by many and by some not so great. However for this young reader his poems started me on my life long love of poetry. So here is the poem I chose, anna

Be a Friend

Be a friend. You don't need money; Just a disposition sunny; Just the wish to help another Get along some way or other; Just a kindly hand extended Out to one who's unbefriended; Just the will to give or lend, This will make you someone's friend.

Be a friend. You don't need glory. Friendship is a simple story. Pass by trifling errors blindly, Gaze on honest effort kindly, Cheer the youth who's bravely trying, Pity him who's sadly sighing; Just a little labor spend On the duties of a friend.

Be a friend. The pay is bigger (Though not written by a figure) Than is earned by people clever In what's merely self-endeavor. You'll have friends instead of neighbors For the profits of your labors; You'll be richer in the end Than a prince, if you're a friend.

-- Edgar A. Guest

August 11, 2004 - 08:56 am
Great news about John! Sounds like he's already well on his way to recovery. And you, my friend, are the epitome of friends! Your crown will surely be blindingly brilliant!

Love and hugs,


August 11, 2004 - 02:45 pm
I've been checking this message board daily.. but lots going on in my life right now so haven't been posting much.. Would like to say "Son of Mine" really touched me. Fantastic. How I love poetry that reaches, grabs and holds on..


August 12, 2004 - 01:40 am
Anna: so pleased things went well with John. You're a great friend (but I knew that).

August 13, 2004 - 10:15 am
While looking for something else, I found this poem about onr of my favorite birds:

The Mocking Bird I. Then first a liquid joy should float From out the native wilding's throat. With frenzied eye, and quivering wing, And 'passioned power that bird should sing; With wild and mounting rhapsody As though he pined to pierce the sky; And when the last full marvel fell There should be silence like a spell.

August 13, 2004 - 12:14 pm
A friend sent these today-----

The food in my bowl Is old, and more to the point Contains no tuna.


So you want to play. Will I claw at dancing string? Your ankle's closer.


There's no dignity In being sick - which is why I don't tell you where.


Seeking solitude I am locked in the closet. For once I need you.


Tiny can, dumped in Plastic bowl. Presentation, One star; service: none.


Am I in your way? You seem to have it backwards: This pillow's taken.


Your mouth is moving; Up and down, emitting noise. I've lost interest.


The dog wags it's tail, Seeking approval. See mine? Different message.


My brain: walnut-sized. Yours: largest among primates. Yes, who leaves for work?


Most problems can be Ignored. The more difficult Ones can be slept through.


My affection is conditional. Don't stand up, It's your lap I love.


Cats can't steal the breath Of children. But if my tail's Pulled again, I'll learn.


I don't mind being Teased, any more than you mind A skin graft or two.


So you call this thing Your "cat carrier." I call These my "blades of death."


Toy mice, dancing yarn Meowing sounds, I'm convinced: You're an idiot.

August 13, 2004 - 12:27 pm
I'm rolling on the floor... hahahahahahahaha! Thanks, Joan!!!!! And because of you, I ended up here: http://pweb.jps.net/~msmat/htmlpages/kittyhaiku.html and laughed some more. LOL!

August 13, 2004 - 01:09 pm
Those are great, Karen. Thanks. Especially the last one!!!! IT was me posting those others , not Joan. That's ok.

August 13, 2004 - 02:12 pm
Oh! I love them. They're so cool! It's been so hot here lately I've been checking on my kitty every hour or so. I usually crawl along the floor checking under beds, in closets, behind bookshelves etc. All the time calling her. But does she answer, NO! Than I discover she's right behind me looking at me with a weird look on her face as if to say: "If it weren't so hot and I didn't need you to fill my water bowl I'd send you to the "nut-house." When you stop and think about it, she kenw where she was - it was me who is the crazy one!

August 13, 2004 - 05:58 pm
It wasn't me who sent them, but I wish it had been. I sent both Marj and Zinnia's to a friend who just joined Seniornet. Thanks.

August 13, 2004 - 06:12 pm
I guess I was having head murmurs from laughing so much! LOLOL!!!

August 15, 2004 - 08:20 am
I found this today looking for things about the end of summer.

Summer's End, Saskatchewan

By Lorna Crozier

Swaths of wheat cross the fields in currents so thick they cannot move. Summer run-off. How much ripeness they must carry, how much light caught in stalk and seed head. I want to float down their clotted water, my body's sails catching the heart's held breath. It takes me nowhere, this slow flux, the rows stopped in mid-motion, the day's long lethargy. Wind minnows flicker in streams of wheat, in the lingering of an eye, golden like the goat's at the edge of the field where the grass isn't cut. His horizontal pupils slant the light, making everything lie down.

Lorna Crozier became well known to a national audience beyond the usual poetry-reading crowd when Peter Gzowski made her his virtual poet in residence for his great morning show on CBC radio. Her lyrical works attend intimately to the relationship between humans and the earth, both in her native Saskatchewan and in Vancouver Island, where she lives today

August 15, 2004 - 10:21 pm
I had a great laugh at the kitty haikus ...and sent them to my daughter who is like me a cat lover..and she has a cat that could write her own haikus being a secret cat ..named Zoie...her movements and her antics are humorous poems in the making...and thanks for that summer poem Marj..years ago when I was young and accompanied my aunt and uncle on thier vacations we drove across the wheat fields ..and I must confess I am not sure of the state but the wheat was packed and full of golden grain ..and like the poem it was like watching a clotted water..but still its heavy waves just took your breath away..I have never forgotten that view and her poem captures it perfectly ..I can close my eyes and see it there...

We have been in a flux here of preparation for a visit from the southern hurricanes that have devasted Florida..after Hurricane Isabels visit last fall everyone here was antsy and wary and hurried to prepare for the predicted storm.

The storm itself passed us by but the rain did not ..what bleak grey skies, the whole world seemed awash ..we decided to brave the rain and ate a brunch at a local restuarant and then to the Mall where John and I both signed up for the mall walkers group. His doctor recommeded it and I need to walk as well. So each am at 8 we will walk the mall. we have to enter our milage each day ...one lap is 2/3rds of a mile and that is our temporary goal. There are lots of sturdy wooden benches placed so he can rest for a minute or two...

With all the rain I looked for a poem about rain and found an old one by Longfellow that appealed and offer it to you ..anna the last verse is really needed by me....
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Day is Done 

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight

I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

August 16, 2004 - 02:14 am
Oh, Anna. That was excellent

August 16, 2004 - 06:55 am
Anna--Fantastic. I have had that feeling he describes. What a super poem.


ps, we can call you the Mall Madame now. Seriously, good for you!

August 16, 2004 - 05:34 pm
Longfellow is great. Just popped in for a moment, way to busy watching Olympics to compute much, and am very sleep deprived as the swimming reaches Australia in the early hours.

Am reminded of Vitae Lampada, which we again learned as boys. "play up, play up and play the game"

August 17, 2004 - 12:49 am
ROBATKIN welcome!! I see the Australians are busy kicking our you-know-whats. Missed the swimming, but saw you demolish our beach volleyball team the other night.

August 17, 2004 - 10:06 am
Often when I am searching for a poem on the net I type in a whole phrase and am often pleasently surprised to find just what I had in mind..this am I typed in end of summer poems and this is what I found...I am glad everyone liked the Longfellow poem..again I dont recall having to memorize any poetry but I did and Longfellow is a poet I memorized a lot..I can still recite Psalm of Life ..and I recite poetry (to myself or to my grandchildren ) like others would sing a song..and if you ever heard me sing you will know I chose the not only the best way but the ONLY way to share poetry ...and song lyrics...LOL here is the poem and am glad to see everyone here..anna

End of Summer

An agitation of the air, A perturbation of the light Admonished me the unloved year Would turn on its hinge that night.

I stood in the disenchanted field Amid the stubble and the stones, Amazed, while a small worm lisped to me The song of my marrow-bones.

Blue poured into summer blue, A hawk broke from his cloudless tower, the roof of the silo blazed, and I knew that part of my life was over.

Already the iron door of the north Clangs open: birds, leaves, snows Order their population forth, And a cruel wind blows.

Stanley Kunitz

August 18, 2004 - 03:10 am
Last night I had trouble sleeping because my mind kept wondering why I had memorized so many poems.Suddenly I was awash with memories of my childhood and my school years. I had never given thought to the fact not only was I an only girl but nearly all my best friends were either an only child or the only girl in a family.

We had a close alliance and spent our leisure time with each other. We were all a bit dramatic I think and read poetry together. One friend especially who was an only child was like me ..an avid reader and especially poetry. We would take our books to a park and sit under a tree or on a bench and read poetry to each other. Last night I could picture us there and understood why I recall so many poems. It was both a sad and happy recalling. Of the seven in our group ( and our friendship was enduring ...even into our old age ..although one never moved past her 20's dying during surgery) only two of us remain. We have been friends since we were 3 and met in Sunday School. We talk on the phone and through email ..and it is always both a happy reunion of our past and a bittersweet visit.

So I am posting another poem by Longfellow ..hope you enjoy, anna

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Spirit of Poetry 

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast ushering star of morning comes O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. And frequent, on the everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, In many a lazy syllable, repeating Their old poetic legends to the wind.

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world; and, in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her tender eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek Blushes the richness of an autumn sky, With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, It is so like the gentle air of Spring, As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy To have it round us, and her silver voice Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

August 19, 2004 - 02:30 am
Well Anna, that was a great poem to remind us of the past. We are so much that which has gone behind us that sometimes I can almost forget who I am to-day. It is a good thing we are still able to make new friendships, and look forward.

Poetry serves many purposes.

August 19, 2004 - 07:18 am
I rather agree.. sometimes I look in the mirror and say IS THAT ME? for behind the face I see there are the other me's. And I have to confess I like them all but like you I feel glad she did not stand still but continued to move ahead, to find new friends not to replace the old but to add to them...Somewhere I have a poem I wrote that said
 Death you will not find me waiting silently or still 
Dont look for me in the valleys
But at the top of the hill

there is more but you can get the gist of it from those lines ...glad to see you here ..and I know you are watching the Olympics ..anna

August 19, 2004 - 09:29 am
This is a long one, but endearing... and most people have heard at least one verse of it"

The Walrus and The Carpenter 
Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright-- And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done-- "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead-- There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year. Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head-- Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat-- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more-- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed-- Now if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said. "Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but "Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf-- I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but "The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said: "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?' But answer came there none-- And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one.

August 19, 2004 - 04:34 pm
LAte August or early September was the time when we headed north from Virginia ..to visit family and friends..and I am not sure since it was now long ago but it seemed we would bring home a bushel of new apples ..in any case today I wanted to share this poem by Robert Frost ...anna
After Apple-Picking 
By Robert Frost 

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing dear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much

Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.

August 19, 2004 - 04:38 pm
I would have commented immediately on the poem you posted but already had the Robert Frost poem in edit..but I want to say that has always been a favorite poem ..and this part that follows was my husband's favorite verse from the poem..it meant it was time to move on..to let go an argument of just to think of what we needed to do next so the poem really touched me to read it today..anna
"The time has come," the Walrus said,  
"To talk of many things:  
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--  
Of cabbages--and kings--  
And why the sea is boiling hot--  
And whether pigs have wings."

August 19, 2004 - 09:05 pm
That's the verse almost everyone has heard... at least in part. I think the first four are my favorites.

Do you think the Robert Frost poem seems a bit like metaphor, or am I just reading something into it?

August 20, 2004 - 07:24 am
Zinnia I re read it and if you are thinking perhaps he is talking about life instead of apple picking I think you may be right...in some ways all poems are about life ..and never as simple as they seem ..in a collection of Japanese poems I found the following. It suits me today since while the temperature is warm almost hot I can see everywhere that summer is about to say goodbye and Autumn is waiting in the wings to say hello...it has always been a mix for me emotionally I love the autumn days and nights but it also tells me winter is near and I am nearly in the winter of my life ...and there may not be another spring...here is the poem...anna well a surprise instead one poem there seems to be a whole page I will leave them here for you to read...anna

Sarumaru Tayu  

In the mountain depths, Treading through the crimson leaves, Cries the wandering stag. When I hear the lonely cry, Sad,--how sad--the autumn is!

6 Under stars, heavy with brightness they seem to have

with day near, I cross the log bridge where we once fed birds

by the lake called Clear, with forest standing under blue water

in the ancient bed. I skate boots like a young girl,

brushing frost flowers from decking, hoping to find you,

this time, cabined, waiting a fire on the open hearth.
Chunagon Yakamochi  

If the "Magpie Bridge"-- Bridge by flight of magpies spanned,-- White with frost I see:-- With a deep-laid frost made white:-- Late, I know, has grown the night.

7 I have gone West twenty-three years. Not strange that,

as I make new friends, they express surprise that I have a son

in the East. I tell them how I go watch the moon rise

with the evening star and think of it shining high in the ecliptic

above the home he has made with his young wife there.
Abe no Nakamaro  

When I look abroad O'er the wide-stretched "Plain of Heaven," Is the moon the same That on Mount Mikasa rose, In the land of Kasuga?

Ono no Komachi

Color of the flower Has already passed away While on trivial things Vainly I have set my gaze, In my journey through the world.

August 22, 2004 - 07:03 pm

Walter De La Mare

Thistle and darnel and dock grew there,
And a bush, in the corner of may,
On the orchard wall I used to sprawl
In the blazing heat of the day;
Half asleep and half awake,
While the birds went twittering by,
And nobody there my lone to share
But Nicholas Nye.

Nicholas Nye was lean and grey,
Lame of leg and old,
More than a score of donkey's years
He had seen since he was foaled;
He munched the thistles, purple and spiked,
Would sometimes stoop and sigh,
And turn his head, as if he said,
'Poor Nicholas Nye!'

Alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow,
Lazily swinging his tail,
At break of day he used to bray,-
Not much too hearty and hale;
But a wonderful gumption was under his skin,
And a clear calm light in his eye,
And once in a while he'd smile...
Would Nicholas Nye.

Seem to be smiling at me, he would,
From his bush in the corner, of may,-
Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn,
Knobble-kneed, lonely and grey;
And over the grass would seem to pass
'Neath the deep dark blue of the sky,
Something much better than words between me
And Nicholas Nye.

But dusk would come in the apple boughs,
The green of the glow-worm shine,
The birds in the nest would crouch to rest,
And home I'd trudge to mine;
And there in the moonlight, dark with dew,
Asking not wherefore and why,
Would brood like a ghost, and still as a post.
Old Nicholas Nye.


August 23, 2004 - 12:55 pm
A Pact

I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman -

I have detested you long enough

I come to you as a grown child

Who has had a pig-headed father;

I am old enough now to make friends

It was you that broke the new wood,

Now is a time for carving

We have one sap and one root -

Let there be commerce between us

When I first read this I didn't like it because I'm a fan of Walt Whitman. But the more I read this poem, the more I think Pound is offering Walt Whitman an olive branch and wants "there be commerce between us." Do we have any other Walt Whitman fans out there? How about Ezra Pound?

August 23, 2004 - 06:52 pm
What a wonderful page of contrasts. I think I like it best when I read poetry to read those that are like the ones here ..different ..because I like poetry to challenge me to think about what the poet has to say and how I am affected by his/her poems.

Firat I am a fan of Walter de la Mare so anything he wrote I just read and rejoice that he lived and shared his thoughts and observations for us to enjoy,

Scrawler I am also a fan of Walt Whitman and as for Ezra Pound some of his poetry I like and some I dont..Now this poem by Pound I like and I read the same as you do Scrawler ,,he has come to see that all poets have something in common...generations may separate them , centuries may pass, they come from different backgrounds and different expieriences but somewhere there is a thread that connects them ..for they see things different than those who never write or read or love poetry...and so I say Poetry is forever..thanks to you both for being here. anna

August 23, 2004 - 06:59 pm
September has always been welcomed and yet it has always been a bittersweet time ..In my husband's military career it seemed September was always a time of goodbye. Perhaps because the governments fiscal year starts in Oct I think ..perhaps they have to use funds so they will assure getting the same amount the next year. Whatever the reason he always said goodbye and flew to some for off place. So here it is September just around the corner and I am getting that lonely feeling again so I looked for a September poem and here it is..anna
Amy Lowell - Late September 

Tang of fruitage in the air; Red boughs bursting everywhere; Shimmering of seeded grass; Hooded gentians all a'mass. Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind Tearing off the husky rind, Blowing feathered seeds to fall By the sun-baked, sheltering wall. Beech trees in a golden haze; Hardy sumachs all ablaze, Glowing through the silver birches. How that pine tree shouts and lurches! From the sunny door-jamb high, Swings the shell of a butterfly. Scrape of insect violins Through the stubble shrilly dins. Every blade's a minaret Where a small muezzin's set, Loudly calling us to pray At the miracle of day. Then the purple-lidded night Westering comes, her footsteps light Guided by the radiant boon Of a sickle-shaped new moon.

August 24, 2004 - 09:46 pm
Here is another poem that like the above, from Anna, speaks of September, when your northern nights begin to chill the autumn air, and the leaves adopt fiery reds and sunburst yellows. The days shorten, and the afternoon shadows lengthen across the lawn, and memories of past summers linger with a tinge of sadness on the mind. They do on mine, anyway.....



It is eighteen years ago, almost to the day--
A sunny day with leaves just turning,
The touch lines new ruled -- since I watched you play
Your first game of football, then, like a satellite
Wrenched from its orbit, go drifting away.

Behind a scatter of boys, I can see
You walking away from me towards the school
With the pathos of a half-fledged thing set free
Into a wilderness, the gait of one
Who finds no path, where the path should be.

That hesitant figure, eddying away
Like a winged seed loosened from its parent stem.
Has something I never quite grasp to convey
About nature's give and take -- the small, the scorching
Ordeals which fire one's irresolute clay.

I have had worse partings, but none that so
Gnaws at my mind still. Perhaps it is roughly
Saying what God alone could perfectly show--
How selfhood begins with a walking away,
And love is proved in the letting go.


Charles Cingolani
August 25, 2004 - 01:41 am
She would come every day
to visit her son,
thirty-seven now,
who had been sent to
the County Prison
for murder.
I am only doing
what a mother does,
she said.
Then she would dream
she saw him
coming home
from school
with books
under his arm
waving to her
at her kitchen
from: The Butler Pennsylvania Poems

August 25, 2004 - 05:22 am
It would seem autumn feelings are universal...Both poems just touched me ..they reached that special place humans have when life goes on and we have to practice letting go...and because life is never what we think it will be when we are young..we spend a lot of time letting go...I hope we have a lot of lurkers who will also read these poems...for they speak to the human condition ..not a fairy tale life but reality ..catches it and claims its place ...thanks to both of you ...anna

August 25, 2004 - 05:07 pm
My oldest daughter has always feared spiders and I have no idea why. This was a child who tried to capture a skink and the tail came off in her hands(something skinks are wont to do) and loved so many other strange creatures but not spiders. I on the other hand have always found them fascinating. Not the poisonous one but he garden variety that spins such wonderful webs. Walt Whitman and I would have been friends for lots of reasons but his poem about spiders endears him to me in a special way...anna
A noiseless patient spider  
Walt Whitman 

A noiseless patient spider, I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself, Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand, Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them, Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold, Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

August 25, 2004 - 05:15 pm
Excellant! I'll never see spiders the same way again.

August 26, 2004 - 07:27 am
The spider poem is wonderful. I love to look at their webs. Amamzing how he thought to compare the soul's outreach with the spider spinning. And it is most certainly true.

And the other 2 about leaving/letting go. Tears well up at reading those.

Amy Lowell sure could describe the nature of Fall.


August 26, 2004 - 04:13 pm
The Tree and Me

The tree that stands outside my bedroom window

Is in the summer a dear friend

But in the fall becomes my mortal enemy

The tree spreads its branches

And shakes with all its might

Sending hundreds of leaves falling to the ground

At first I smile and do nothing

Then with a grin I turn on my secondhand leaf blower

And gather up all the fallen leaves

The tree is silent for a very long time

And then shakes and sways

Until only one leaf is left

I watch the last leaf fall to the ground

I hit the switch to turn on the blower

But nothing happens

Bending low I try to pick up the leaf

And that is when I hear my back go pop!

"Get the liniment, dear, the tree has won again."

~ Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler)

It is about this time of year that I'm reminded of this poem, especially when I discover that my car has become "The Leaf Mobile" as it is covered with leaves.

August 27, 2004 - 09:03 am
Ah Anne I understand ..although I have a tendency to allow the leaves lie and compost as they will. My home is surrounded by trees and we since we have oaks who always keep a bearded face and only let fall when spring comes round I always have leaves...and vicks rub has long served to ease the discomfort of too much raking, etc but having lived where there were little trees and no leaves to rake or fall..I prefer where I am ...and await Autumns fall..and of course the real gift is spring's small uncurled promises..anna

August 27, 2004 - 09:07 am
There are many favorites from this selection and some I committed to memory over the years this is one of them. Althuogh I must confess I think he would have been hard pressed to describe America singing now..anna

I Hear America Singing
Walt Whitman 

I HEAR America singing, the varied carols I hear; Those of mechanics—each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong; The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work; The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat— the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck; The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench— the hatter singing as he stands; The wood-cutter’s song—the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown; The delicious singing of the mother—or of the young wife at work—or of the girl sewing or washing— Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else; The day what belongs to the day—At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.

August 28, 2004 - 03:25 pm
I just got finished reading a novel by John May entitled: "Poe & Fanny." It is the story of Edgar Allan Poe and his love affair. Here is a description of Poe reading the "Raven".

"He paused before beginning, as if to draw forth the requisite state of mind, and his whole visage changed. His features softened, became more human, more vulnerable; his eyes saddened. After glancing down at his wife, he looked up, seeming to stare at some far-distant object. Then he began in a voice so soft that it was barely audible. He stood erect, the drama of his delivery giving great effect. Every word was singular and clear. Fanny had read the poem, of course, but hearing Edgar recite it was an altogether new experience. She surrendered to the emotion of his words, lost herself in their desolation, and with longing to console him, tears streamed down her checks. After many verses she pulled herself away from the words and focused on the man, the somber drabness of his black suit and tie, the careworn posture, the imperfections in his features, the mystery in his eyes. There was a certain grandeur in him that spoke of struggle and hardship, but also of knowledge and experience and, above all, of intelligence, perhaps even genius - the genius to write such a poem. Edgar Poe "was" the poem. While other poets spoke of morality or the beauty of nature, Edgar Poe bared his soul. He was head and shoulders above the rest, and that drew Fanny in; indeed, she imagined, it drew everyone in. It was such a performance that she guessed that these few moments would be forever remembered - this evening in mid-March of 1845 when the renowed poet, Edgar Poe, recited his "Raven" in Anne Lynch's parlor with the gaslights dimmed, the fire burning low in the fireplace, and the wind rattling the casements."

"The Raven" has always been one of my favorite poems, but to see the poet described as above while he read his poem, brings more than just reading the poem. I'd have to agree that Edgar Allan Poe was very much a part of his poetry.

August 28, 2004 - 07:00 pm
We're scrolling right again.

Each PRE must be followed by a /PRE before another PRE begins. They can't be nested like some other codes can. I think that's what created the problem. There are whole bunch of PRE's at the beginning of Anna's poem and no /PRE to end any of them until the end, I think, and then a bunch in a row, which doesn't do the trick. You'd think it would still work that way but it doesn't, so the PRE formatting didn't get closed.

August 29, 2004 - 05:17 am
I know I am rushing the season but I am ready for September to arrive. SO here is what I found to share today..anna

Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885) 


The golden-rod is yellow; The corn is turning brown; The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes Are curling in the sun; In dusty pods the milkweed Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest, In every meadow nook; And asters by the brook-side Make asters in the brook,

From dewy lanes at morning The grapes' sweet odors rise; At noon the roads all flutter With yellow butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather, And autumn's best of cheer.

But none of all this beauty Which floods the earth and air Is unto me the secret Which makes September fair.

'T is a thing which I remember; To name it thrills me yet: One day of one September I never can forget.

August 29, 2004 - 07:30 am
Scrawler...thanks for the heads up on the Poe & Fanny novel. I hope my library gets it. I just read a summary and it sounds gooooood. http://www.workman.com/catalog/pagemaker.cgi?1565124278

August 31, 2004 - 04:41 am
Are you in the flooded area?

August 31, 2004 - 04:44 am
I was thinking about hearing America sing- we hear it in every small act of kindness that shows a heart living in love. I s ee a very elderly gentleman walking his very elderly doggie every evning past my house- they shuffle along and I see how the dog enjoys this walk- an act of love right there.

August 31, 2004 - 06:36 am
So I found "September Song" midi instead of a poem.


August 31, 2004 - 02:50 pm
"It was Fanny Osgood, whom Oakes Smith characterized as "sweet and gentle," the precocious, diminutive, and high-spirited "poetess." Though she was only thirty-three when she met Edgar Poe, already schoolgirls throughout America idolized her; no doubt Emily Dickinson grew up reading the poetry of Frances Sargent Locke Osgood; her influence on Dickinson is readily apparent. Both Poe and Griswold, the mid-nineteenth century's most prolific anthologist, hailed her [Fanny Osgood] as the finest living woman poet in America, though evidence suggests that both men may have been in love with her." ~ John May

I found it interesting that John May thought that Fanny Sargent Locke Osgood influenced Dickinson. I have to wonder as to what extent. Did she too have a love affair like Frances or was it only Frances's poetry that influenced Emily.

August 31, 2004 - 05:53 pm

August 31, 2004 - 07:39 pm
How frustrating. I haven't been able to find any of her poems. Maybe they were pretty bad!

September 1, 2004 - 11:49 am
She also wrote under Violet Vane and Kate Carol. Women at this time were discouraged from writing at all and especially under their own name and many were forced to use other names. It was really because of women like Frances S. Osgood and the support of male writers like Edgar Poe that gave women writers the same equality as male writers. Here are some poems by Frances S. Osgood:

So Let It Be

Perhaps you think it right and just, Since you are bound by nearer ties, To greet me with that careless tone, With those serene and silent eyes

So let it be! I only know, If I were in your place to-night, I would not grieve your spirit so, For all God's worlds of life and light!

I could not turn, as you have done, From every memory of the past; I would not fling, from soul and brow, The shade that Feeling should have cast.

Oh! Think how it must deepen all The pangs of wild remores and pride, To feel, that you can coldly see The grief, I vainly strive to hide!

The happy star, who fills her urn With glory from the God of Day, Can never miss the smile he lends The wild-flower withering fast away;

The fair, fond girl, who at your side, Within your soul's dear light, doth live, Could hardly have the heart to chide The ray that Friendship well might give.

But if you deem it right and just, Blessed as you are in your glad lot, To greet me with that heartless tone, So let it be! I blame you not! ~ Violet Vane, The Broadway Journal, April 5, 1845

Love's Reply

I'll tell you shomething chanced to me, (A quaint and simple story,) Before I crossed, with beating heart, Old ocean's gloom and glory.

Around me came three graceful girls, Their farewell whisper breathing, - Julie, - with light and lovely curls, Her snowy shoulders wreathing;

And proud Georgine, - with stately mien, And glance of clam hauteur, Who moves - a Grace, - and looks -a queen, All passionless and pure;

And Kate, whose low, melodious tone Is tuned by Truth and Feeling, Whose shy yet wistful eyes talk on, With Fear her lips is sealing.

"From what far country, shall I write?" I asked, with pride elated, "From what rare monument of art Shall be my letters dated?"

Julie tossed back her locks of light, With girlish grace and glee, - "To me from glorious Venice write, Queen-city of the Sea!"

"And thou, Georgine?" Her dark eyes flashed, - "Ah! date to me your lines From some proud palace, where the pomp Of olden Honer shines!"

But Kate, - the darling of my soul, My bright, yet bashful flower, In whose dear heart some new, pure leaf, Seems to unfold each hour, -

Kate turned her shy, sweet looks from mine, Lest I her blush should see, And said - so only Love could hear - "Write from your heart to me!" ~ Frances S. Osgood, The Broadway Journal, April 12, 1845


Oh! fragile and fair, as the delicate chalices, Wrought with so rare and so subtle a skill, Bright relics, that tell of the pomp of those places, Vencie - the sea goddess - glories in still.

Whose exquisite texture, transparent and tender, A pure blush alone from the ruby wine takes; Yet ah! if some false hand, profaning its splendor, Dares but to taint it with poison, - it breaks!

So when Love pour'd thro- thy pure heart his lightening, On the pale cheek the soft rose-huse, awoke, - So when wild Passion, that timid heart frightening, Poison'd the treasure - it trembled and broke! ~ Frances S. Osgood, The Broadway Journal, December 13, 1845

The Broadway Journal was owned by Edgar Poe. It was a weekly magazine in which he published Osgood and other women poets as well his own stories and poems. He published poems by men as well.

September 1, 2004 - 04:28 pm
I'm glad you posted several, Scrawler. I couldn't find any online either under Osgood.

September 1, 2004 - 04:35 pm

Interesting page, about Osgood and others

September 1, 2004 - 05:27 pm
That's a good article- and it includes her poems. I missed that one in my hunt.

September 2, 2004 - 10:58 am
Zinnia--- do you know where Anna is? Did she get caught in all that Virginia flooding or is she ill? Odd for her not to post.

September 2, 2004 - 08:28 pm
I'm not sure... and I sure hope not. I sent her an email last night but have not had a response. And you sure are right.. it's very odd for her not to post here regularly. I'll let you know if I hear anything and I hope you will do the same if you do.

She posted yesterday in another discussion that her friend, John, who had surgery recently, is back in the hospital and that may be the reason she is not on the computer, also.

September 3, 2004 - 07:48 am
Ok, Zin, if she posted somewhere yesterday then we know she is fine= just taking care of things.

September 3, 2004 - 07:52 am
I came across this-

"Here for Labor Day is a poem by Philip Levine, an American poet who has written memorably about work. Here's Philip Levine's poem, "What Work Is," from his book of the same title."

We stand in the rain in a long line waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work. You know what work is--if you're old enough to read this you know what work is, although you may not do it. Forget you. This is about waiting, shifting from one foot to another. Feeling the light rain falling like mist into your hair, blurring your vision until you think you see your own brother ahead of you, maybe ten places. You rub your glasses with your fingers, and of course it's someone else's brother, narrower across the shoulders than yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin that does not hide the stubbornness, the sad refusal to give in to rain, to the hours wasted waiting, to the knowledge that somewhere ahead a man is waiting who will say, "No, we're not hiring today," for any reason he wants. You love your brother, now suddenly you can hardly stand the love flooding you for your brother, who's not beside you or behind or ahead because he's home trying to sleep off a miserable night shift at Cadillac so he can get up before noon to study his German. Works eight hours a night so he can sing Wagner, the opera you hate most, the worst music ever invented. How long has it been since you told him you loved him, held his wide shoulders, opened your eyes wide and said those words, and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never done something so simple, so obvious, not because you're too young or too dumb, not because you're jealous or even mean or incapable of crying in the presence of another man, no, just because you don't know what work is.

September 3, 2004 - 10:42 am
MARJ: what a wonderful poem. I'm wiping the tears from my eyes. I also had forgotten what work is.

September 3, 2004 - 06:11 pm
What work is ? Ask any mother. They work 24 hours a day, most of it unpaid. Men like myself, just never experience the energy sapping drudgery, that family life imposes on women. I wonder at their resilience .... ++ Trevor

September 4, 2004 - 05:09 am
Trevor- I watch young mothers now who also balance jobs in the workplace- especially single moms. Good point you brought foreward.


September 5, 2004 - 08:30 am
"The Women Who Clean Fish."

The women who clean fish are all named Rose or Grace. They wake up close to the water, damp and dreamy beneath white sheets, thinking of white beaches.

It is always humid where they work. Under plastic aprons, their breasts foam and bubble. They wear old clothes because the smell will never go.

On the floor, chlorine. On the window, dry streams left by gulls. When tourists come to watch them working over belts of cod and hake, they don't look up.

They stand above the gutter. When the belt starts they pack the bodies in, ten per box, their tales crisscrossed as if in sacrament. The dead fish fall compliantly.

It is the iridescent scales that stick, clinging to cheek and wrist, lighting up hours later in a dark room.

The packers say they feel orange spawn between their fingers, the smell of themselves more like salt than peach.

From Natural Affinities by Erica Funkhouser, published by Alice James Books.

This sure evokes the feeling of work. I have some others I found to post. You can imagine it all very clearly.

September 5, 2004 - 10:01 am
A colorful excerpt.

The five o'clock whistle Bellowed like a bull, controlling Clocks on kitchen walls; Women dabbed loud perfume Behind their ears & set tables Covered with flowered oilcloth.

The Whistle

September 6, 2004 - 07:06 am
Stress is an odd thing ..often you are not aware, just doing the things you must because they must be done...and sometimes stress speaks to the body and says YOU MUST STOP and so I ended up in a hospital for 3 days undergoing some heart tests and there will be more but at this time it would seem stress has had its way.

I have tried to rest to put things aside but as most of you have been overwhelmed by the terrible event in Russia and our own concern for the state of Florida and for her people who have been dealt a double whammy.

For me I searched for a poem on grief that would help me to come to terms with the loss of human life in the Russian tradgedy ..I truthfully can say there are none that can come close to what I feel for all involved..but I did find a poem that was a round robin poem from the hearts of my fellow poets in Virginia..Not about this subject but about the death of mother of one of the members ..It caught some of what I feel and I offer it to you ..anna



When grief hangs in the trees like flocking birds, and limbs droop low beneath the weight of it, when somber doves cry out in mournful thirds, then, with their only word, to silence quit. Heads bowed as if in fervent, soulful prayer must rise and scan the world; new life redeems the loves, the leaves uncover deeper layers that ease the sting of melancholy dreams. Then shall the birds of grief take wing and fly. Though they return to peck your scattered crumbs, they search for peace, and on His words rely with faith, like schoolchildren doing their sums. They recall a life that soared like a song, and a throbbing pain that lingered all too long.

September 6, 2004 - 08:34 am
Anna~ I am glad to see you. We missed you. Yes, stress can do such damage to our bodies without even knowing until after the fact. Glad they allowed you to come home for a bit. Beautiful poem---"birds of grief" - what a very apt image for pain and loss.

Love, Marj

September 6, 2004 - 11:06 am
Anna, I've missed you as well and your lovely poems.

September 6, 2004 - 03:31 pm
Glad to see you back.

September 6, 2004 - 04:36 pm
using new computer and have lost everything, and your e-mails are being returned, just wanted to say hi. The grief poem is beautifully descriptive of the russian people just now. hard not to weep.


September 6, 2004 - 08:06 pm
Great to have you back. The bird images really spoke to me. Thank you.

September 7, 2004 - 06:11 am
I wish I had a cheerful poem to share with you. But there is little to be cheerful about some days and while I could use something cheerful all of the news tells me I am not going to find it. My dogwood is already turning, and while the temperature is still warm I know here in Virginia autumn has started its season. The last few roses hang on and the wonderful crape myrtle still bears its blossoms ..they seemed grayer though, the colors not as bright. This is a poem I have read many times and most times I feel it is still applicable and never more than now..so I share it with you and will look for something more positive for tomorrow...it speaks of September 1 1939 when Hitler marched into Poland and thus began WWII..anna
September 1, 1939  
W. H. Auden 

I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can Unearth the whole offence From Luther until now That has driven a culture mad, Find what occurred at Linz, What huge imago made A psychopathic god: I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew All that a speech can say About Democracy, And what dictators do, The elderly rubbish they talk To an apathetic grave; Analysed all in his book, The enlightenment driven away, The habit-forming pain, Mismanagement and grief: We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse: But who can live for long In an euphoric dream; Out of the mirror they stare, Imperialism's face And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar Cling to their average day: The lights must never go out, The music must always play, All the conventions conspire To make this fort assume The furniture of home; Lest we should see where we are, Lost in a haunted wood, Children afraid of the night Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev Is true of the normal heart; For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark Into the ethical life The dense commuters come, Repeating their morning vow; "I will be true to the wife, I'll concentrate more on my work," And helpless governors wake To resume their compulsory game: Who can release them now, Who can reach the deaf, Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.

September 7, 2004 - 08:50 am
Two lines in there are most positive:

"We must love another or die "

"May I.........show an affirming flame "

    I think all poetry speaks of sadness and joy 
 - no matter the subject.   The poet can do that.

September 7, 2004 - 08:21 pm
This poem was posted here on 8/11/04 but I thought it might cheer you a little so I'd like to post it to you now:

Be a Friend

Be a friend. You don't need money; Just a disposition sunny; Just the wish to help another Get along some way or other; Just a kindly hand extended Out of one who's unbefriended; Just the will to give or lend, This will make you someone's friend

Be a friend. You don't need glory Friendship is a simple story Pass by trifling errors blindly Gaze on honest effort kindly Cheer the youth who's bravely trying, Pity him who's sadly sighing; Just a little labor spend On the duties of a friend

Be a friend. The pay is bigger (Though not written by a figure) Than is earned by people clever In what's merely self-endeavor You'll have friends instead of neighbors For the profits of your labors; You'll be richer in the end Than a prince, if your're a friend. ~ Edgar A. Guest

Peace always,

September 10, 2004 - 07:47 pm
Ah I think I have said before when I was young Edgar Guest was my poet since he was published, I think daily, in the StLouis Paper...He spoke with a simple voice but voiced profound thoughts.

I am undergoing some tests and will be taking a stress test on Monday so wish me well.

Today I was able to turn off the a/c and open windows ..the temperature isnt all that low even though it is supposed to dip to 62 tonight, but it just feels like September and so I found a poem that said September to me..anna

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 

Earth hasd not anything to show me more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; ALl bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did a sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock or hill; Ne`er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)

September 11, 2004 - 09:29 am
Lovely. Anna, don't stress about your stress test -- I've had them, and they're not bad. I'll be thinking of you.

September 11, 2004 - 11:39 am
There are many and all are good ,written from the heart , torn from the soul but this one I liked for many reasons and share it here in memoriam..anna
September 11, 2001 
by Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat <pre. 

I am a World Trade Center tower, standing tall in the clear blue sky, feeling a violent blow in my side, and I am a towering inferno of pain and suffering imploding upon myself and collapsing to the ground. May I rest in peace.

I am a terrified passenger on a hijacked airplane not knowing where we are going or that I am riding on fuel tanks that will be instruments of death, and I am a worker arriving at my office not knowing that in just a moment my future will be obliterated. May I rest in peace.

I am a pigeon in the plaza between the two towers eating crumbs from someone's breakfast when fire rains down on me from the skies, and I am a bed of flowers admired daily by thousands of tourists now buried under five stories of rubble. May I rest in peace.

I am a firefighter sent into dark corridors of smoke and debris on a mission of mercy only to have it collapse around me, and I am a rescue worker risking my life to save lives who is very aware that I may not make it out alive. May I rest in peace.

I am a survivor who has fled down the stairs and out of the building to safety who knows that nothing will ever be the same in my soul again, and I am a doctor in a hospital treating patients burned from head to toe who knows that these horrible images will remain in my mind forever. May I know peace.

I am a tourist in Times Square looking up at the giant TV screens thinking I'm seeing a disaster movie as I watch the Twin Towers crash to the ground, and I am a New York woman sending e-mails to friends and family letting them know that I am safe. May I know peace.

I am a piece of paper that was on someone's desk this morning and now I'm debris scattered by the wind across lower Manhattan, and I am a stone in the graveyard at Trinity Church covered with soot from the buildings that once stood proudly above me, death meeting death. May I rest in peace.

I am a dog sniffing in the rubble for signs of life, doing my best to be of service, and I am a blood donor waiting in line to make a simple but very needed contribution for the victims. May I know peace.

I am a resident in an apartment in downtown New York who has been forced to evacuate my home, and I am a resident in an apartment uptown who has walked 100 blocks home in a stream of other refugees. May I know peace.

I am a family member who has just learned that someone I love has died, and I am a pastor who must comfort someone who has suffered a heart-breaking loss. May I know peace.

I am a loyal American who feels violated and vows to stand behind any military action it takes to wipe terrorists off the face of the earth, and I am a loyal American who feels violated and worries that people who look and sound like me are all going to be blamed for this tragedy. May I know peace.

I am a frightened city dweller who wonders whether I'll ever feel safe in a skyscraper again, and I am a pilot who wonders whether there will ever be a way to make the skies truly safe. May I know peace.

I am the owner of a small store with five employees that has been put out of business by this tragedy, and I am an executive in a multinational corporation who is concerned about the cost of doing business in a terrorized world. May I know peace.

I am a visitor to New York City who purchases postcards of the World Trade Center Twin Towers that are no more, and I am a television reporter trying to put into words the terrible things I have seen. May I know peace.

I am a boy in New Jersey waiting for a father who will never come home, and I am a boy in a faraway country rejoicing in the streets of my village because someone has hurt the hated Americans. May I know peace.

I am a general talking into the microphones about how we must stop the terrorist cowards who have perpetrated this heinous crime, and I am an intelligence officer trying to discern how such a thing could have happened on American soil, and I am a city official trying to find ways to alleviate the suffering of my people. May I know peace.

I am a terrorist whose hatred for America knows no limit and I am willing to die to prove it, and I am a terrorist sympathizer standing with all the enemies of American capitalism and imperialism, and I am a master strategist for a terrorist group who planned this abomination. My heart is not yet capable of openness, tolerance, and loving. May I know peace.

I am a citizen of the world glued to my television set, fighting back my rage and despair at these horrible events, and I am a person of faith struggling to forgive the unforgivable, praying for the consolation of those who have lost loved ones, calling upon the merciful beneficence of God/Lord/Allah/Spirit/Higher Power. May I know peace.

I am a child of God who believes that we are all children of God and we are all part of one another. May we all know peace.

September 11, 2004 - 07:55 pm
Here is my contribution toward 9/11:

drops of summer rain

collect and slip slowly down

broken girders

In case you hadn't guessed the "drops of rain" symbolize tears.

September 11, 2004 - 08:17 pm
Wonderful poems. Thank you both.

September 11, 2004 - 09:39 pm
I've been away all day, just now reading all the fine and emotional words on this site.. May I?

America Is Our Name

Should old acquaintance be forgot?
Shall we just close the door.
Or should we remember yesterday
When many died and more?

We must look a’way beyond
today and days to come
and wonder with an urgency
what it might become.

If we ignore the evil ones
whose hatred caused such pain
to those with still a life to live
and each one had a name.

Any path that leads somewhere
has to pass today
split seconds, merely moments
transforms our yesterdays..

by those who would much evil do
mistaken minds ooze wrath
and they have forced a new design
a sad and bloody path

And so the questions we must ask
while facing such a daunting task
Should we forget Old Lang Syne
The flag, the freedoms, humankind?
Should we ignore the bastard swine
and walk away with watered spine
Or shall we stand and face our foe
with saddened bravery we must show
the knaves of cruelty who we are
and thus from whence we came
Our strengths ring loud, the message clear
America is our name...

© vrd12/28/2001(Jenny)

Jan Sand
September 11, 2004 - 11:23 pm
I was there living in the Inwood section of New York City at the morning of 9/11 and there was no discernable effect at my location whatsoever. As has been noted the event was so unimaginable that the first reaction was that it was part of a sensational Hollywood product. I am appalled at the callous horror inflicted upon ordinary human beings by people so dehumanized by twisted motivations that they could do this insane thing.

And I am equally appalled by the reaction of the current US administration with the approval of a large number of US citizens to multiply the insanity to inflict equal horror upon other innocent people of their own military and the citizens of Iraq who, it has been clearly demonstrated, have had no part of the original massacre. Continuing useless and equally stupid horrors are being committed by the Russians, Chechen, the Palestinians, the Israelis, the government of Sudan. I have little hope for humanity.

September 12, 2004 - 09:11 am
Elias Nandino

ANIMAL VIGOUR A hen and twelve chicks peck and walk


As I see the hills the feet of my memory climb through them.

RIGHT OF OWNERSHIP Nothing is as mine, as the sea when I gaze upon it!


September 12, 2004 - 01:39 pm
9/11/01 for those of us who watched that day it is something that will lay a pall over our souls forever. It is my daugthers birthday and she now refuses to recognize that as a day of celebration and we remember her on the 12th.

I appreciate all the feelings shared here, for the thoughts, the poems shared ..I feel apprehension each year as the day approaches because I know I will see clips of these horrendous events. I dont want to live it again even as a viewer but I also know it is important never to forget.

My best friends son and daughter in law as well as grandchild were in the Pentagon that day and it was hours later before she knew and we knew they were okay.Not in my wildest imagination could I understand what those who waited and never again heard their loved ones voice went through.

As I said I appreciate the sharing and the concerns of all ..anna

September 12, 2004 - 02:09 pm
The birds at my feeders are fewer than I have seen all year. The farmers almanac says we are to have a cold winter and I think they have fled south ..for several weeks they lined up along my deck rails waiting to take thier turns at my two feeders and now I am only seeing sparrows and mourning doves.

But downstairs I have a counted cross stich of sandpipers ..This poem describes them perfectly ..I was ready for a new direction and hope you are too.anna

Elizabeth Bishop - Sandpiper   

The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake. He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.

The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet of interrupting water comes and goes and glazes over his dark and brittle feet. He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.

--Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs, he stares at the dragging grains.

The world is a mist. And then the world is minute and vast and clear. The tide is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which. His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,

looking for something, something, something. Poor bird, he is obsessed! The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.

September 13, 2004 - 05:36 pm
Wonderful!! I love Elizabeth Bishop, but I didn't know that one.

September 14, 2004 - 05:13 am
That Sandpiper poem is great!!!! thanks. Those dear little things.

I came across this poem by the Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore . I really like his work. (1861-1941)

Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh.

from "Stray Birds"

September 14, 2004 - 05:14 am
My Song

Rabindranath Tagore

This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like the fond arms of love.

The song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of blessing.

When you are alone it will sit by your side and whisper in your ear, when you are in the crowd it will fence you about with aloofness.

My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams, it will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown.

It will be like the faithful star overhead when dark night is over your road.

My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes, and will carry your sight into the heart of things.

And when my voice is silenced in death, my song will speak in your living heart.(" Tejal Nanavati essay)

September 14, 2004 - 06:10 am
What wonderful offerings..thank you so much. I love them both but My Song is truly special. Couldnt sleep the other night and searched my discs of my poems to see what I have written ..I am always surprised at the amount and the subjects and often scratch my head in wonder as to why I wrote some.

I did a whole series of haikus for my poetry class back in '98 and here is one about birds. It describes the the efforts of some mourning doves in my back yard..anna PS at the top of the page I wrote this is the hardest form I have tried ..I dont think my verse it terse enough for this form....

Doves beak to beak  
Carry straw to the fragrant fir 

September 14, 2004 - 06:14 am
This is a poem I recall from many years ago. I loved it when I was young and it holds a lot of nostagia for me. I wonder what young people would think of it now. anna
James Whitcomb Riley - When the Frost is on the Punkin 

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here-- Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover over-head!-- O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ... I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me-- I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

September 14, 2004 - 05:20 pm
great poems. I love "My Song" -- it made me cry. And I love your mourning dove poem too.

September 14, 2004 - 10:58 pm
"When the frost is on the Punkin ". I like that one Anna. Where do you find all these great poems ? You seem to have so many filed away in your memory. +++ Trevor

September 15, 2004 - 05:23 am
Trevor I was an only girl in a family of 5 boys, so in many ways I was an only child. While my brothers shared bedrooms I had my own and I cant recall a time when I couldnt read. We had to buy school books then and of course they were always changing books so mother kept all the old ones, after all she had paid for them. Three of my brothers were much older,the youngest of three was 7 years older than me.Perhaps they read books to me or my mother did ..I know I had the kind of family including wall to wall aunts , uncle and cousins who always encouraged us. We never heard the phrase "children should be seen and not heard" so I read a lot and of course James Whitcomb Riley was a Hoosier poet ( from Indiana called the Hoosier state ) and his poems were beloved by many since he wrote in the vernacular of that time. No fancy words LOL

As I was writing this I realized we had nothing to interfere with our reading. No television , a windup victola for playing music and a radio. My older brothers were dating when I was still young and my younger brothers were into playing with toy trucks etc. We lived in a city and I often wonder if today's generation appreciate the many small parks with play grounds, even McDonalds has a play ground. A main highway ( which wasnt too crowded since we used to sit on the steps and count the cars ) ran in front of our home.The people who lived near us never thought to buy bycycles for their children since there was no safe place to ride them. Roller skates were used but in many ways we led a quiet life. Movies weekly, but more home oriented and so reading was my thing. And it seems I have a retentive memory because I recall so much from that time. My girlfriends were like me, an only child or an only girl in a family so reading was what we did and poetry was an outlet expecially when we would read for each other dramatically..Now arent you sorry you asked that question? LOL Just to make this post worthwhile reading I am including another haiku from my collection..anna

Winter Moon  
Polished pewter plate 
Frozen light 

September 15, 2004 - 06:12 am
Since you enjoyed the James Whitcomb Riley poem I offer this one as well. I think my mother must have read it to me since I recall gathering around some family member and they would read the poem and when they got to the "punch lines" would reach out and sort of tickle us so we felt the goblins LOL To me this was a delicious poem ..scary and delightful .wonder what my grands would think if I read it to them ? not much I guess since TV is full of really spooky shows ...anna
James Whitcomb Riley - Little Orphant Annie 


To all the little children: -- The happy ones; and sad ones; The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones; The good ones -- Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones.

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,-- An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs, His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess; But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout:-- An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin, An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin; An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,-- You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

September 15, 2004 - 04:47 pm
Orphant Annie! That's a great one, Anna.

September 21, 2004 - 07:44 am
I wont go into a list of things that have kept me from posting but I hope they are past and I can be here again. For those that followed the hurricanes we had an enormous amount of rain and thunder and lightening but no problems although a tornado touched down about 20 min away. And my daughter who lives in the Blue Ridge mts had two tornadoes in her neighborhood just a few houses away.

Right now we are enjoying sublime September weather.. I looked for a poem about harvest and September. While I was a city girl I had to good fortune to have rural relatives and enjoyed being there at all times of the year but never more than in September. This poem reminded me of those days..anna OOPS I forgot the poets name will tell you later

The Last Day of Harvest

You climb up and check the oil the same as all the other days, grease the machine in all the hidden places until you know it'll run slick. Then you start the engine, feel every nut and bolt brace against the first surge of fuel. And maybe you feel like the old man who knows tonight is the last night he will have to climb into bed. Field past field, you think back trying to remember how good the first harvest day felt--how the heat, and wheat dust welcomed you like a mother's challenge to walk. Acre after acre, grain has bouquet'd into your throat, your steel cylinder gut digesting load after load--hours monogrammed inside this cab when you felt like a combine king, your country a kingdom stretched to the horizon's black-thread crease. More hours you were nothing --a wrench tightened instinct lifting and lowering the header, suggesting the machine faster and slower, internal sounds felt before heard, metal and rubber. Then you live it, the last round, a narrow swath where you've never been, tied down by a row of uncut corners, tokens from every round, leading to the road. And then it's over. Nothing left but stubble. The last uncut corner cut. A good friend gone.

September 21, 2004 - 12:51 pm
That's neat one, Anna.

Found a good one about the Harvest Moon which will be upon us either this month yet or in Oct- can't remember for sure.

The Harvest Moon

The flame-red moon, the harvest moon, Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing, A vast balloon, Till it takes off, and sinks upward To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon. The harvest moon has come, Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon. And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.

So people can't sleep, So they go out where elms and oak trees keep A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush. The harvest moon has come!

And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep Stare up at her petrified, while she swells Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing Closer and closer like the end of the world.

Till the gold fields of stiff wheat Cry `We are ripe, reap us!' and the rivers Sweat from the melting hills.

Ted Hughes

September 21, 2004 - 03:31 pm
Autumn Refrain ~ Wallace Stevens

The skreak and skritter of evening gone

And grackles gone and sorrows of the sun,

The sorrows of sun, too, gone...the moon and moon,

In measureless measures, not a bird for me

But the name of a bird and the name of a nameless air

I have never - shall never hear. And yet beneath

The stillness of evything gone, and being still,

Being and sitting still, something resides,

Some skreaking and skrittering residum,

And grates these evasions of the nightingale

Though I have never - shall never hear that bird.

And the stillness is in the key, all it is,

The stillness is all in the key of that desolate sound.

Happy Autumnal Equinox!

September 21, 2004 - 05:32 pm
No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace As I have seen in one autumnal face;

—John Donne (1572–1631) "Elegy IX: The Autumnal"

September 21, 2004 - 06:28 pm
Thank you people. Once again, I find this place healing me when I come here torn of spirit.

September 21, 2004 - 07:31 pm
what is there about autumn that captures us so? I wish I knew , perhaps we have to swelter in summer's heat , closed it with our air conditioning, a yearning to be out and be comfortable. When I was young and lived in the midwest summers were sultry and unrelenting, only movies said come inside 20 degrees cooler ..and we slept on the front porch and only had relief when morning came..so Autumn was so welcome, we could move back into our beds and enjoy cooler nights. It is a time of the year that was so special and I am glad to open my windows , turn the a/c off and await the fragrance of smoke from my neighbors first fire. anna

I think your quote said it all marj "No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace As I have seen in one autumnal face;"

—John Donne (1572–1631) "Elegy IX: The Autumnal"

September 22, 2004 - 08:19 am
I thought this excerpt rather nice...

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

—John Keats (1795–1821) "CCLV Ode to Autumn, " The Golden Treasury (1875

September 22, 2004 - 10:05 am
I checked out Mary Oliver since I am fond of her work and she always has something to say about what I am thinking and as always it is just what I was looking for..here is what I found today..I am fond of mockingbirds since I was a surrogate mother to one my husband found almost dead at the curb one hot day. I cradled him and sprinkled water on his beak and when it looked to survive we placed him a carboard box with tree branches and soft grass and a screen over the top. I fed him tiny bits of raw hamburger and whenever I apeared he would open his beak and let me know he was hungry. When he was grown and we felt it time to place him outdoors he sort of stayed around and I had put feed and water for him. He would fly to my clothes pole and chatter at me but one day he came and talked and then I saw him fly away with another mockingbird. anna
Autumn Poem 

Mary Oliver

In the last jovial, clear-sky days of autumn the mockingbird in his monk-gray coat and his arrowy wings

flies from the hedge to the top of the pine and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —

it's more like whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges. All birds are birds of heaven but this one, especially, adores the earth so well he would imitate, for half the day and on into the evening,

its ticks and wheezings, and so I have to wait a long time for the soft, true voice of his own glossy life

to come through, and of course I do. I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look inward

to the sweet spring of himself, that mirror of heaven, but when it happens — when he lifts his head and the feathers of his throat tremble,

and he begins, like Saint Francis, little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock, resettling his strong feet each time among the branches, I am recalled,

from so many wrong paths I can't count them, simply to stand, and listen. All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness of desire, ambition, accomplishment.

Now the bird is singing, but not anymore of this world. And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is trying to type it down, in lumped-up language, in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.

September 22, 2004 - 10:51 am
The last verse, Anna, sounds like a poet toiling to get our her thoughts.

I like it. Sure do like her since I discovered her poetry.

September 22, 2004 - 03:38 pm
Great. I love mockingbirds too. This really captures them. Is it copyrighted?(I assume not, since you posted it) I put it on my website.

September 23, 2004 - 05:41 am
Our city park is over 5000 acres and has a large lake where in summer you can rent paddle boats. We used to buy bread at the thrift shop and take it to feed the ducks and geese and swans. Swans always amaze me..the ducks paddle and duck thier heads to feed under water, the geese were always obese from all the people who came to feed them and were also nasty tempered if you failed to give them enuogh. With the swans you could never seem to see them make an effort to move , how delicatly they propelled themselves so they seemed to float with no effort save the air gently nudging them along.

Wild Swans at Coole

The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water, Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake’s edge or pool Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away?

William Butler Yeats, 1865-1939

September 23, 2004 - 05:02 pm
Great. I thought that was Yeats, not Keats.

September 23, 2004 - 06:42 pm
A rose by any name is still a rose ..LOL shows I need to pay attention LOL By the time I have read a dozen poems to find just the right one I guess I am lucky to be right at all. And of course poets and their poems are so special and sometimes I forget who wrote what.

When I memorized poems as a child I never said to myself this is such and such a poem written by this author ..one time I was so sure a poem I had memorized was written by some one else ..I hope everyone is enjoying this absolutely marvelous fall weather we are having here in VA ...It is cool at night and once I am comfy I almost hate to get up but then dont want to waste these days.

A near neighbor 3 doors down heats his house with a wood stove. Two nights ago I woke to the smell of smoke and smiled and said to myself with a sort of pleasent sigh OH there is Bud with the first fire of fall. Hugs all around ..anna

September 24, 2004 - 09:52 am
There are some poets who I can count on to always have a poem that suits my moods and needs. I am in need of a calm place and here is one ...anna

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

William Butler Yeats

September 24, 2004 - 02:58 pm
From World Haiku Review

the autumn moon rising later and rounder tonight

by Robert Gibson

September 25, 2004 - 02:00 am

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentler on the spirit lies,
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful
Here are cool mosses deep,
And through the moss the ivies creep
And in the stream the long leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.


I too, have tired eyelids on tired eyes, though the evening is still young. I must wander off to my slumbers. +++ Trevor

September 25, 2004 - 08:15 am
I love to read what you share here. In my mind I hear your voices and feel I am in a room and it is quiet and the only sound is your voices sharing a poem , your thoughts and I am lulled by your gentle breathing and am glad I have this gentle place to go.

When I read poetry I hear the poets voice, see their view and for that moment I am there with them,seeing what they see and feeling what they feel.

In doing this place I have met new poets to me and many, many old friends. I never know what I will find when I set out to find a poem to share. It is an exquisite treasure hunt. Today I looked for poems from Elizabeth Bishop who won every award possible. The one I chose to share today is about a snail. I know how she felt watching this plodding, slow moving creature. I have watched them for hours, of course if you are to see them move you cant be in a hurry and have loved thier irridescent trails. I hope you will travel with this snail as I did...anna

Elizabeth Bishop - Giant Snail

The rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that all night. I have come out to take a walk and feed. My body--foot, that is--is wet and cold and covered with sharp gravel. It is white, the size of a dinner plate. I have set myself a goal, a certain rock, but it may well be dawn before I get there. Although I move ghostlike and my floating edges barely graze the ground, I am heavy, heavy, heavy. My white muscles are already tired. I give the impression of mysterious ease, but it is only with the greatest effort of my will that I can rise above the smallest stones and sticks. And I must not let myself be dis- tracted by those rough spears of grass. Don't touch them. Draw back. Withdrawal is always best. The rain has stopped. The waterfall makes such a noise! (And what if I fall over it?) The mountains of black rock give off such clouds of steam! Shiny streamers are hanging down their sides. When this occurs, we have a saying that the Snail Gods have come down in haste. I could never descend such steep escarp- ments, much less dream of climbing them. That toad was too big, too, like me. His eyes beseeched my love. Our proportions horrify our neighbors. Rest a minute; relax. Flattened to the ground, my body is like a pallid, decomposing leaf. What's that tapping on my shell? Nothing. Let's go on. My sides move in rhythmic waves, just off the ground, from front to back, the wake of a ship, wax-white water, or a slowly melting floe. I am cold, cold, cold as ice. My blind, white bull's head was a Cretan scare-head; degenerate, my four horns that can't attack. The sides of my mouth are now my hands. They press the earth and suck it hard. Ah, but I know my shell is beautiful, and high, and glazed, and shining. I know it well, although I have not seen it. Its curled white lip is of the finest enamel. Inside, it is as smooth as silk, and I, I fill it to perfection. My wide wake shines, now it is growing dark. I leave a lovely opalescent ribbon: I know this. But O! I am too big. I feel it. Pity me. If and when I reach the rock, I shall go into a certain crack there for the night. The waterfall below will vibrate through my shell and body all night long. In that steady pulsing I can rest. All night I shall be like a sleeping ear.

September 25, 2004 - 11:28 am
That was wonderful, just wonderful. I'll never look at a snail the same way again.

I thought you had to be a child to see a snail. I remember watching them for hours when I was a child, but I haven't thought about them for years. Thank you for giving them back to me.

September 25, 2004 - 03:06 pm
I was taught by someone who I consider a great writer, not published, not known, but in my estimation a fantastic writer... What he taught me was when I write a poem to read it outloud into a recorder. He actually bought me a small hand held recorder to use just for this purpose. There have been times I thought it looked so good on paper and then heard it outloud and knew it needed changes.

He also taught me to ALWAYS name my poems, saying, "A poem is like your child, you have given birth to it, you wouldn't let your child be nameless, would you?".......... food for thought.


September 26, 2004 - 08:51 am
Your friend was very wise in my estimation. Poetry to me was meant to read aloud. Whether is it mine or others I feel you miss so much when you read it with your mouth closed and still. How may times have I sat alone and read aloud from a book of poems? A lifetime I would say and I stiil do it today. For the poem becomes more than written word but voices I have heard and they always comfort me.

Sometimes I know I hurry time ,anxious for the next day to come or in this case a new month to arrive and here is a poem I want to share today. anna

Dylan Thomas - Especially When The October Wind 

Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark On the horizon walking like the trees The wordy shapes of women, and the rows Of the star-gestured children in the park. Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches, Some of the oaken voices, from the roots Of many a thorny shire tell you notes, Some let me make you of the water's speeches.

Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning And tells the windy weather in the cock. Some let me make you of the meadow's signs; The signal grass that tells me all I know Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye. Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Especially when the October wind (Some let me make you of autumnal spells, The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales) With fists of turnips punishes the land, Some let me make of you the heartless words. The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury. By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

September 26, 2004 - 10:31 am
You could just see the path of the giant snail as it talks us thru its journey. Quite neat.


September 27, 2004 - 12:10 pm
With all the coverage and pictures of the devastation in Florida and elsewhere I wanted to find a sea poem. When Hurricane Isabel hit us last year I was inland ..not too far but only saw the pictures of the waves hitting the shore. Like most there is something about the ocean that speaks to me. but I think we often forget it can be so destructive. I have sailed to Europe and return and each time we suffered through a storm. In retrospect I can see it was not all that bad although we had to stay in our cabin and only venture forth to get something to eat. And we were rare in the dining room ..almost to ourselves.

So I found a poem about the sea and think I would never have enjoyed those earlier voyages if I had not been young..anna

Young Sea 

Carl Sandburg

The sea is never still. It pounds on the shore Restless as a young heart, Hunting.

The sea speaks And only the stormy hearts Know what it says: It is the face of a rough mother speaking.

The sea is young. One storm cleans all the hoar And loosens the age of it. I hear it laughing, reckless.

They love the sea, Men who ride on it And know they will die Under the salt of it

Let only the young come, Says the sea.

Let them kiss my face And hear me. I am the last word And I tell Where storms and stars come from.

September 28, 2004 - 04:17 am
The poem about the snail reminded me of an old favorite

Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894) 

The Chambered Nautilus

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, -- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, -- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: --

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

September 28, 2004 - 10:16 am
Static ~ Mary Barnard

I wanted to hear

Sappho's laughter

and the speech of

her stringed shell.

What I heard was

whiskered mumble-

ment of grammarians:

Greek pterodactyls

and Victorian dodos.

Mary Barnard was born December 6, 1909 in Vancouver, Washington. Educated at local schools and at Reed College. Began corresponding with Ezra Pound in 1933; he placed some of her poems in English magazines.

I fell in love with this poem while flipping through my poetry book; not knowing at the time that she was in my own backyard so to speak.

September 28, 2004 - 06:20 pm
"The Chambered Nautilus" I'm glad to see that. My children gave me a chambered nautilus shell many years ago: sliced in half so you can see the chambers. It is, indeed, a truly beautiful thing. The poem really makes me think.

September 29, 2004 - 07:46 am
And I for one will be glad to see it arrive. Perhaps cooler air will retard the growth of hurricanes and of course the changing of the guard....autumn's glory of jewels..Let us see what Robert Frost has to say about October..anna
Robert Frost
 - October   

O hushed October morning mild, Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild, Should waste them all. The crows above the forest call; Tomorrow they may form and go. O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow. Make the day seem to us less brief. Hearts not averse to being beguiled, Beguile us in the way you know. Release one leaf at break of day; At noon release another leaf; One from our trees, one far away. Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst. Slow, slow! For the grapes' sake, if they were all, Whose leaves already are burnt with frost, Whose clustered fruit must else be lost-- For the grapes' sake along the wall.

September 30, 2004 - 07:58 am
I am an October child so that has always been my favorite month and Frost is one of my favorite poets. Thanks for posting his October poem. Here is another and though it is a song, well....songs are just poetry set to music aren't they? (I always loved to hear this sung by Rosemary Clooney.)


When October Goes

Music by Barry Manilow

Lyrics by Johnny Mercer

And when October goes The snow begins to fly Above the smokey roofs I watch the planes go by The children running home Beneath a twilight sky Oh, for the fun of them When I was one of them And when October goes The same old dream appears And you are in my arms To share the happy years I turn my head away To hide the helpless tears Oh how I hate to see October go I should be over it now I know It doesn't matter much How old I grow I hate to see October go

September 30, 2004 - 11:24 am
You are so right ...poetry is poetry and if we add a bit of music it just makes it better in my mind. Some of my favorite songs were first poems and then a wonderful talent heard it as a song and shared it with the world..

I love what you posted and both Barry Manilow and Johnnh Mercer were and are favorites of mine.. and the words just tug at my heart because when my husband was on active duty October seemed to be a month when he would be away on some mission and I would be along.

As I wrote once "It is a terrible time for you to leave me" So the words really mean something to me ..thanks so much.. Come again soon and share your favorite song poems..anna

September 30, 2004 - 11:27 am
We have seen September come and go and now October comes with it's own special charm. I love every season but Autumn is my favorite and October the best month..here is a poem I found this am for you ..anna


The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.

Emily Dickinson 1830-1886

October 1, 2004 - 05:14 am
This poem describes how I feel about October...anna

Willaim Cullen Bryant

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven`s delicious breath! When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, Like to a good old age released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, `mid bowers and brooks And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.

October 1, 2004 - 10:10 am
I also hate to see October go. September's leaving made me sad. And here it is Oct1. Emily's poem is very dear. Thanks for all the good read.

October 3, 2004 - 09:44 am
Yesterday I recieved an email from someone I didnt know but since seniornet link was in the subject matter I opened it. Seems a lady in Ok is doing a book on Pat Buttram and old comedic actor who used what is called homespun talk. She was looking for a poem he used to recite and at least 5 years ago I had mentioned it here on SN and she found me in a YAHOO search ..well I am famous LOL here is the poem in question which took me at least two hours to find the book. My home is full of books and not in any order either but I did and it is in the same homespun idiom PAt used..hope you enjoy it. And since I had wall to wall relatives I understand this poem well ..5 girls cousins used to share a bed ..cross wise when we had a "gathering" anna


Did ye ever sleep at the foot ’o the bed When the weather wuz a whizzin’ cold When the wind wuz a whistling’ around’ the house An’ the moon wuz yeller ez gold, An give yore good warm feathers up To Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Fred- Too many kinfolks on a bad, raw night And you went to the foot of the bed- Fer some darn reason the coldest night ‘o the season An’ you wuz sent to the foot of the bed.

I could allus wait till the old folks et An’ then eat the leavin’s with grace, The teacher could keep me after school, An’ I’d still hold a smile on my face, I could wear the big boys’ wore-out clothes Er let sister have my sled, But it allus did git my nanny goat To have to sleep at the foot o’ the bed; They’s not a location topside o’ creation That I hate like the foot o’ the bed.

“Twuz fine enough when the kinfolks come- The kids brought brand-new games, You could see how fat all the old folks wuz, An’ learn all the babies names, Had biscuits an’ custard and chicken pie, An’ allus got Sunday fed, But you knowed dern well when night come on You wuz headed fer the foot o’ the bed: You couldn’t git by it, they wuz no use to try it, You wuz headed fer the foot ‘ the bed.

They tell me that some folks don’t know whut it is To have company all over the place, O rassel fer cover thru a long winter night With a big foot settin’ in your face, Er with toenails a-scratchin’ yore back An’ a footboard a-scrubbin’ yore head: I’ll tell the wide world you ain’t lost a thing Never sleepin’ at the foot o’ the bed.

I’ve done it , and I’ve done it many uv a time In this land o’ the brave an’ the free, An’ in this all-fired battle uv life It’s done left its mark upon me, Fer I’m allus a-struggling’ around the foot Instead of forgin’ ahead, An’ I don’t think it’s caused by a doggone thing But sleepin’ at the foot o’ the bed: I’ve lost all my claim on fortune an’ fame, A-sleepin’ at the foot o’ the bed.

Luther Patrick

October 4, 2004 - 08:07 am
Of course, I remember Pat Buttram and I remember this poem. You just swooshed me right back to my childhood! Thanks for posting it.

As for being famous....with the Internet I guess even more than ever we better be careful what we say. You just don't know who might be listening, or in this case, reading. ;-}

October 4, 2004 - 09:02 am
A friend told me that this web site was mentioned in a NYTimes arcticle. It publishes a new poem every day. I like the poem for today, and the motto.


October 5, 2004 - 04:31 pm
Thanks for that link, Joan. Of course, today being the 5th, it is a different one than you saw yesterday.

October 5, 2004 - 05:12 pm
‘As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme’

AS kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s <br. Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.

Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

Hope everyone can see something in this, he gets it right I think.


October 5, 2004 - 05:31 pm
Hey, Judith!! I like the poem. I haven't heard from you for a long time. How is your new home?

October 5, 2004 - 05:58 pm
thanks Joan, I lurk about a bit, not always chatty though.


October 6, 2004 - 06:00 pm
I like it also. Hopkins poetry always worth studying a bit.

October 7, 2004 - 10:25 am
Thursday: ~ William Carlos Williams

I have had my dream - like others -

and it has come to nothing, so that

I remain now carelessly

with feet planted on the ground

and look up at the sky -

feeling my clothes about me,

the weight of my body in my shoes,

the rim of my hat, air passing in and out

at my nose - and decide to dream no more.

I submitted this poem for no other reason than it's Thursday. But unlike the poet I still hold on to my dreams.

October 7, 2004 - 05:24 pm
I still have dreams, also. Even if youngers stick up their noses at elders dreams no one can take them away. Thanks for the poemk, Anne. Reminds me not to choose to lose my dreams.

October 8, 2004 - 10:35 am
I enjoyed reading the William Carlos Williams poem. I guess to stop dreaming is like a slow death. This poem reminds me that dreams are important.

October 9, 2004 - 03:24 pm
Provides food for pondering:

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode

"..... links images that elicit feelings of strong physical revulsion (the festering, running sore, for instance) to an otherwise hazy and ephemeral idea (a "dream"). Notice that this poem does not tell you what a "dream deferred" is or what it must become; Hughes merely poses the question, leaves the answer open, although he does so with the unforgettable force that has made his poetic voice so distinctive and memorable.."


October 10, 2004 - 05:15 am

This is one of my favorite poems. I love Langston Hughes. Thank you for the link.

October 10, 2004 - 10:55 am
to here. . . I kept interrupting the kings and wars ,recently with a shakespear link. http://www.shakespeare-online.com/sonnets/


To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

wunnerful. . . claire

October 10, 2004 - 11:21 am
thanks to you a discovery for me . . . langston huges....wunnerful. claire

October 11, 2004 - 11:46 am
Dream Variations: ~ Langston Hughes

To fling my arms wide

In some place of the sun,

To whirl and to dance

Till the white day is done.

Then rest at cool evening

Beneath a tall tree

While night comes on gently,

Dark like me -

This is my dream!

To fling my arms wide

In the face of the sun,

Dance! Whirl! Whirl!

Till the quick day is done.

Rest at pale evening

A tall, slim tree...

Night coming tenderly

Black like me.

I don't believe you have to be black in order to understand the imagery in this poem - it applies to all humanity.

October 11, 2004 - 11:57 am
That's wonderful.

October 11, 2004 - 12:01 pm
so is langwston hughes black..not noticeable in his poetry and who cares???

October 11, 2004 - 01:10 pm
Thanks Scrawler---- that is great-

October 11, 2004 - 01:11 pm
Hhere is a bio of Hughes. Yes, a black poet.


October 11, 2004 - 01:18 pm
Here's a number of Langston's poems- it has his first and most famous: The Negro Speaks of Rivers


October 11, 2004 - 02:09 pm
I really like that poem, Scrawler. I don't think color matters either. Poetry draws people together. I am enjoying all of the links.

October 11, 2004 - 03:44 pm
I love the blues..pla it on my guitar all the time..wrong color wrong voice but now and then when no one else is around I even sing it.

this is typical rrwelve bar construction

My man's done left me, e chord

Chile, he's gone away. e7th chord

My good man's left me, a7 chord
Babe, he's gone away. echord

Now the cryin' blues b7 plus a c7 maybe AGAIN

Haunts me night and day. e chord again. . .

only all these changes start at the beginning of the line. not the end. oh well. . . .

these players at blues on line sound bites play the thumpy style authentic blues I guess mine is more piddling around but still within the framework and hughes words are just right.

I love his poems . . . they have the feel. . . . thanks marj...

October 12, 2004 - 06:33 am
Thanks to all for your posts and poems shared. Langston Hughes is a great poet and a favorite of mine. Poetry to poetry lovers doesnt SEE anything but the heart and soul of the poet. Nothing else matters and I am glad we all agree on that..I knew you were all special ..

I have been absent since some of my family have been here for a visit. One special joy was getting to know a 26 year old male cousin. When he was younger I never knew him and this time he came with his mother and what joy to meet him. He just blessed us with his kindness, his willingness to help out with some tasks that needed his tallness (6'2"), his youth and his strength. When thanked by me he smiled a sweet smile and said "It was my pleasure" We showed him the Atlantic and took him to a lot of the historic places here. The whole family gathered for dinner on Sat night last including some relatives of my heart and it was so good to have my home full of family and laughter and joy. So today I am sharing a poem by Edgar Guest and it says it all...anna


IT takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home, A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind, An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it; Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men; And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part With anything they ever used -- they've grown into yer heart: The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-marks on the door.

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh; An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come, An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb. Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an'when yer tears are dried, Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories O' her that was an' is no more -- ye can't escape from these.

Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play, An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day; Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes t' run The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun; Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome: It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.

Edgar Guest

October 12, 2004 - 12:21 pm
is so lovely. making a house a home takes things as well as space. something us oldies have to deal with when our homes are too big and we move into smaller quarters. I have THINGS all around me that keep me company and remind me of people past. .. . . . . since I made a bunch of them they even remind me of ME -- PAST. . . . claire

October 12, 2004 - 01:47 pm
Thank you Anna for the Edgar Guest poem. It really describes what makes a home more than just a house. I will always remember the home I grew up in. I hope my children and grandchildren will feel the same about the home we have made for them.

October 13, 2004 - 02:10 am
I was so taken with the Home poem by Edgar Guest I decided to look for more poems about home. Some of the important family holidays will be coming soon and with it some warm memories both of my childhood home and the homes we lived in with our children. Grown now, married and with children of their own I am glad to see they too have more than just a house but have a HOME...anna
Taking Title

TO make this little house my very own Could not be done by law alone. Though covenant and deed convey Absolute fee, as lawyers say, There are domestic rites beside By which this house is sanctified.

By kindled fire upon the hearth, By planted pansies in the garth, By food, and by the quiet rest Of those brown eyes that I love best, And by a friends bright gift of wine, I dedicate this house of mine.

When all but I are soft abed I trail about my quiet stead A wreath of blue tobacco smoke (A charm that evil never broke) And bring my ritual to an end By giving shelter to a friend.

This done, O dwelling, you become Not just a house, but truly Home!

Christopher Morley

October 13, 2004 - 06:54 am
Love reading all the comments and the poems that people post.. but was just wondering about something. Is this board mainly for discussing poems written by others? I mistakenly thought it was for our own personal writing. Is there a board to post what we write? A board that's doesn't critique but just lets one be one?

Thanks for any info you provide Jenny

October 13, 2004 - 12:03 pm
check out POETS PRESS. Ithink that will meet your needs. . . claire

October 14, 2004 - 04:39 am
I apologize ..I was working on a reply when thunder and lightning warned me to turn my computer off and we had Tstorms all night ..Yes you can post your original poems here as well as your favorites from other poets. Claire did give you a link but there is also Poetry Challenge under writing on the main discussion page.

I dont want to dwell on all the things that have prevented me from being there for poets but I feel I will be able to do better now. Please check it out and I encourage you to post here as well. anna

October 14, 2004 - 04:48 am
Continuing to check on poems about homes this one really resonated with me....The home where I was born and lived in all my life and where my mother remained until a interstate highway claimed all the places my childhood knew ...the last time I saw that house it was silhouetted against a setting sun,the only house remaining of miles of my childhood neighborhood.It was bleak and dark and looked so small. How could it have held my parents , my grandmother and six children ? This poem reminded me of that dear place and perhaps you have a memory of a home you used to live in as well. anna

Good-Bye, Little Cabin 
O dear little cabin, I've loved you so long,  
And now I must bid you good-bye!  
I've filled you with laughter, I've thrilled you with song,  
And sometimes I've wished I could cry.  
Your walls they have witnessed a weariful fight,  
And rung to a won Waterloo:  
But oh, in my triumph I'm dreary to-night --  
Good-bye, little cabin, to you! 

Your roof is bewhiskered, your floor is a-slant, Your walls seem to sag and to swing; I'm trying to find just your faults, but I can't -- You poor, tired, heart-broken old thing! I've seen when you've been the best friend that I had, Your light like a gem on the snow; You're sort of a part of me -- Gee! but I'm sad; I hate, little cabin, to go.

Below your cracked window red raspberries climb; A hornet's nest hangs from a beam; Your rafters are scribbled with adage and rhyme, And dimmed with tobacco and dream. "Each day has its laugh", and "Don't worry, just work". Such mottoes reproachfully shine. Old calendars dangle -- what memories lurk About you, dear cabin of mine!

I hear the world-call and the clang of the fight; I hear the hoarse cry of my kind; Yet well do I know, as I quit you to-night, It's Youth that I'm leaving behind. And often I'll think of you, empty and black, Moose antlers nailed over your door: Oh, if I should perish my ghost will come back To dwell in you, cabin, once more!

How cold, still and lonely, how weary you seem! A last wistful look and I'll go. Oh, will you remember the lad with his dream! The lad that you comforted so. The shadows enfold you, it's drawing to-night; The evening star needles the sky: And huh! but it's stinging and stabbing my sight -- God bless you, old cabin, good-bye!

October 14, 2004 - 12:11 pm
The Cat With Painted Eyes: ~Gerina Dunwich

Witch-cat of the pyramids,

The shadows of the wind-worn Sphinx

Enshroud her like a priestly robe

Of velvet lined with magick.

Painted eyes like pharaoh dreams

Invoke the spell of desert stars.

Her rings of gold and royal jewels

Enchant the night with secrets.

Witch-cat of the moon-drenched Nile

Reflects the image of Bastet.

She purrs, she strokes her fur of pitch

And dances like a goddess.

- from Priestess and Pentacle

For all you cat lovers out there - don't you think your cat is "magickal" - especially at night when as you look down a darken hallway all you can see the glowing eyes of your cat!

October 14, 2004 - 07:09 pm
those eyes in the darkened hall..you just atlked me out of getting a cat. I was considering it but Ireally prefer a small dog if anything. maybe nothing . . .

October 15, 2004 - 12:23 pm
Winsum! those glowing eyes are beautiful. And I suggest you give more thought to adopting a pair of sibling kittys that have been abandonded. Kittys are lovey as can be when you have them from babyhood (or older ones that are very socialized), they don't bark, it is easy to clean out their litterboxes, and when you have two they keep each other good company when you are gone and they can enjoy wrestling together which kittys do very well.

Marj with Hamish & Gb >^..^<__________ >^..^<______________

October 15, 2004 - 01:24 pm
I agree with Marj. Check into adopting a pair of kitties. They are much more loveable at a young age. Keep in mind though that it has been my experience that cats adopt YOU not the other way around. At the moment mine is not speaking to me because we just got back from the vet for her annual physical, but even though she's not speaking to me; she's sitting close to my computer chair as I type. (Hopefully I won't run over her tail which I tend to do sometimes.)

The only time I've known my cat to be vocal has been when we had Mt.St.Helen's erupt or during other natural disasters or when my neighbor's dog tried to attack me and she threw herself between us hissing and scratching at him. The dog was about 3 sizes bigger than her, but that didn't stop her.

I don't know what I do without her. She's a true friend.

October 15, 2004 - 02:01 pm
We have had them all and I have loved them dearly but my cats I remember with special fondness. Each had its own personality and I still recall each one with fondness.

Later I will look up a poem I wrote when the last one was aged and near death. I have only have a dog now, a precious Golden retriever but I would love another cat. The cats were like me, independent and lovable at the same with I hope each us displaying endearing traits.

If I was ready to stay at home I would have one in a minute but I still travel and while I can take a dog with me my cats were homebodies and preferred to stay put ..they were entertaining , made me laugh and when I was down they seemed to know and come and lay in my lap.

You cant go wrong with a cat...and especially a kitten ...it is like being given a delightful gift to see it frolic and chase shadows and come to you with a gentle purr ..remembering a lifetime of wonderful cats..anna

October 15, 2004 - 02:10 pm
Well I have one in edit but was so sidetracked by the cats ..they can do that LOL I have to think what did I choose for today? Well I will just post it and be surprised like you ..anna Well here it is and I recall why I chose it ..we had elective subjects our senior years in HS and I chose dramatics with a wonderful teacher named Mr Bacon ( isnt that appropiate for a dramatic teacher) It was Mr Bacon that introduced me to Edna St Vincent Millay and her poetry..This particular poem I memorized and somewhere I have the record ( although what would I play it on now?) we made in class of the poems and readings we chose. Mr Bacon had a recording machine and he made 7" discs of us reading our choices. I fell in love with this particular poem and believe it influenced me all my life ..even now...hope you enjoy it too..anna

God's World  
by Edna St. Vincent Millay 

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!

Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!

Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,

But never knew I this:

Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me,—let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

October 15, 2004 - 11:18 pm
but I'm not one of you. . . I like dogs and to do the adopting myself. I just came from the national poodle page and more particularily the rescue page for california. that is probably the way for me to go since I really love dogs. I've had mostly collies but they are too big for me now. I'd have to get a bigger car too, so a miniture or toy poodle would be about right. . cat size if you will but a DOG. . . (S) claire

October 15, 2004 - 11:21 pm
Anna that is so beautiful I have a book about her and she was a very interesting person SAVAGE BEAUTY. . . I've only begun to read it. I hape it has many more of her poems. she' so full of passion. lovely, claire

October 16, 2004 - 06:44 am
Several years ago we did a discussion on Savage Beauty and my copy was autographed by the author when we attended the book fest in DC in 2002 ...You will enjoy the book. And there are a number of her poems within ..also some reasons why she wrote them...She felt everything so strongly ..and it shows in her works. anna

October 16, 2004 - 06:47 am
October is slipping away and soon it will be gone ..for some reason it is a favorite month of mine....I think if I could stay in one month I would choose October. Here is the poem I found..Enjoy..anna

OCTOBER is the treasurer of the year, And all the months pay bounty to her store: The fields and orchards still their tribute bear, And fill her brimming coffers more and more. But she, with youthful lavishness, Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress, And decks herself in garments bold Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold.

She heedeth not how swift the hours fly, But smiles and sings her happy life along; She only sees above a shining sky; She only hears the breezes' voice in song. Her garments trail the woodland through, And gather pearls of early dew That sparkle till the roguish Sun Creeps up and steals them every one.

But what cares she that jewels should be lost, When all of Nature's bounteous wealth is hers? Though princely fortunes may have been their cost, Not one regret her calm demeanor stirs. Whole-hearted, happy, careless, free, She lives her life out joyously, Nor cares when Frost stalks o'er her way And turns her auburn locks to gray.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

October 16, 2004 - 10:09 am
Whether you choose a cat or dog it doesn't matter. It's the love of the animal that is important. Good luck in finding the right pet for you.

October 16, 2004 - 03:32 pm
I enjoyed reading the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem and the Paul Laurence Dunbar poem. Can't say which one I like the best. Both poems are very beautiful. My favorite season is autumn. I love to see the changing colors of the trees and love big, orange pumpkins.

Just an aside, I also love snow.

October 16, 2004 - 09:46 pm
it's sad that we have to depend on a pet for that. I think I prefer people. . . . and humming birds . . . claire

October 17, 2004 - 05:50 am
Longfellow I would guess is not read too much anymore ..but when I was young he was revered and how many of his poems I put to memory. Whole poems elude me now but first lines and first verses I recall with ease. Here is his poem about Autumn.

And I have to say I have never met a poem I didnt like...It always amazes me that a poet can with a few short verses say what some prose takes pages to say. Here is the poem for today..anna
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - AUTUMN 

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain, With banners, by great gales incessant fanned, Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand, And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain! Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne, Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land, Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain! Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves; Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended; Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves; And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

October 17, 2004 - 10:20 am
anna it's the thee's and thou's that turn me off. I can't get past them.. . and the literate references i.e. samarcant etc. that don't evoke images for me. I like jan sands poems because they do. . . claire

October 17, 2004 - 04:17 pm
Oct 27th will be the good harvest moon! And like the poem says-"heralded by the rain"- we had about 4 days of really good rainfall on and off.

October 17, 2004 - 05:22 pm
rain is a good word for poetry..so many others that rhyme with it. I think I did one about my arthritis once using it with pain. had nothing to do with autumn.. . . claire

October 18, 2004 - 05:51 am

Do you have your arthritis poem, or did you destroy it? I would like to read it.

October 18, 2004 - 09:06 am
that arthritis thing is short and I might have lost it on this jumbed hd..I've gotten a new computer since and some things got lost. will look. . . . claire

ok I found it:

Sounds of Healing 
Claire Read 

I listen for the sounds of rain the refrigerator, the furnace, tinitus blood pulsing strongly in my ears gastric acid, arthritis drowning it out.

I search for a place for my pain everywhere, I'm tossing about, anger ,doubt and fear burn in my brain. I find the pounding rain drowns them out

let's see if pre works here.

October 18, 2004 - 11:26 am
Wow you have touched the subject of pain so well..at least for now the kind of constant pain you speak of has passed me by. Unfortunately not my oldest daughter. I feel pain through her because she has pain that is almost a constant partner. I know she would recognize herself in your poem..thanks so much for sharing it and taking the time to look it up for us to read.

I dont know what you need to limit pain in your life but I want yuo to know if prayers will help you have mine....anna

October 18, 2004 - 11:31 am
Sometimes I spend a lot of time looking for the right poem to share each day..And too often I find myself just reading and reading everything I come across.. I did find one for today and hope you enjoy it too..To me this speaks to me of autumn ..beautiful and brief ..anna

Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by. Now overlap the sundials with your shadows, and on the meadows let the wind go free.

Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine; grant them a few more warm transparent days, urge them on to fulfillment then, and press the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening, and wander along the boulevards, up and down, restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.

-- Rainer Maria Rilke

October 18, 2004 - 11:37 am
I love the images. . . beautiful I found another arthritis poem also contributes to adult food obsessions. let's see if pre will work aain.

edited just a little. 
now it looks like this 

claire ------------------- LEARNING TO BE ME May 29, 2001

Howling after midnight underfed -- water only -- water waiting waiting until six and then ten and two and six again then possibly just possibly some sustenance at ten learning to watch the clock for those four hour feedings after midnight -- only water -- water only learning to tell time even babies can tell time.

aching after midnight every bone, every joint waiting waiting until two maybe maybe one will do possibly possibly codein and tylonal every four hours or as needed -- needed too often, too soon waiting and watching the clock learning to be me at seventy three.

October 18, 2004 - 04:05 pm
Winter Stores by Charlotte Bronte

We take from life one little share,
And say that this shall be
A space, redeemed from toil and care,
From tears and sadness free.

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow,
And Sorrow stands apart,
And, for a little while, we know
The sunshine of the heart.

Existence seems a summer eve,
Warm, soft, and full of peace,
Our free, unfettered feelings give
The soul its full release.

A moment, then, it takes the power
To call up thoughts that throw
Around that charmed and hallowed hour,
This life's divinest glow.

But Time, though viewlessly it flies,
And slowly, will not stay;
Alike, through clear and clouded skies,
It cleaves its silent way.

Alike the bitter cup of grief,
Alike the draught of bliss,
Its progress leaves but moment brief
For baffled lips to kiss

The sparkling draught is dried away,
The hour of rest is gone,
And urgent voices, round us, say,
"Ho, lingerer, hasten on!"

And has the soul, then, only gained,
From this brief time of ease,
A moment's rest, when overstrained,
One hurried glimpse of peace?

No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us,
And flowers bloomed round our feet,--
While many a bud of joy before us
Unclosed its petals sweet,--

An unseen work within was plying;
Like honey-seeking bee,
From flower to flower, unwearied, flying,
Laboured one faculty,--

Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow,
Its gloom and scarcity;
Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,
Toiled quiet Memory.

'Tis she that from each transient pleasure
Extracts a lasting good;
'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure
To serve for winter's food.

And when Youth's summer day is vanished,
And Age brings Winter's stress,
Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,
Life's evening hours will bless.

October 18, 2004 - 11:23 pm
Lovely poems. Claire, as an arthritis sufferer, I particularly liked your first arthritis poem: it reflects my feelings in these long nights so exactly.

October 19, 2004 - 07:19 am
Hi Claire,

Thank you for searching for the poem. Your poem, I feel, is written well. I do not experience arthritis. Still, your poem, I feel, speaks to any pain that a person might feel or experience. Your words have touched my heart.

October 19, 2004 - 07:43 am

I love 'Waiting to be Me.' The repeating of the word "waiting" made me feel your anxiety and pain.

Anna, thank you for spending so much time searching for the right poems for us. I enjoy all of these poems. I like the Charlotte Bronte one too. Very beautiful.

October 19, 2004 - 07:53 am
I've had experiences waiting for painpill time. Expresses it perfectly.

October 19, 2004 - 09:16 am
I have a book of poems by John Updike ..this one isnt in my book and although it's title is September ..it puts me in Autumn so here it is...Thanks again Claire for sharing your poems...waiting to be me...even without pain or need of a pill sometimes I wait to come back to the person I am ...and glad to see her when she arrives pushing away sad thoughts and memories of other times..anna


The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel.

Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such.

The bee, his hive Well-honeyed hums, And Mother cuts Chrysanthemums.

Like plates washed clean With suds, the days Are polished with A morning haze.

~John Updike

October 19, 2004 - 09:43 am
Authors and actors and artists and such

Never know nothng, and never know much

Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney

Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney

Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks

Start off from anywhere, end up at sex

Diarists, critics, and similar roe

Never say nothing, and never say no,

People Who Do Things exceed my endurance;

God, for a man that solicits insurance!

~ Dorothy Parker

I think Dorothy Parker puts "things" in prospective! Perhaps as artists and such we DO take ourselves to serious.

October 19, 2004 - 02:39 pm
telling it like it is but from different perspectives. enjoyed them both. . . claire

October 20, 2004 - 10:32 am
Today I am sharing a poem I wrote a few years ago Two friends had come from out of town to visit me and I wanted to show them all the special places I knew. One place is the beach at Dam Neck which is a Navy Base..since my husband had been in the AirForce I still and do have access to military posts.. The beach there is exceptional and even in summer it is never crowded.. This was October but I will let my poem tell its own story.. by the way I am only 5' tall and these were friends were at least 5'8" It holds special meaning to me since the husband died a couple of years later and his wife lives far from me now. anna

October Day at Dam Neck Beach

With skipping feet we climbed the stile Of weathered wood, our faces smiling. Atop the dune we paused to see The flow of sea and tide. Oh Naughty Waves, you Southern Belles In ruffled dresses and rippling tresses Inviting shore to dance. You bow and tease, pretend you care. Then laugh and run to come again To play with gulls and saucy pipers. Whose only thought to find a morsel Left behind as you retreat. Sand and sky, you wondrous things! Wind, you gently lift our hair Blow softly cross our upturned faces. October sky! What blue is lovelier? Adorned with leis of clouds, you smile As warming rays from solar disk Reflect from sea and chase The chill from Arctic clime Waiting off stage to spoil our fun In its own time. Today, we laugh and gather bits of shell Remnants from a storm at sea. Lovely still, their shimmering iridescence Glowing memories in our pockets. Footprints deep upon the sand I stretch to match the stride Of my playmates here. The camera clicks. I already know it cannot capture What is deep inside, our youth! We hug it close, take it with us. When Winter comes in colder dress We'll warm out hearts before the fire Of this October day.

Anna Alexander October 23, 1995

October 20, 2004 - 01:07 pm
anna that's the best yet I love the beach having grown up next to it in los angeles and with beach house access to weekends through out the year. this is the best yet. I can smell it and the sand is damp and easily trod. lovely . . claire

October 20, 2004 - 04:56 pm
Wonderful, Anna.

October 21, 2004 - 05:03 am
Hi Anna,

I love, love your poem too. It is very beautiful. Thank you for sharing it.

I love

"Oh Naughty Waves, you Southern Belles In ruffled dresses and rippling tresses Inviting shore to dance."

Only a poet could make such a comparison.

October 21, 2004 - 06:08 am
thank you for the compliment ..once you find yourself writing poetry you never see things the same way again..When I read my poem I am back there on that beach with my friends ..it was such a joyous day..as I think only an October day can be...and my poetry writing started ten years ago when my husband died ...it seemed it was the only way I could cope with my loss..I call them my grief poems and I thank God for opening that door for me..He gave me a gift of true sight ..so all of my poems are really my way of saying Thank You God ...anna

October 21, 2004 - 06:16 am
You have been blessed. You have been given a very special gift.

October 21, 2004 - 09:58 am
Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren't lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live. ~ Dorthy Parker

I think she makes a pretty good point - don't you think? Why not indeed!

October 21, 2004 - 01:23 pm
Yes she does... and Ms Parker has always delighted me..anna and Hats I too think it was a great gift...One friend after I had started writing and doing things I had never done before said I think when God closed the door by taking your husband he opened a window so you could fly..My husband was a pilot So I always felt that was what she was saying to me.This would be my way to fly...anna

October 21, 2004 - 02:49 pm
"So you could fly." And your husband was a pilot? Wow!! That is really awesome. It is so inspiring. I do believe in miracles. Your miracle is writing poetry.


Thank you for the Dorothy Parker poem. It is all about living and not giving death an upper hand.

October 22, 2004 - 08:15 am
Anna! your october poem is definitely a story of the heart and senses. Oh, how I wish, on reading it, to be there live, however I can feel it all as if I were.

October 23, 2004 - 12:32 pm
I have just beaten this computer to a standstill... finally... and have been able to retrieve all of my poetry. At some point, I had gathered it all from journals, scraps of paper in the bedside table and all over everywhere, tablets, notebooks, computer files everywhere, backs of envelopes... and put it all neatly and efficiently all in one place. And I have been unable to access it from that place for over a year and physically unable to wrestle with the problem... until NOW. And wrestle it I did... and I WON!

Most of my poetry is dark and sad, I guess because it's always been a way for me to work through dark and sad things. The other part is usually song lyrics for us to sing, and most of those are more upbeat. This is one one of the sad ones, written over thirty years ago, following the death of my four-year-old daughter from leukemia. She told me that when she went to heaven to be with Jesus, it would be "happily ever after", and this sprang from that.

Happily Even After 
   ©1972 Karen Weston 

For a while I wished that I had also died. That part of me that lived and loved lay shriveled up inside. All that seemed to matter, shards of bones and dust. Her joyful soul now gone from me, as dead things must.

Crippled by my loss and pain, I could only cry, Until her memory begged me to begin the long goodbye. And then one day, remembering her laughter, I set out again to find happily even after.

October 23, 2004 - 02:27 pm
lovely and as you say sad. but aren't the best ones sad? I"m beginning to think so. . although Jan Sand just sent me this which is very upbeat, a change of mood.


I see the tiger in the zoo With days and months and years Of nothing to do. His yellow eyes are filled With infinities of tragedies. This box of iron has willed He must carry to and fro His heavy yellow yearnings Whose wish is just to go.

Some delinquent night I could try To slip back here, when the moon, Blindfolded by a cloud, its eye Undiscerning to permit The mice and me A modicum of Invisibility.

I would find the tiger’s cage unlocked. “Come!”, I would beckon with my finger And, in delight and surprise, He would arise. At first, in haste, we would not linger. A quiet thunder in his throat Would reveal an urgent note And we would quickly pace To make ourselves remote.

Through the murky alleyways And ill-lit streets we would flee. I would scout ahead And he would follow me Until we reached the sanctuary of my place Where the doorman, ever discrete, Would let us in And gaze politely at his feet.

Up the elevator we would ride, My finger on the button to my floor With the tiger, yawning, at my side. And then to bed Where I would snooze With the tiger stretched upon the rug Which he would choose.

Next morning, in the bright of day, We would make our plans. I would figure out a way, While making scrambled eggs In several frying pans, How we would spend our day. But first, I must teach him To perambulate on two legs.

That done, he’d don a derby hat, A cut down pair of jeans And, above that, A sweater, turtle neck And running shoes. And then, we’d hit the deck.

On our morning’s stroll He’d twitch his ears At the taxi hoots, the buses’ growl And suppress his disconcerting thought About the city traffic clatter. He will wonder why I brought Him from his sterile sanctum Into the nerve-wracking panic. But it really wouldn’t matter.

Offhandedly he’d gobble down A dog or two, Perhaps, a pigeon and a sparrow. This would cause distress. I cautioned his ability To violate finesse He must maintain civility, Or we’d end up in a mess.

Back at home, we’d discourse on Basic metaphysics. I’d do the dishes while he’d dry And juggle them for kicks. Nietzsche was his man, of course, While I inclined to Kant. He’d speak incessantly with force With a tendency to rant.

In the end, he’d do well. His personality was strong. Wall Street was his first aim But he’d ended in Hong Kong. He’d be successful, as things go, Being so relentless, Becoming a rich CEO Totally repentless.



October 23, 2004 - 02:50 pm
I love Jan's poetry. This one is wonderful for children and grownups alike. Perhaps he should do a book called "Poems for Grownup Children" (I imagine he can think of a more exciting and imaginative title!) I can see the book and illustrations in my mind's eye. I really do think the world at large needs to know about Jan's poetry, but since they don't, I'm at least glad we do!

And here is another tiger poem! I wrote this poem for a friend many years ago when her screen name was Virgi1938 (Jenny - I hope you don't mind me sharing this poem here!) I have made poems using this fun device most of my life, using the letters in someone's name (screen name in this case) as the first letters of each line, i.e., read down the left side and you will see Jenny's old screen name. In this particular case, I think you may need to read it aloud to "get it" and to "get" the meter.

Virgi's Poem

"Voulez vous," the tiger said,  
(I think he knew some French). 
Running quickly to her side, he  
grabbed the tasty wench" 
1 der if you'd dine with me, 
"9," she said, “adieu.” It is already 
3 o’clock; I 
8 at half past two.

The last three lines are new because I can't find the original and can't remember those... LOL! Now I'm wondering if I should have posted this in the "Challenge" area and challenged everyone else to try this!

October 23, 2004 - 04:57 pm
Karen, thanks for putting that love poem here. There is often a glimmer of hope in the saddest poetry...it is dark but you see light there. An opening. Losing a young child.......

October 23, 2004 - 09:01 pm
You are just too much and I love you.


aka... Jenny

October 24, 2004 - 12:57 am
I'm apt to disappear for a while. crossing fingers might help but is counter productive when it comes to typing. . . . claire

October 25, 2004 - 11:12 am
For your eyes

We were talking about sadness & googling I came across this poem and the last verse seemed mighty strong and right to the point.

7 Sadness has its own beauty, of course. Toward dusk, Let us say, the river darkens and look bruised, And we stand looking out at it through rain. It is as if life itself were somehow bruised And tender at this hour; and a few tears commence. Not that they are but that they feel immense.


October 25, 2004 - 02:08 pm
and the Indian Summer of my life and because I have always loved Dorothy Parker, here is:

Indian Summer 
       Dorothy Parker 
In youth, it was a way I had 
   To do my best to please, 
And change, with every passing lad, 
   To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know, 
   And do the things I do; 
And if you do not like me so, 
   To hell, my love, with you! 

Old age can be liberating!

October 25, 2004 - 04:50 pm
What a marvellous poem! I went and read the whole if it and it's definitely a keeper. Thanks so much for sharing.


I got a terrific giggle from that one... it's so true! One of my all-time favorite books is "Indian Summer of the Heart" by Daisy Newman. She's a Quaker and so am I, which was how I came across this book a very long time ago. I loved it thenm, even though I was very young, and I love it even more now. And here's a super poem on the same subject, for all of us who share this Indian summer of the heart with you:

Ada Foster Murray [1857-1936]

Oh, days of beauty standing veiled apart,
With dreamy skies and tender, tremulous air,
In this rich Indian summer of the heart
Well may the earth her jewelled halo wear.

The long brown fields - no longer drear and dull -
Burn with the glow of these deep-hearted hours.
Until the dry weeds seem more beautiful,
More spiritlike than even summer's flowers.

But yesterday the world was stricken bare,
Left old and dead in gray, enshrouding gloom;
To-day what vivid wonder of the air
Awakes the soul of vanished light and bloom?

Sharp with the clean, fine ecstasy of death,
A mightier wind shall strike the shrinking earth,
An exhalation of creative breath
Wake the white wonder of the winter's birth.

In her wide Pantheon - her temple place -
Wrapped in strange beauty and new comforting,
We shall not miss the Summer's full-blown grace,
Nor hunger for the swift, exquisite Spring.

October 26, 2004 - 07:40 am
"Until the dry weeds seem more beautiful," transported me back to beautiful Indian Summer days in the Hudson Valley of New York when I used to walk along the roadside and gather "weeds" to bring into the house for Autumn Celebration Bouquets. Queen Anne's Lace with its single little purple floweret right in the middle of each blossom and ox-eye daisies and chicory and tall plumed woodland grasses. Those were wonderful days.

October 26, 2004 - 09:17 am
nobody loves me everybody hates me guess I'll go eat worms.

October 26, 2004 - 11:06 am
One Perfect Rose ~ Dorothy Parker

A single flow'r he sent me, since me met.

All tenderly his messenger he chose;

Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet -

One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;

"My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose."

Love long has taken for his amulet

One perfect rose.

Why is no one ever sent me yet

One perfect limousine, do you suppose?

Ah no, it's always just my luck to get

One perfect rose.

I don't know about the rest of you, but as for me give "One perfect rose" over limousines any day.

October 27, 2004 - 09:14 am
And all the posts and all the poems from everyone...I can understand your poetry especially Zinnia as my husbands death is what sent me to writing poetry. IT WAS THE ONLY WAY I COULD HANDLE MY GRIEF...thank you for sharing that one..and the TIger Poem oh my that is so great I love it ..a keeper..and Dorothy Parker always seemed to hit just the right note..AH poetry I love you.

I have been away and busy and in fact was supposed to be away today //was going to my daughter who lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains and about 50 miles out the car started acting funny and I turned and came home will have it checked out later .was just so glad to arrive home safe and sound ..and had to unload the car..I was taking boxes of things she wanted ...I have been house cleaning..and now I am resting .and I looked up a poem about trouble. Here is one by Hardy where he expresses his concern for his friends trouble ..and like Hardy we cant truly share our troubles we do hope knowing someone else cares helps...love ya anna

 A Confession To A Friend in Trouble

YOUR troubles shrink not, though I feel them less Here, far away, than when I tarried near; I even smile old smiles--with listlessness-- Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.

A thought too strange to house within my brain Haunting its outer precincts I discern: --That I will not show zeal again to learn Your griefs, and, sharing them, renew my pain....

It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer That shapes its lawless figure on the main, And each new impulse tends to make outflee The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here; Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be Than that, though banned, such instinct was in me!

Thomas Hardy


October 28, 2004 - 12:24 pm

That poem is great especially the line about dry weeds. I have bouquets of them in my house all year.

And the last two verses about the beauty of snow. Tho I long NOT for shoveling I do enjoy the snow to look at and maybe even to walk in a quiet windless snowfall.

October 28, 2004 - 05:15 pm
No moon to see its orange eclipse No stars to light iis way Just an overcast sky remmnants of the day...I looked forward to the possibilty of seeing the eclipse..One advantage of living in the midwest the nights were full of stars..Here the trees are tall and full of shade and unless you are willing to drive somewhere I dont see too many stars. With winter upon us the leaves will be gone and the sky a darker pallette for the stars to wait upon..and I will rest my cheek against the chilled window pane and watch the stars shine down on me..Well that is not a poem but the way I feel ..I did find a poem about stars (there are many but I liked this one best) and share it here with you..anna
Stars - Poem by Emily Bronte

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun Restored our Earth to joy, Have you departed, every one, And left a desert sky?

All through the night, your glorious eyes Were gazing down in mine, And, with a full heart's thankful sighs, I blessed that watch divine.

I was at peace, and drank your beams As they were life to me; And revelled in my changeful dreams, Like petrel on the sea.

Thought followed thought, star followed star, Through boundless regions, on; While one sweet influence, near and far, Thrilled through, and proved us one!

Why did the morning dawn to break So great, so pure, a spell; And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek, Where your cool radiance fell?

Blood-red, he rose, and, arrow-straight, His fierce beams struck my brow; The soul of nature sprang, elate, But mine sank sad and low!

My lids closed down, yet through their veil I saw him, blazing, still, And steep in gold the misty dale, And flash upon the hill.

I turned me to the pillow, then, To call back night, and see Your worlds of solemn light, again, Throb with my heart, and me!

It would not do--the pillow glowed, And glowed both roof and floor; And birds sang loudly in the wood, And fresh winds shook the door;

The curtains waved, the wakened flies Were murmuring round my room, Imprisoned there, till I should rise, And give them leave to roam.

Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night; Oh, night and stars, return! And hide me from the hostile light That does not warm, but burn;

That drains the blood of suffering men; Drinks tears, instead of dew; Let me sleep through his blinding reign, And only wake with you!

October 28, 2004 - 07:01 pm
Anna: that's great. As an insomniac who is awake more at night than in the day, I really relate to it.

October 29, 2004 - 06:13 am
JoanK, I enjoyed 'Stars' too. Anna, thank you for a beautiful poem.

October 29, 2004 - 06:24 am
Joan I will think of you next time I am resting my chin on the window pane and looking out at 2am. I have always been a night person..a moonflower that only blooms at night..Even as a teenager I would go to bed when the family did but about 2 I would awaken to turn on a soft light and read or write or with the light off just sit at my window and watch the bus and cars go by ..we lived in the city of course..If my mother would awake she would come and tell me to turn off the ligth..dont know why it didnt shine on anyone's room ..she would have seen it peeking neath the door of course..today I offer a poem about Autumn although the poet mentions November ..and of course it is almost here...poems by olden poets always intrigue me for they often describe things we no longer see or even think of..note the the rooster on the dunghill! Wow that is decriptive..makes me laugh..hope everyone enjoys ..anna


I love the fitful gust that shakes The casement all the day, And from the mossy elm tree takes The faded leaf away, Twirling it by the window pane With thousand others down the lane.

I love to see the shaking twig Dance till the shut of eve, The sparrow on the vottage rig Whose chirp would make believe That spring was just now flirting by In summer's lap with flowers to lie. I love to see the cottage smoke Curl upwards through the naked trees; The pigeons nestled round the cote On dull November days like these; The cock upon the dunghill crowing; The mill sails on the heath agoing.

The feather from the raven's breast Falls on the stubble lea; The acorns near the old crow's nest Fall pattering down the tree The grunting pigs that wait for all Scramble and hurry where they fall.

John Clare, 1793 - 1864

October 29, 2004 - 08:01 pm
so many images that he LOVES TO SEE as do I. . . . claire

October 30, 2004 - 06:08 am
There is a lot of movement in this autumn poem, acorns falling, shaking twigs, falling feathers, leaves falling. Another wonderful poem that makes me get up and move.

October 30, 2004 - 08:59 am
re John Clare--- did I enjoy that poem! Images galore!

October 30, 2004 - 09:56 am
Autumn is certainly here ..yesterday I drove North to my daughter's home in the Blue Ridge Mountains here in Virginia..all the leaves have turned and even through the rain it was like driving though a kaledescope ..each movenment forward gave me a new view and all the colors were jumbled by the speed ...the rain was not heavy more like a heavy mist and so the colors should have been muted ..but they were so intense and I am reminded of Edna St Vincent's poem where she wrote they all but cry with color..today I found a poem about harvest ..and if you have ever been on a farm near harvest time this will resonate with you..anna

Charles G. D. Roberts (1860-1943)

The Potato Harvest

A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky Washing the ridge; a clamour of crows that fly In from the wide flats where the spent tides mourn To yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn; A line of grey snake-fence, that zigzags by A pond and cattle; from the homestead nigh The long deep summonings of the supper horn.

Black on the ridge, against that lonely flush, A cart, and stoop-necked oxen; ranged beside Some barrels; and the day-worn harvest-folk, Here emptying their baskets, jar the hush With hollow thunders. Down the dusk hillside Lumbers the wain; and day fades out like smoke.

wain: wagon

October 30, 2004 - 04:34 pm
it does doesn't it. . . .

by the way local colors show up more in the rainn because they are wet like stones you pick up in the water that change after they dry and the shadows aren't as prevelent. You get to see more of them (the colors). I noticed that years ago when I was painting in my car in the rain for a class at college. I missed the shadows which helped to define the masses, but the collers were much stronger. claire

October 30, 2004 - 06:25 pm
We learn something new each day dont we? Never knew that about the tree colors and rain but as I said I expected them to be muted and was so surprised to see how intense the colors were. Only a bright sunny afternoon would have made them stand out more..anna

October 30, 2004 - 06:38 pm
ANNA: you are so lucky. My husband took a well deserved vacation in the Blue Ridge, and it was so foggy, he was scared to drive on the mountain roads.

We always used to take a day or two off in the fall to drive down Skyline drive to the Blue Ridge. The time I specially remember, it had snowed just enough so that each of the bright leaves was rimmed with a small white edging of snow. One of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

October 30, 2004 - 07:15 pm
you paint a wonderful picture with that description ...once years ago when we lived in Tennessee the leaves has all changed and were gorgeous ..we had 8" of snow and that was spectacular to see those trees all aglow against the snow....very special ,..and yes those mountain roads in fog are treacherous ...I hate to be caught there when it is foggy..but yesterday was wonderful..anna

October 31, 2004 - 09:31 am
Haunted Country ~ Robinson Jeffers (1887 - 1962)

Here the human past is dim and feeble and alien to us

Our ghosts draw from the crowded future

Fixed as the past how could it fail to drop weird shadows

And make strange murmurs about twilight?

In the dawn twilight metal falcons flew over the mountain,

Multitudes, and faded in the air; at moonrise

The farmer's girl by the still river is afraid of phantoms,

Hearing the pulse of a great city

Move on the water-meadow and stream off south; the country's

Children for all their innocent minds

Hide dry and bitter lights in the eye, they dream without knowing it

The inhuman years to be accomplished,

The inhuman powers, the servile cunning under pressure

In a land grown old, heavy and crowded

There are happy places that fate skips; here is not one of them;

The tides of the brute womb, the excess

And weight of life spilled out like water, the last migration

That knows its fate beforehand, the flow of the womb, banked back

By the older flood of the ocean, to swallow it.

Have a safe Halloween!

October 31, 2004 - 09:58 am

Witch Pitch

There was an old witch who liked to pitch Pumpkins and brooms across a ditch. She pitched too hard and fell down flat And they stitched her up from shoes to hat.

--Lauren Cash Second Grade Mrs. McCorkle's Class Eupora Elementary School Eupora, Mississippi

The Family Vampire

There was a vampire under my bed He was not moving, but he was not dead. He had pointy teeth, and one green eye, Then someone cried, "You're gonna die!" I ran to my mom, she was not there. Then I saw it's shadow on the stairs. I knew it was coming after me, I could feel it's hot breath on my knee. When I looked down, it had shoes on. It turned and ran. Man, it was gone! It wasn't a vampire! Here's how I knew: That thing was wearing my brother's shoe. I'll bet my brother's worried now Cause he knows I'll get him back somehow.

—Anthony Fifth Grade Class Mrs. Gilliland's Room Central Elementary School Holton, Kansas

Scary Stuff

Witches and goblins on the moon, And besides the black cat, there was a raccoon. The black cat flicked him to Saskatoon, And he never came back until the end of June.

--Chas Lowery Grade 4 Mrs. Krug's Room Western Avenue School Geneva, Illinois

October 31, 2004 - 10:11 am
Thanks so much for them and how far we have come when children are the only ones who see the humor in our lives...I found a poem by William Cullen Bryant about November and share it here ...Funny I knew tonight was halloween but never thought to find a poem about it .Glad you did Phyll...anna

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air, Ere, o`er the frozen earth, the loud winds ran, Or snows are sifted o`er the meadows bare. One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, And the blue Gentian flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skim the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, And man delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.
 William Cullen Bryant

November 1, 2004 - 01:47 am
thought we may have a little Australiana

I was down the Riverina, knockin' 'round the towns a bit,
And occasionally resting with a schooner in me mitt,
And on one of these occasions, when the bar was pretty full
And the local blokes were arguin' assorted kind of bull,
I heard a conversation, most peculiar in its way.
It's only in Australia you would hear a joker say:
"Howya bloody been, ya drongo, haven't seen ya fer a week,
And yer mate was lookin' for ya when ya come in from the creek.
'E was lookin' up at Ryan's, and around at bloody Joe's,
And even at the Royal, where 'e bloody NEVER goes".

And the other bloke says "Seen 'im? Owed 'im half a bloody quid.
Forgot to give it back to him, but now I bloody did -
Could've used the thing me bloody self. Been off the bloody booze,
Up at Tumba-bloody-rumba shootin' kanga-bloody-roos."

Now the bar was pretty quiet, and everybody heard
The peculiar integration of this adjectival word,
But no-one there was laughing, and me - I wasn't game,
So I just sits back and lets them think I spoke the bloody same.

Then someone else was interested to know just what he got,
How many kanga-bloody-roos he went and bloody shot,
And the shooting bloke says "Things are crook -
the drought's too bloody tough.
I got forty-two by seven, and that's good e-bloody-nough."

And, as this polite rejoinder seemed to satisfy the mob,
Everyone stopped listening and got on with the job,
Which was drinkin' beer, and arguin', and talkin' of the heat,
Of boggin' in the bitumen in the middle of the street,
But as for me, I'm here to say the interesting piece of news
Was Tumba-bloody-rumba shootin' kanga-bloody-roos.


November 1, 2004 - 07:18 am
I have to work at it to wrap my mind around the Aussie lingo but I liked it! I'd rather be betting on the Cup than betting on the Election. Which is your horse? I like the sound of "BlastfromthePast", myself. Where do they get these names? Do you suppose the horses mind or do they snicker among themselves?

November 1, 2004 - 10:49 am
What a great funny poem...and like most colloquial poems funny in the sense of different places and different voices..it is really good to read them ...thanks so much for sharing that one with us...and more would be even better. anna

November 1, 2004 - 10:53 am
My hope was to find a poem about our coming election and by George I found one!! And not one by an obscure poet but a great American poet and here it is for you..anna

Election Day, November, 1884

By Walt Whitman 1819-1892

If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show, 'Twould not be you, Niagara--nor you, ye limitless prairies--nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado, Nor you, Yosemite--nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyser-loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing, Nor Oregon's white cones--nor Huron's belt of mighty lakes--nor Mississippi's stream: --This seething hemisphere's humanity, as now, I'd name--the still small voice vibrating--America's choosing day, (The heart of it not in the chosen--the act itself the main, the quadriennial choosing,) The stretch of North and South arous'd--sea-board and inland-- Texas to Maine--the Prairie States--Vermont, Virginia, California, The final ballot-shower from East to West--the paradox and conflict, The countless snow-flakes falling--(a swordless conflict, Yet more than all Rome's wars of old, or modern Napoleon's:) the peaceful choice of all, Or good or ill humanity--welcoming the darker odds, the dross: --Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify--while the heart pants, life glows: These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships, Swell'd Washington's, Jefferson's, Lincoln's sails.

November 1, 2004 - 10:56 am
Great poem Anneo: I laughed and laughed.

Anne: your poem echoed my thoughts exactly. Yesterday I was sad because a wind came up and blew all the beautiful leaves down, leaving me with a tangle of bare branches to look at. today I noticed a Few Bushes of beautiful leaves that had been hidden by the trees, so I hadn't had a chance to appreciate them before. I feel I got my one more smile.

November 1, 2004 - 11:56 am
I started to put a painting on my page and then I added music from Cats and then I realized I had something special and asked Jan Sand if he had a poem for it and he did and here is the whole thing now assembled at my site


enjoy if you can. . . . claire

November 1, 2004 - 01:21 pm
Some things are not enjoyed in the sense they give you pleasure but your painting and Jan Sands poem is even better.. it makes you pause, makes you think and makes you remember. My deep appreciation to you for giving us an opportunity to see your heart felt feelings and to ache with the words of Jan's poetry....anna

November 1, 2004 - 01:29 pm
The music, the painting, and the poetry are a soul-stirring combination. No, not enjoy, but feel; and stand in awe of those who can express those feelings so well.

November 1, 2004 - 05:54 pm
Claire, Jan thank you so much. I spent some time looking, listening, remembering.

November 2, 2004 - 06:30 am
Painting and words in poetry coming together with music is a different experience. One I would like to come into contact with again and again. Thank you.

November 3, 2004 - 11:49 am
Phyll: those poems were great fun!

November 3, 2004 - 08:01 pm
I leave this coming Sunday for a week in SC at a resort in Myrtle Beach a birthday gift from my youngest daughter...I am not sure whether I will have access to a computer or not so I thought I would post some poems that have meaning to me for Veterans Day ...Nov 11th we will remember all those who served when asked and say thank you .

When I googled I found many places are having special celebrations, in fact I suspect there may be one where I will be. A military cemetary always catches me and even thinking about those white crosses marching across the green grasses brings tears to my eyes

Here is a poem I found ...it is not meant to cheer but to remind us of the price we pay and to honor those who pay that price. anna
Walt Whitman - Dirge for Two Veterans.  

THE last sunbeam Lightly falls from the finish’d Sabbath, On the pavement here—and there beyond, it is looking, Down a new-made double grave.

Lo! the moon ascending! Up from the east, the silvery round moon; Beautiful over the house tops, ghastly phantom moon; Immense and silent moon.

I see a sad procession, And I hear the sound of coming full-key’d bugles; All the channels of the city streets they’re flooding, As with voices and with tears.

I hear the great drums pounding, And the small drums steady whirring; And every blow of the great convulsive drums, Strikes me through and through.

For the son is brought with the father; In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell; Two veterans, son and father, dropt together, And the double grave awaits them.

Now nearer blow the bugles, And the drums strike more convulsive; And the day-light o’er the pavement quite has faded, And the strong dead-march enwraps me.

In the eastern sky up-buoying, The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin’d; (’Tis some mother’s large, transparent face, In heaven brighter growing.)

O strong dead-march, you please me! O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me! O my soldiers twain! O my veterans, passing to burial! What I have I also give you.

The moon gives you light, And the bugles and the drums give you music; And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, My heart gives you love.

November 3, 2004 - 08:09 pm
is wonderful, strong, real and right directly to the heart. thanks anna.

November 4, 2004 - 09:01 am
October is my favorite month; November my least favorite. Today is the first real November day: dark, dark and raining, raining. November rain is not like Spring rain; it seems as if everything is weeping for the dying year.

I went searching for November poems, and found a website devoted to them. In my dark mood, first this caught my eye:

Yea, I have looked, and seen November there; 
The changeless seal of change it seemed to be, 
Fair death of things that, living once, were fair; 
Bright sign of loneliness too great for me, 
Strange image of the dread eternity, 
In whose void patience how can these have part, 
These outstretched feverish hands, this restless heart?

- William Morris, November

And then this:

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.

- Thomas Hood, Ode: Autumn, 1827

November 4, 2004 - 12:25 pm
Thanks Claire- your art and the poem work just right together. We must be reminded that the evil lingers on much as we might want to forget.


November 4, 2004 - 12:28 pm
Same kind of weather here, Joan!

November 4, 2004 - 12:32 pm
The name 'November' is believed to derive from 'novem' which is the Latin for the number 'nine'. In the ancient Roman calendar November was the ninth month after March. As part of the seasonal calendar November is the time of the 'Snow Moon' according to Pagan beliefs and the period described as the 'Moon of the Falling Leaves' by Black Elk


November 4, 2004 - 12:39 pm
I like to watch the geese in their formations and the sounds as they chatter to each other during their flight

The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation: The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer, I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky.

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1855, I Celebrate Myself, Line 238

November 4, 2004 - 02:14 pm
marj and joan for november's poems.

It's a pleasant change here in southern ca. the days are perfect even with the occassional rain when the blue skies welcome puffy clouds with dark bottoms, nights are beginning to be cool and the dry heat of summer, thank goodness is gone.

We don't have much in the way of colored leaves, but now and then we see a tree dressed in red. November is sad for me because my family is elsewhere and I'm not ilk here in conservative orange county so thanksgiving is just another day. I used to like to cook for my loved ones. . . .all of it fatning. Now I eat something I really like maybe sushi? and read or watch a movie. or mess with my computer and my cyber friends if they're around. life goes on . . . thankgoodness. . . claire

November 4, 2004 - 04:20 pm
MARGV:Thank you for the goose poem. Did you know the "Ya-honk" of the poem is two geese. One Yas and the other answers Honk. That way they keep in touch. Sometimes we will hear a lone goose that has lost it's flock Ya-ing and Ya-ing, waiting for that answering Honk. It's the loneliest sound in the world.

November 5, 2004 - 09:05 am
Joan, I did not know that!

November 5, 2004 - 10:40 am
November Night ~Adelaide Crapsey (1878-1914)


With faint dry sound

Like steps of passing ghosts

The leaves, frost-crip'd, break from the trees

And fall

I love this poem for its imagery. My cat has been counting falling leaves all morning. Although now I see her eyes closing; so it must be nap time.

November 5, 2004 - 10:53 am
Thanks for all the November poems and for the bit about the geese...except for squirrels I havent seen a bird at my feeders in a week. I know the summer birds are gone but where are the winter birds.?? do my feeders sans birds tell me this will be a harsh winter? I know the spiders have built their webs high against my second story windows and my daughter who lives 3 hours north tells me they are doing the same in her mailbox ..to both of use these are indicators of a cold and wintry season. I miss the birds I know that for I have always seen the flash of the cardinals and the jay and chickadees with black hooded heads..I feel sad not to see them there. This is my birth month and we never celebrated in Nov but always in Sept or even August...Veterans day which originally was Armistice Day meant a lot to me as a child since my father's brother Thomas fought in WWI and was gassed and lived the rest of his life at the Jefferson Barracks Hospital. I only saw him once, a gaunt and sickly looking soul who coughed a lot ..now I know it was from the gas but wondered then why..and the flag from his funeral flew at our house on every occasion ..it was all wool and by the time I was about 10 I noticed moths had eaten small holes in it..so to me the the Poem In Flanders Fields written my John McCrae was as much a part of my life as The Star Spangled Banner or America. I offer it here to you and remark with a sad heart that when it was written it was also about a WAR TO END ALL WARS.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
John McCrae 

If anyone is interested in reading about John McRae you might try this link.... http://www.museum.guelph.on.ca/mccraejohn.htm

November 5, 2004 - 11:26 am
a touching poem and even I am familiar with the first verse but the most immediate thought that followed concerned a current problem of poppies growing in afghanistan , . . . a primary source of revenue in the drug trade.

November 6, 2004 - 04:55 am
Anna, My birthday is in November too. I enjoyed all of the November poems too. It is a dreary month, but Thanksgiving is a wonderful and happy time.

I enjoyed the goose poem too. I think MarjV posted that one. Thank you, MarjV.

'In Flander Fields' is a favorite poem. To have beautiful red poppies blowing in the wind seems a beautiful way to show that the war dead are not forgotten.

November 6, 2004 - 10:40 am
Americans in France ~ Anne M. Ogle

They arrived at St. Nazaire

And stood before the dawn

And shaved by metal mirrors

And were proud one and all

The Germans first attacked at

Rhine-Marne Canal and the

Losses were not heavy

But we felt them all

Next the Battle of Belleau Wood

Did follow and we crouched

And stayed through the cool dawn

And tried to see over the wall

Then came the battle of Marne

As we pushed the Germans back again

Each day one died and then another

And we buried them next to the wall

And because we had courage we fought

At Aisane-Marne, Amiens, and St. Mihiel

Youth ready to be wasted but we endured

And we buried them all at the wall

I wrote this poem for my book "A Century to Remember." The second to last line "youth ready to be wasted but we endured" is the one that haunts me and everytime I read it I feel their pain not only than but now in Iraq.

November 6, 2004 - 12:12 pm
Yes, that is a haunting phrase, Anne-- "youth ready to be wasted". I'm reading "Birds without Wings" by de Bernieres and much that same idea comes out of the narrative by a young man participating in the battle of Gallopoli.

I sure do like the November one you posted.!!! The leaves on windless days always seem like huge snowflakes as they drift down. And they are a sure entertainment for kittys2 at my house.


robert b. iadeluca
November 6, 2004 - 01:09 pm
Anna, did you and others here know that in STORY OF CIVILIZATION we are discussing Arab poetry and its importance to the Bedouin nomads even before Islam came into the picture? Post 427 and the following posts tell you all about it. Feel free to come in and share your thoughts.


November 6, 2004 - 01:27 pm
Scrawler, thank you for sharing your poem. The last line is very "haunting." This is the line that stayed with me too. The young people who fight for our freedoms today and yesterday are heroes who should live forever in our minds.

"Youth ready to be wasted but we endured"

November 7, 2004 - 11:18 pm
ANNE - I enjoyed your poem and just forwarded a copy to my son, David, who is a Special Forces Chaplain deployed in Afghanistan (after a ten month deployment in Iraq last year). He's in the midst of preparing his soldiers to return to the USA sometime towards the end of the month and has reminded them as Veterans Day approaches what our American military history is like (so many are very, very young) and talks about those men and women who "served before" them. My father and two uncles served in the military in WWII and Korea; my father continued to serve until his death in 1968. As part of their redeployment briefings, David reminds his soldiers what a proud tradition of courage and steadfastness they come from and who they are - AMERICANS! Your poem will be appreciated by many. Thank you.

November 8, 2004 - 10:18 am
Thanks for sending my poem to your son. It makes me feel like I've done something to help them. You might want to check out my book, "A Century to Remember." It is a collection of my poems and short stories that start from 1900 and goes through Sept. 11, 2001. In it I have a collection of letters that I created which I call "A letter from the front." I traced the American soldier from 1900 throughout the century and ending with Vietnam. The later letters are based on my own experiences with my husband coming home from Vietnam, but I also did research and created what I thought a letter would be like from a soldier on the front line. Here's an example:

November 6, 1917

Dear father,

Tell mother I'm all right. I'm in the hospital, but I should be back at the front soon.

We had barely landed in France when the Germans attacked. We were training in the front-line trenches when without warning they started shelling. I can hear the heavy boom of the Germans guns echoing in the distince even as I write this letter to you.

Most of the officers stood around as if they didn't know what to do. According to them our casualties were not high. Still it makes me sad. Father was it like that for you in the Spanish-American War? I didn't think it would be like this.

Some of the officers think it will be over by Christmas. I hope I get out of the hospital before then. I want another crack at the Germans.

Give my love to my sister Kathy and mother. I miss you all.

Your loving son, Christopher Michael

This just gives you an idea of what the letters are like. When writing this book, I tried to stay away from glorifying war.

Let me know if I can do anything to help. If you decide to get my book, I can get it for you at cost or if you like I could send you copies of just the letters.

November 8, 2004 - 12:01 pm
I'd like to get your book. sending e-mail with particulars . . . claire

November 9, 2004 - 07:20 am
Happy Birthday

November 9, 2004 - 11:58 am
and another one -- happy happy days anna have a good one. . . ((((hugs)))) claire

November 9, 2004 - 12:56 pm
IN more ways than one...I am sitting in the lobby of this resort checking everything and thanking for the sharing I see here ..since there was once a war even in Heaven I guess we will never be without one ..but one thing and you all have expressed it well WE CAN NEVER FORGET THOSE THAT FIGHT OUR FIGHTS .... we can never forget them and must always honor them ..

I thank you for remembering my birthday ..it was rather neat to sign on and find the greetings. I have 3 bouquets of flowers that arrived this am and have a small birthday cake and candles to light tonight and a lovely seafood buffet to look forward for dinner..It is like summer here althought they are saying it will be 36 this evening..flowers are still blooming and the sea is calm ..and a November sun is turning everything to silver..it's light is not the gold of summer but a bright platinum ...I have to leave as we are only allowed 3o minutes and Robbie I will check those poems out when I return..my thanks, appreciation and love to all..anna

November 9, 2004 - 08:42 pm
Let me add my Happy Birthday to all the rest! I hope you are having a wonderful birthday trip.

November 11, 2004 - 10:57 am
This background to "In Flanders Fields" is always moving to me.

Excerpt from "Welcome to Flanders Fields - The Great Canadian Battle of the Great War : Ypres, 1915", by Daniel G. Dancocks, McClelland and Stewart (Toronto, Canada), 1988

Although he had been a doctor for years and had served in the South African War, it was impossible to get used to the suffering, the screams, and the blood here, and Major John McCrae had seen and heard enough in his dressing station to last him a lifetime. As a surgeon attached to the 1st Field Artillery Brigade, Major McCrae, who had joined the McGill faculty in 1900 after graduating from the University of Toronto, had spent seventeen days treating injured men -- Canadians, British, Indians, French, and Germans -- in the Ypres salient.

It had been an ordeal that he had hardly thought possible. McCrae later wrote of it:

"I wish I could embody on paper some of the varied sensations of that seventeen days... Seventeen days of Hades! At the end of the first day if anyone had told us we had to spend seventeen days there, we would have folded our hands and said it could not have been done." One death particularly affected McCrae. A young friend and former student, Lieut. Alexis Helmer of Ottawa, had been killed by a shell burst on 2 May. Lieutenant Helmer was buried later that day in the little cemetery outside McCrae's dressing station, and McCrae had performed the funeral ceremony in the absence of the chaplain.

The next day, sitting on the back of an ambulance parked near the dressing station beside the Canal de l'Yser, just a few hundred yards north of Ypres, McCrae vented his anguish by composing a poem. The major was no stranger to writing, having authored several medical texts besides dabbling in poetry. In the nearby cemetery, McCrae could see the wild poppies that sprang up in the ditches in that part of Europe, and he spent twenty minutes of precious rest time scribbling fifteen lines of verse in a notebook2.

A young soldier watched him write it. Cyril Allinson, a twenty-two year old sergeant-major, was delivering mail that day when he spotted McCrae. The major looked up as Allinson approached, then went on writing while the sergeant-major stood there quietly. "His face was very tired but calm as we wrote," Allinson recalled. "He looked around from time to time, his eyes straying to Helmer's grave." When McCrae finished five minutes later, he took his mail from Allinson and, without saying a word, handed his pad to the young NCO. Allinson was moved by what he read3:

" The poem was exactly an exact description of the scene in front of us both. The word blow was not used in the first line though it was used later when the poem later appeared in Punch. But it was used in the second last line. He used the word blow in that line because the poppies actually were being blown that morning by a gentle east wind. It never occurred to me at that time that it would ever be published. It seemed to me just an exact description of the scene. " In fact, it was very nearly not published. Dissatisfied with it, McCrae tossed the poem away, but a fellow officer -- either Lt.-Col. Edward Morrison, the former Ottawa newspaper editor who commanded the 1st Brigade of artillery4, or Lt.-Col. J.M. Elder5, depending on which source is consulted -- retrieved it and sent it to newspapers in England. "The Spectator," in London, rejected it, but "Punch" published it on 8 December 1915.

McCrae's "In Flanders Fields" remains to this day one of the most memorable war poems ever written. It is a lasting legacy of the terrible battle in the Ypres salient in the spring of 1915.

November 11, 2004 - 12:05 pm
Looking up to heaven, With the skies so clean and azure, I take in a breath of fresh air, Feeling God's love of life within.

The closing stages of summer, Initiates a vivid, colorful display, A forewarniing commencing with the sun, Illustrating the shades of color to the leaves.

Organizing my course of action, While putting storm windows in. The sound of the ax is heard, As the blade encounters the wood.

All to guard us from feeling, The chill felt in the hours of darkness, Establishing days of Fall ending sooner, Representative of summers conclusion.


November 12, 2004 - 11:27 am
and again he came through. I think he's got a poem for every kind of situation .here he is with one for fall. . . . claire

Hi, Perhaps this is what you want.



The first cool hint of winter Came this Sunday morning From a pale blue sky To shine With lemon light on yellow leaves And fire up maple reds. It jostled stiff brown stems To rustle in the flower beds. So frail and shy a creature With the slightest touch Transmutes the summer=s feature By not much - In such a gentle evil way One does not even quail To feel the softest brush Of faint death's tail.

Has this ghost pupa hatched From out the extra hour Set to sleep through summer From the Spring? Or merely tipped and spilled From Time itself Which wobbles With the planet=s bobbles In its sunswept swing?

No matter.

Transparently It glitters in the weakened sun To stiffen out its membranes With their needle spines. Cooling breezes tease away The heat of summer Shed like a sunburned skin To sweep like flying silken scarves Far down to Africa.

It needs three months To gnaw away the green to brown And brown to black, To fill its lungs with poison cold and ice And crack the shell of life, To spill the snow with frozen birds And mice And etch its black-white artistry On dead gray clouds. A moon-white sun Awaits for when The Earth slides down its path To certain rendezvous with life Begun again.

Jan Sand

November 14, 2004 - 07:44 am
What great words and since Friday was a terrible day for anything but especially driving I have had to give myself some time to recuperate. It was like driving in a cloud , you could not see the cars ahead , regardless of how close..and by the time night fell looking through the windshield still streaming with rain turned any light into a fractured globe. Never did my driveway and my front door seem more welcome.

Thank you for all the good wishes..and until the leaving day it was a wonderful golden time. A very special birthday to claim and put in my memory box.

Marj thanks so much for the information on the poem about Flanders Fields ..had I more time at the computer there ( we were only allotted 30 min) I would have done the same..reading about the when and how of the writing is as important as the poem..and as moving.

Thanks for poems ..they were a great welcome home to me..September Rose thank you for yours and Claire for that wonderful one by Jan Sand...

When looking for a poem to share I was hoping to find a different kind of one but instead found one that resonated with me..walking along the beach , observing it from the window on the 14th floor or from the walkway was so special. To watch the flow of sea and tide as it carefully rearranged the sand each day gave me some special thoughts...so here is the poem I chose for sometimes life is just like this ..a dream within a dream..anna
Edgar Allan Poe - A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow-- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand-- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep--while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?

November 14, 2004 - 07:55 am
That's great! Welcome back, Anna!

November 14, 2004 - 09:57 pm
Beyond the horizon, On another day, We shall share our love, In a very special way.

The rays from the sunset, Deep within our hearts, Looking to the days end, To bring a brand new start.

While she lay asleep, and waiting, For her true love to come, He hides behind a door, His heart now on the run.

Fearful from the sunset, To allow day to begin, I cross the track to find him, Wondering which train he is in.

septemberrose 11/18/04

November 14, 2004 - 10:31 pm
So delicate the music plays, To my heart you serenade, The vision of you embedded within me, Warm enough to melt a winter's storm away.

The radiance glistening from within, Bringing the memory of summers touch, Rumors of love to be spoken from the naive, Fall away to autumn as the falling leaves.

I delight in knowing I shan't be cold again, With the cold heart of winter setting in. I'll listen to your words to keep me warm at night, That I will feel through words you choose to ignite.

Caress me, my love, close to your heart, Never to allow others to keep us apart. Fearing its death I'd then pay in dues, If ever comes a day when I lose you.


November 14, 2004 - 10:55 pm
Relentless nights I go without sleep, To a future reverie of when we meet. Enduring this fever I suffer within, Whilst waiting for veracity to begin.

Rotating endlessly, the earth remains turning, Whilst time passes by, intensifying our yearning. Our bodies lay waiting in pools of fire, Drenched in liquid from inhibited desires.

Liberating our essence for freedoms we conquer, Played out in dreams creating a plethora of ooze. Pursuing a road in life devoid of all detours, When our thirst for passion, is no longer refused.

Septemberrose 11/04

November 15, 2004 - 11:51 am
beautif love poems capture essence, emotions and images. . . . claire

November 15, 2004 - 04:34 pm
Thank you for your nice comments.



November 15, 2004 - 08:09 pm
Thanks so much for sharing your love poems ..Claire said it all and I feel the one I chose for today is far afield ..I know this time of year there are many joyous moments to look forward to and anticipate. The holidays are near ,,in fact even before Halloween I saw stores decorated for Christmas ..and even I will have my tree up for Thanksgiving..since it is fake now I can put it up early and enjoy it longer. But for me I am already wishing for spring...Winter brings on the doldrums and I am eager for a new year to begin. If it werent for the holidays I think I would just curl up and take a long winters nap..so here is my poem today..anna

Sara Teasdale

A Winter Night

My window-pane is starred with frost, The world is bitter cold to-night, The moon is cruel and the wind Is like a two-edged sword to smite.

God pity all the homeless ones, The beggars pacing to and fro. God pity all the poor to-night Who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow.

My room is like a bit of June, Warm and close-curtained fold on fold, But somewhere, like a homeless child, My heart is crying in the cold.

November 16, 2004 - 06:00 am
Still tremble on the bough but I know soon they will be gone. Then my neighbors security light will once again light my room at night.Having learned to appreciate the shadows it makes upon my walls I no longer find it annoying and instead enjoy the branches from my trees dancing in the winter's wind or see the shadows of snowflakes against the walls. Today I went in search of poems by Alexander Pushkin and found one that made me remember the security light and the shadows of trembling leaves and shaking boughs..anna

I have outlasted all desire, My dreams and I have grown apart; My grief alone is left entire, The gleanings of an empty heart. The storms of ruthless dispensation Have struck my flowery garland numb- I live in lonely desolation And wonder when my end will come. Thus on a naked tree-limb, blasted By tardy winter's whistling chill, A single leaf which has outlasted Its season will be trembling still.

Alexander Pushkin

November 16, 2004 - 06:52 am
Anna, thank you for sharing this poem. A time of sadness is one everyone deals with at one time or another. When I am sad, it does feel as though "My grief alone is left entire."

November 16, 2004 - 06:58 am
What a beautiful poem!! Makes me want to read other poems by Edgar Allan Poe.

I haven't read all of the poems. I am trying to catchup. I have been gone for a few days. I always read back over the poems missed.

November 16, 2004 - 10:33 am
American Names: ~ Stephen Vincent Benet (1898-1943)

I have fallen in love with American names, The sharp names that never get fat, The snakeskin-titles of mining-claims, The plumed war-bonnet of Medicine Hat, Tucson and Deadwood and Lost Mule Flat.

Seine and Piave are silver spoons, But the spoonbowl-metal is thin and worn, There are English counties like hunting-tunes Played on the keys of a postboy's horn, But I will remember where I was born

I will remember Carquinez Straits, Little French Lick and Lundy's Lane, The Yankee ships and the Yankee dates And the bullet-towns of Clamity Jane I will remember Skunktown Plain.

I will fall in love with a Salem tree And a rawwhide quirt from Santa Cruz, I will get me a bottle of Boston sea And a blue-gum nigger to sing me blues, I am tired of loving a foreign muse.

Rue des Martyrs and Bleeding-Heart-Yard, Senlis, Pisa, and Blindman's Oast, It is a magic ghose you guard But I am sick for a newer ghost, Harrisburg, Spartanburg, Painted Post.

Henry and John never so And Henry and John were always right? Granted, but when it was time to go And the tea and the laurels had stood all night, Did they never watch for Nantucket Light?

I shall not rest quiet in Montparnasee. I shall not lie easy at Winchelsea You may bury my body in Sussex grass, You my bury my tongue at Champmedy, I shall not be there, I shall rise and pass, Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.

I enjoyed reading this poem aloud. The words seem to swirl around your mouth and than slip down your throat like good wine.

November 17, 2004 - 12:12 am
The poem you posted A Winter Night, was a poem everyone should read, with a very big message sent. A beautiful read.


November 17, 2004 - 08:52 am
Scrawler oh my you pushed my memory buttons and I googled Benet and had a wonderful time reading his poems. He has written some of the best narrative poems..too long perhaps for here but it was a real joy to read them..Thanks for posting that particular one.

September Rose I am so glad you liked the poem ..I did too and find it hard each day to find something that will speak about the day, the season, or just something I feel will be a good poem to share.

Today's came only after I must have read 20 poems but this one said stop , this is for today.. I hope all of you agree. anna

Mary Oliver - Clapp's Pond  

Three miles through the woods Clapp's Pond sprawls stone gray among oaks and pines, the late winter fields

where a pheasant blazes up lifting his yellow legs under bronze feathers, opening bronze wings;

and one doe, dimpling the ground as she touches its dampness sharply, flares out of the brush and gallops away.

By evening: rain. It pours down from the black clouds, lashes over the roof. The last acorns spray over the porch; I toss one, then two more logs on the fire.

How sometimes everything closes up, a painted fan, landscapes and moments flowing together until the sense of distance - - - say, between Clapp's Pond and me - - - vanishes, edges slide together like the feathers of a wing, everything touches everything.

Later, lying half-asleep under the blankets, I watch while the doe, glittering with rain, steps under the wet slabs of the pines, stretches her long neck down to drink

from the pond three miles away.

November 17, 2004 - 09:06 am
Oh, Anna, that was so great.

November 17, 2004 - 10:57 am
JoanK, I liked it too. I can see and hear the deer walking through the rain. Thank you, Anna.

November 17, 2004 - 03:21 pm
This one seems nice for fall... I'm posting just the first and last verses and you can see the rest here if you like... it's a long poem:


Ode to the West Wind  
Percy Bysshe Shelley

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being—    
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead    
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,    
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,    
Pestilence-stricken multitudes!—O thou          
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed    
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,    
Each like a corpse within its grave, until    
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow    
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill   
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)    
With living hues and odours plain and hill—    
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere—    
Destroyer and Preserver—hear, O hear!

Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:    
What if my leaves are falling like its own!    
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies    
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,   
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,    
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!    
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,    
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;    
And, by the incantation of this verse,  
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth    
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!    
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth    
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,    
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 

November 17, 2004 - 03:41 pm
are hard for me. they distract since I've not grown up with them

November 17, 2004 - 03:45 pm
That eliminates an awful lot of wonderful poetry, as well as the Bible, many parts of which are also wonderful poetry! It's not too difficult...

thee = you

thy, thine = your

thou = you

ye = you

But all of them are usually self-explanatory in context.

November 17, 2004 - 03:52 pm
I tried to read the bible as literature and found it to be distracting also. the language foreign even sounding pretentious to me. besides I'm not religious and the whole thing is mildly offensive to me. nope that old fashioned stuff is too old fashioned. . . . for me. I need to be able to IDENTIFY. . . .claire

November 17, 2004 - 05:55 pm
It was the language of the English-speaking world... used by everyone; not religious or anything "pretentious" at all. The King James Bible happened to be translated at a time when that was the common language and I find that modern translations lose a lot of the poetry.

I'm a Quaker and certain branches of Quakers do use it among themselves, but never to non-Quakers. "We" followed the general case collapse rule of English around the end of the 15th century, when "ye," "thou" and "thine" dropped from common use in general language and among Quakers.

November 17, 2004 - 06:15 pm
So you dont like Shakespeare either? Guess its difference that makes the world go round.

I think Shelley is marvellous, and that poem nigh on takes my breath away.


November 18, 2004 - 05:00 am
And read with interest your posts. I have no poem to share but without your knowing it you have given me a wonderful gift. Since I feel you are , well drat you dont need to know this but a gnat just flew up my nose..do you have any idea how that disturbs ones train of thought? Bsck to what I was going to say ..I think of you as my friends and your posts wouldnt let me sleep. For I realized I cant recall a time when I couldnt read. That puzzled me for where did I come across the books that held all those stories and poems? There was Beowulf, Charlemagne, Roland, one about the Vikings and lovely illustrations, there was poetry by Shakespeare, Poe, Longfellow, Whitman, etc and I recall reading the newspaper with the poems by Edgar Guest. I know I could read long before I entered the first grade..no kindergarten then,...and I kept trying to figure out where the books came from ..finally I realized they were my older brothers school books. Schools did not furnish books and my parents had to buy them.Of course my mother kept them , first because she hoped the next child in line could use them ..which never happened. My three older brothers were quite a bit older. My parents having 3 sons , each about 3 years apart and then the terrible flu that killed so many ..toward the end of that epidemic mother caught the flu and was very ill and it wasnt until seven years later she became pregnant with me so by the time I was school age my two oldest brothers had graduated and were working. And by the way children did not move from home at that time ..or at least not in my community.

So where is this all leading and what has it to do with poetry? I was thinking of all the different poets I read and also the difference in the writing. And I realized not only was I reading poetry but reading history. Each poet wrote in the language of the period..more or less , although Edgar Guest wrote often in a sort of folksy way.Much like James Whitcomb Riley.

And I realized what a wonderful gift your discussion gave me..I recognized something I had never been aware of , that poetry is more than just a poets words but as I say it is a piece of history. Now that just blew my mind. And not just history of USA but of the whole world. Think of the Chinese and Japanese poets ..how different they wrote and would I have known about Grecian Urns or Ozymandis, or the period when Shakespeare wrote? and how about our modern poets ? Would I have understood the black history and concerns without Langston Hughes and other black poets? Would I have known about other countries in such an interesting , inmaginative and wonderful way without poetry?? For me, I can say never. History and the world was opened for me by poetry..and all night I have just lain in bed realizing how blessed I was ..to have those books to read , to be introduced to poetry while still a child, to read all the wonderful stories of wonderful places...no wonder I am a romantic.

I will never look at poetry the same way ...and I guess I never have but your discussion just opened my mind to that knowledge and that is a gift ...thank you , anna

November 18, 2004 - 08:44 am
I chose this one because I want to keep the idea foremost in my mind...so I dont forget how fast time has flown and dont let a minute go to waste...anna
I  never knew

time could move so fast collapse and fall into a black hole caught in space and leave no trace where are the days and hours that stretched before when youth was mine to hold ?

where are my loved ones lost and gone to that dark place where no one answers questions I once failed to ask

where are the babes who thought me wise who kissed me with small moist mouths and whispered in my ear I love you mom?

where are the seasons that marked my days gone down into that rabbit hole and I soon to follow?

I never knew age would bring knowledge , never guessed life would not be hour or days or even years, but only seconds on my watch while I wait for God to press The STOP

Anna Alexander 2/02/02 ©

November 18, 2004 - 10:09 am
Trees ~ Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Sunner wear A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosm snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

When I got up this morning I couldn't figure out why I was suddenly blinded by sun as I walked into my living room and then I realized that the large tree in front of my apartment window no longer had its leaves. In the last wind storm we had it must have lost its leaves and since we've had nothing but rain, I hadn't really noticed. That's when I thought of Joyce Kilmer's Trees. The winter hasn't even begun yet and I miss my tree already.

November 18, 2004 - 10:11 am
Wonderful, Anna.

I agree -- poetry opens the world. It teaches us about different times and places, but it also makes us kin as we feel with those people so far away and become them.

November 18, 2004 - 10:13 am
CLAIRE: if you don't like the poetry in the bible, read The Song of Songs (Song of Solomon). I dare you not to find some of it beautiful!

November 18, 2004 - 10:27 am
I can identify with you and your poem because I share your thoughts on ageing. . . and ontinued awareness. I learn something new every day even if it's a small path to convenience

Poetry speaks to me in that way which is why I'm here. The ancients while interesting cannot lead the way to my heart since I really hate their morals and lifestyles and their insistence on GOD in their lives. I won't argue GOD in here because it doesn't belong here, but I will say that I think he is a bloody CON. so yOu know where I'm coming from. . . a humanist and an ardent athiest with reason and experience my guidss. . . claire

November 18, 2004 - 10:28 am
Thanks to Anna, I spent yesterday (in my imagination) on high mountain peaks, reading for the PBS program club "Touching the Void". All of the discription of terror and hardship didn't dampen my fascination with mountains. I went looking for mountain poems, and found this small one, suitable for an armchair mountaineer like me:

Alone Looking at the Mountain

by Li Bai

All the birds have flown up and gone;

A lonely cloud floats leisurely by.

We never tire of looking at each other -

Only the mountain and I.

November 18, 2004 - 10:33 am
there is a wonderful Millay poem about mountains that Jn sent me. ILl look for it but I think it's a little long for in here. Is lengtth an issue here? . . . claire

November 18, 2004 - 10:49 am
I found Rubbish and this quote from Shelly. It's full of THOU'S and other conveniences i.e. o'er..again dated and distracting me from the fine images elsewhere. No one really talks that way although I know people on line who write poetically when simply communicating because they can't help it. these things in the old style poetryj which date it, leave me stranded.

Shelley, Percy Bysshe (14)


I found this at google..millay and mountains

I. O, WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving every where;

* Millay's Echoes - Millay's Echoes By Robert Creeley ... To hear the poet read "Millay's Echoes," click here.

"All I could see from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood; I turned and looked the other way ... http://slate.msn.com/?id=3426 - 26k - similar pages - add to favorites

Destroyer and preserver; hear, O, hear!

November 18, 2004 - 11:02 am
"Anyone with our outlook these days must be in pain. If half a nation could scream, the atmosphere of Earth would be curdled with the wail arising from the USA after the election."

Jan Sand in a letter about the election. he's got no choice...he speaks poetry and images even while stating a political position.


November 18, 2004 - 11:13 am
The Death of Santa Claus

Charles Webb

He's had the chest pains for weeks,
but doctors don't make house
calls to the North Pole,

he's let his Blue Cross lapse,
blood tests make him faint,
hospital gown always flap

open, waiting rooms upset
his stomach, and it's only
indigestion anyway, he thinks,

until, feeding the reindeer,
he feels as if a monster fist
has grabbed his heart and won't

stop squeezing. He can't
breathe, and the beautiful white
world he loves goes black,

and he drops on his jelly belly
in the snow and Mrs. Claus
tears out of the toy factory

wailing, and the elves wring
their little hands, and Rudolph's
nose blinks like a sad ambulance

light, and in a tract house
in Houston, Texas, I'm 8,
telling my mom that stupid

kids at school say Santa's a big
fake, and she sits with me
on our purple-flowered couch,

and takes my hand, tears
in her throat, the terrible
news rising in her eyes.

Reading about belief or lack of it reminded me of that awful time when someone told me there was no Santa Claus. I wonder why people, especially children enjoy bursting balloons.Found this online and am impressed.


November 18, 2004 - 12:41 pm
Anna - Another glorious and touching poem! Thank you so much. You have a real gift for expressing the feelings that so many of us have, and in such a creative and sensitive way!

Anneo - I really enoyed that poem and I agree with your sentiments about those who enjoy spoiling, or even trying to spoil, joy for others. The fullest life is that lived with joy, I believe.

November 18, 2004 - 12:51 pm
Anna, I agree with JoanK. Your poem is "wonderful." So many of the lines are questions I have asked myself. Time and experiences pass by so quickly, and we can never can go back again. Realizing this, makes me want to treat each day as precious and each friend and family member as special.

November 18, 2004 - 01:06 pm
I enjoyed your poems too. I especially love the poem 'Trees.' That one is an old favorite. I never grow tired of it.

November 18, 2004 - 01:08 pm
Loved that poem about time. It's most alarming how it disappears like in a breath or a whisper.

November 18, 2004 - 02:27 pm
It was wonderful to come in here ..if I werent afraid of killing my computer I would have brought a cup of cocoa and sipped it while reading all your posts.

The consensus seems to be Poetry is special and we love it..and it is like a coat of many colors..I may enjoy the yellow and you may enjoy the red and all of us may thing violet is really special or even think it dreadful. Coming here is a comfortable place to me, where we may differ but still are glad we can share ..

I loved all the poetry offered,...Joyce Kilmers Trees was one I memorized ..cant say where but I know it ..and while I love the ocean my next favorite place are the mountains and I could live either place for the rest of my life although I confess to a secret longing to have my ashes dispersed somewhere in the high Rockies..there is a part of me that is pleased with the thought of whatever remains will be blowing in the wind forever.

And the Santa Claus poem ..when my children came to me to tell me someone had told them Santa Claus didnt exist I said well there must be some mistake ..I believe in him so he must exist! And I am so fond of Santas family and friends have gifted me over the years with Santas of all shapes and sizes. In my den those that were not for a tree hold forth all year, and it is CROWDED I even have a pair of Santa andirons . The first year I left them up my youngest son said Mom Christmas is over ...and I said WHO SAYS SO??and besides this is a collection and a collection can stay all year. When we still had two trees a year one held all of my santa ornaments etc. And one year I left my tree ( a fake one ) up until July when I had a Christmas in July party...

Like my poem I dont want to waste a minute ...Keep sharing ..and all of you lurkers hello ..drop in any time ..we love company,,anna

November 19, 2004 - 06:00 am
Here is a poem I have read many times...for lots of reasons ..Joyce Kilmer's Trees sent me to a site with his poems and there I found one of his poems ..although I never realized ..I guess I never paid attention to who wrote the following poem ..but over the years I have read it many times ( I am fond of just sitting down with a book of poems and reading them out loud to myself) There is something in the rhytmn of poem that I find soothing and pleasent. This one reminded me of the last time I viewed the home where I was born and lived in until I married. The whole area where I grew up had been demolished to make room for an interstate.. Blocks and blocks were flattened ..looked like war zone...only one house remained...and my brother told me it was our and to take a look as we were leaving since it was sure to be torn down soon. How small and desolate it looked, a black shadow against the setting sun...I felt then and even now like a displaced person..for I truly could never go home again. Not only the house I had lived in but the whole area that had been my life, school, church, movies theaters, the grocery store, the drugstore, the Irish Pub ..were all gone and only live now in my mind. So this poem resonates with me..tell me what you think..anna
Joyce Kilmer - The House with Nobody in It

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black. I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do; For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.

If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store. But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet, Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

November 19, 2004 - 10:26 am
pore old house. nice poem.

November 19, 2004 - 11:03 am
It is a nice poem.

November 19, 2004 - 12:59 pm
I guess it is a "nice poem" is just jumped out at me since I remember reading it one of the many times I would curl up with a book of poetry..While I have many poetry books by a single poet I do love the anthologies best...and loved to read aloud to myself.

My husband was away a lot and when the children were in bed upstairs asleep I would curl up in a chair and read something ,,,but loved the poetry readings..always found something that seemed to fit my moods.

Thinking of the rain I had to drive to ..from SC to Va last week and recalling a poem I wrote about Hurricane Floyd It was very similiar to my expierence at that time...If I can locate it will share it with you ...anna

November 19, 2004 - 01:10 pm
With so many trees we seem to have a never ending supply of leaves. The oaks retain much of their leaves until spring..and the city has already picked up leaves on our street once this year HUGE piles in front of everyone's house..My new pile of leaves is getting higher and still my yard is covered and it seems some of the trees are still full...so this poem reminded me ...I am glad the city picks up the leaves at the curbs because it is a CHORE to gather leaves into a plastic bag..it seems I have as many still on the outside as I do on the very large shovel I use...it is a rather tiresome task..and yet I would miss the trees and the leaves if I had none..anna

Robert Frost - Gathering Leaves  

Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons.

I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away.

But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face.

I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then?

Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color.

Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop?

November 20, 2004 - 03:19 am
Sometimes I dont sleep too well and this am was one..Weekends are always busy...family things, church etc and sometimes I dont take the time to really look for a poem.I am finally getting all of my poems on disks and CDs and found one I wrote not too long ago. I always add the date which I have found helpful in remembering where and why I wrote a poem.

Since this is a busy day I will again post one of my own...hope everyone has a great weekend and you do something special just for you..anna

Shades of gray

November is lurking ‘round the corner Already the days are gray The gray squirrel is hidden in its midst Only a plume of fur tells me it is there Leaves on trees seem like calico cloth The gaudy loom of fall’s attire On the ground are soon dark and brown Rain falls from tarnished pewter skies . Drips heavily from the eaves Weighs down the flattened leaves Of Sooty gray , of crinkled gowns Create wet mats upon the ground I will not rake or make piles of them But allow the winter wind to blow Let them ride once more a current cold of air Let them feel a gale and think for just second There is more.

Anna Alexander 10/24/04©

November 20, 2004 - 07:26 am
Hi Anna,

I truly enjoy your poems. I really enjoyed this one you wrote about autumn. I love thinking of leaves as Calico cloth. That is sooo original. Thank you for the poem.

November 20, 2004 - 11:09 am
The Tree and Me: ~ Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler)

The tree that stands outside my bedroom window Is in the summer a dear friend But in the fall becomes my mortal enemy

The tree spreads its branches And shakes with all its might Sending hundreds of leaves falling to the ground

At first I smile and do nothing Then with a grin I turn on my secondhand leaf blower And gather up all the fallen leaves

The tree is silent for a very long time And then shakes and sways Until only one leaf is left

I watch the last leaf fall to the ground I hit the switch to turn on the blower But nothing happens

Bending low I try to pick up the leaf And that is when I hear my back go pop! "Get the liniment, dear, the tree has wone again."

Speaking of trees I thought I'd add one that I wrote. Happy Thanksgiving to one and all!

November 22, 2004 - 10:32 am
Well I must say your poem made me smile..not because your back went out but because you could write a poem about it..I wanted to think of Thanksgiving today.. for I have found half the fun of anything is in the anticipation..so here is the poem I chose for today..anna
Over the river and through the wood  
To Grandmother's house we go.  
The horse knows the way 
To carry the sleigh  
Through white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood Oh, how the wind does blow! It stings the toes And bites the nose, As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood To have a first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, Ting-a-ling-ling! Hurrah forThanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood, Trot fast, my dapple gray! Spring over the ground Like a hunting hound, For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river and through the wood, And straight through the barnyard gate. We seem to go Extremely slow~ It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood~ Now Grandmother's cap I spy! Hurrah for fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

By Linda Maria Child

November 23, 2004 - 05:53 am
Here is a poem by 2004's poet laureate. He gets an office and 35,000 dollars pay and is supposed to help at the Congressional Library...And encourage new poets....I chose this poem because my birthday Nov 9th and when I went away for a lovely retreat I took a book with me. His poem catches my own feeling about reading...anna

A Happy Birthday Ted Kooser

This evening, I sat by an open window and read till the light was gone and the book was no more than a part of the darkness. I could easily have switched on a lamp, but I wanted to ride this day down into night, to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page with the pale gray ghost of my hand.

November 23, 2004 - 05:59 am
Anna, I really enjoyed this poem. I think all readers have experienced just such a moment.

"I wanted to ride this day down into night,"

Thank you for introducing a poet laureate.

November 23, 2004 - 02:04 pm
The poem by Kooser is wonderful. Right now the day is early turning into dusk. And that poem speaks it clearly. I often will do that at this time of year. Let the dark come on its own without switching on lights. Depends on my mood.


November 23, 2004 - 06:33 pm
Yes! Those are exactly the evenings I will always remember.

November 24, 2004 - 03:50 am
Those are the best evenings...very special and Kooser caught it just right. Well I have been looking for a homey type of poem for Thanksgiving and checked out Edgar Guest..I have mentioned his poetry was printed daily in our newspaper when I was young. Reading them were the best part of my days.And here is his Thanksgiving poem I hope yuo like it ..anna
by edgar a. guest

Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice, An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice; An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they Are growin' more beautiful day after day; Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men, Buildin' the old family circle again; Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer, Just for awhile at the end of the year.

Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door And under the old roof we gather once more Just as we did when the youngsters were small; Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all. Father's a little bit older, but still Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will. Here we are back at the table again Tellin' our stories as women an' men.

Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer; Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there. Home from the east land an' home from the west, Home with the folks that are dearest an' best. Out of the sham of the cities afar We've come for a time to be just what we are. Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank, Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.

Give me the end of the year an' its fun When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done; Bring all the wanderers home to the nest, Let me sit down with the ones I love best, Hear the old voices still ringin' with song, See the old faces unblemished by wrong, See the old table with all of its chairs An' I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.

November 24, 2004 - 02:34 pm
This is a favorite of mine. JGW was an American Quaker and reformer and I'm a Quaker, so I take a bit of pride on being a Quaker when I read his works. I also have a signed copy of one of his books of poetry and it is a prized possession. I am so blessed and I have so much extra for which to be thankful this year, so these poems really touch my heart and mean something extra special to me.

The Pumpkin
By J. G. Whittier

Ah! On Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip, and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin pie?

O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling;
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces were carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!

Then, thanks for thy present! - none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Gold-tinted and fair as thine own pumpkin-pie!

I wish you all the best Thanksgiving ever!

Love and hugs,


November 24, 2004 - 03:31 pm
At the risk of being "too political," I still feel compelled to share this poem. Again, as a Quaker and a Christian, one of the things for which I am not thankful this year is the reality of war. This poem was written over a hundred years ago and it's a tragedy to me that we have learned nothing in all that time except how to kill more people in less time and with less conscience.

"Our New National Hymn" was printed in the Asheville, N.C., Sunday Republican on September 27, 1899; it serves as a sample of the many poems of protest written both in America and abroad during our expansionist Spanish-American War.

by William G. Eggleston : American

We are marching on to glory with the Bible in our hands,
We are carrying the gospel to the lost in foreign lands;
We are marching on to glory, we are going forth to save
With the zeal of ancient pirate, with the prayer of modern knave;
We are robbing Christian churches in our missionary zeal,
And we carry Christ's own message in our shells and bloody steel.
By the light of burning roof-trees they may read the Word of Life,
In the mangled forms of children they may see the Christian strife.
We are healing with the Gatling, we are blessing with the sword;
For the Honor of the Nation and the Glory of the Lord.

Then march on, Christian soldiers! with word and torch in hand,
And carry free salvation to each benighted land!
Go, preach God's Love and Justice with steel and shot and shell!
Go, preach a future Heaven and prove a present Hell!
Baptize with blood and fire, with every gun's hot breath
Teach them to love the Father, and make them free in Death;
Proclaim the newer gospel, the cannon giveth peace,
Christ rides upon the warship his army to increase.
So bless them with the rifle and heal them with the sword,-
For the Honor of the Nation and the Glory of the Lord!

November 24, 2004 - 06:16 pm
yes it is a tragedy that we can't live together in peace. I blame religion and that's all I can say here or they'll toss me off. What else can I say except . . . . that's a very powerful poem. thankyou. claire

November 24, 2004 - 06:44 pm
Well, I'm a Christian and I posted the poem... so maybe it's SOME Christians and their beliefs (or lack of following same) that bother you. And I probably shouldn't expound further in this Poetry discussion, either... LOLOL!!!

Here's an interesting "Thanksgiving" poem from another perspective. I wish I knew for sure what the author intended as to line breaks... it was rather jumbled on the website.

Home For Thanksgiving
....by Linda Pastan

The gathering family
throws shadows around us,
it is the late afternoon
of the family.

There is still enough light
to see all the way back,
but at the windows
that light is wasting away.

Soon we will be nothing
but silhouettes: the sons'
as harsh as the fathers'.

Soon the daughters
will take off their aprons
as trees take off their leaves
for winter.

Let us eat quickly--
let us fill ourselves up.
the covers of the album are closing
behind us.

November 24, 2004 - 06:59 pm
Here I am, loading up the discussion... but I found another by that same author and I really thought it worth posting.

Prosody 101 
....Linda Pastan

When they taught me that what mattered most 
was not the strict iambic line goose-stepping 
over the page but the variations 
in that line and the tension produced 
on the ear by the surprise of difference, 
I understood yet didn't understand 
exactly, until just now, years later 
in spring, with the trees already lacy 
and camellias blowsy with middle age, 
I looked out and saw what a cold front had done 
to the garden, sweeping in like common language, 
unexpected in the sensuous 
extravagance of a Maryland spring. 
There was a dark edge around each flower 
as if it had been outlined in ink 
instead of frost, and the tension I felt 
between the expected and actual 
was like that time I came to you, ready 
to say goodbye for good, for you had been 
a cold front yourself lately, and as I walked in 
you laughed and lifted me up in your arms 
as if I too were lacy with spring 
instead of middle aged like the camellias, 
and I thought: so this is Poetry!

November 24, 2004 - 07:07 pm
I do like that one . . . maybe because it suggests that it's ok to break the rigid rules that bind us when all we really want to do is FEEL. . . . claire

November 24, 2004 - 07:15 pm
I also think she has me beat as "queen of the run-on sentence" LOLOL! Let me hasten to add that I don't mean that as a bad thing... I loved the "stream of consciousness" kind of feel of it! It's the way I speak, and also the way I would write at all times if I didn't watch myself.

I really liked the feelings and the images painted in my head by the poem, too. I feel like I "see" poems in color, and I liked the colors of this one.

November 25, 2004 - 07:28 am
Loved them all ..and Thanksgiving is a celebration of life ..all of its solemnity,all of its joy..Today I will be joining my family at one of my son's home...How nice not to have to do anything but just be a guest...Now this is a joyous day ..and I think we always need a good laugh .. this am this little rhyme was in my mail box..it has been around for awhile but I thought it might give you a smile...anna


November 26, 2004 - 02:54 pm
Loved these lines from the poem, Karen

and as I walked in you laughed and lifted me up in your arms as if I too were lacy with spring instead of middle aged like the camellias, and I thought: so this is Poetry!

Wonderful expression of a light heart. Away from the "rules".


Malryn (Mal)
November 26, 2004 - 10:04 pm
The winter issue of the m. e. stubbs poetry journal is now on the web.

Poets in this issue are Patricia Robinson-King, John T. Baker, James E. Fowler, Ashok T. Chakravarthy, John Talbot Ross, Gerald Bosacker, Emery L. Campbell, R. J. McCusker and Mardelle Shagool.

Featured artist in this issue is SeniorNet artist, Ann Dora Cantor. SeniorNet poets in this issue are Patricia Robinson-King, John T. Baker, John Talbot Ross and R. J. McCusker.

Marilyn Freeman, Publisher of
m. e. stubbs poetry journal

November 27, 2004 - 06:50 am
Zinnia, I loved 'Home for Thanksgiving' by Linda Pastan. Thank you.

Mal, thank you for the link to the Poetry Journal. I intend to enjoy it.

November 27, 2004 - 01:14 pm
I'm glad you enjoyed it... I am always amazed at the wealth of things I run across online, especially when I was looking for something else! That last line... something about "the covers of the album are closing behind us" is so poignant... so evocative at this time in our lives!

I enjoy most forms of poetry, but lately I am more and more drawn to this kind of thing... like Anna's poetry and Claire's and others, it's more about painting a picture and/or evoking a feeling than making a rhyme or worrying about form and meter.

November 27, 2004 - 01:47 pm
"Emily Dickinson"

We think of hidden in a white dress among the folded linens and sachets of well-kept cupboards, or just out of sight sending jellies and notes with no address to all the wondering Amherst neighbors. Eccentric as New England weather the stiff wind of her mind, stinging or gentle, blew two half imagined lovers off. Yet legend won't explain the sheer sanity of vision, the serious mischief of language, the economy of pain.

It's just marvelous!

November 27, 2004 - 03:15 pm
Gosh... I had no idea that this woman was so well known and often published. I was pleased to find that she is one of our peers, although I suppose I should have recognized that from the depth of her understanding. Here is a link to quite a few of her poems.


As a cancer survivor who often suffers from cancerchondria, I really related to one called "The Cossacks." I think I want to get my own book or books of her poetry.

I also continue to wish that Anna and Jan would publish. (Nag, nag, nag.)

November 27, 2004 - 03:37 pm
That Poem Hunter site turned out to be a good one... I recommend bookmarking it!


Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Langston Hughes

November 27, 2004 - 11:17 pm
I've got some of his poems. I'll ask him if I can post them here. . . . claire

November 27, 2004 - 11:34 pm
I have his poems, also. I savor them. He's a genius, that man. He is absolutely, positively amazing. It's good of you to ask him, Claire! At least some more people will get to enjoy them here if he will let you post them. He is so self-effacing and, I guess, reluctant to post anymore himself, so hopefully you can be the messenger!

November 27, 2004 - 11:48 pm
This is an experiment that just occurred to me... this was published in 1834 and uses the language of the day. My experiment is to change it to oday's language and see how it works (begging pardon from the ghost of STC, of course.)


Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Beareth all things.---1 Cor. xiii. 7.)

Gently I took that which ungently came, And without scorn forgave :--Do thou the same. A wrong done to thee think a cat's-eye spark Thou wouldst not see, were not thine own heart dark. Thine own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin, Fear that--the spark self-kindled from within, Which blown upon will blind thee with its glare, Or smother'd stifle thee with noisome air. Clap on the extinguisher, pull up the blinds, And soon the ventilated spirit finds Its natural daylight. If a foe have kenn'd, Or worse than foe, an alienated friend, A rib of dry rot in thy ship's stout side, Think it God's message, and in humble pride With heart of oak replace it ;--thine the gains-- Give him the rotten timber for his pains !

1832?, published 1834


Gently I took that which ungently came, And without scorn forgave :--you do the same. A wrong done to you think a cat's-eye spark You would not see, were not your own heart dark. Your own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin, Fear that--the spark self-kindled from within, Which blown upon will blind you with its glare, Or smother'd stifle you with nauseous air. Clap on the extinguisher, pull up the blinds, And soon the ventilated spirit finds Its natural daylight. If a foe has found, Or worse than foe, an alienated friend, A rib of dry rot in your ship's stout side, Think it God's message, and in humble pride With heart of oak replace it ;--yours the gains-- Give him the rotten timber for his pains !

The odd punctuation (;-- and :--) are also typical of the punctuation of that day.

November 28, 2004 - 12:00 am
I just talked to jan via e0mail. he says sure do what I want. well this top one doesn't even have a title yet. he just rolls em out here are three short ones.

In this interim of quiet 
When the web ceases to peep 
And you slip off to sleep 
While my mind continues to defy it 
Comes the gap to permit 
A troop of poetry to invade 
With its sense cavalcade 
In tumbles of woe and wit. 


Batch 15


Time drips through All clocks in the world And vaporizes into yesterday. The scent it leaves behind is now, An evanescent fragrance Enhancing light and form, Bulk and reference Investing presence in all things, But very fugitive, Persisting merely, at best, The pittance of a hundred years


I set my words upon the windowsill, Open cups to catch the sun and rain, To catch the sounds of birds, to fill Up with the buzz of life, marked with the stain Of sun and moon and flecked with pointed stars. My words now stand upon my cupboard shelf And when I tap them with my thought their bars Of earthly melodies resound within myself.

He says "this stuff leaks out of me like sneezes: . . . . Claire

November 28, 2004 - 12:05 am
I like your version MUCH better. It's just a proble with old fashioned verse though. I can't relate to any of it . . . you did a great job.


November 28, 2004 - 09:09 am
You have shared some very thoughtful poems..and I am about to share one that is light ..well it is light but still the meaning to me was very clear which is why my grandchildren who are dear will get books from Nana for Christmas this year...anna

The most important thing we've learned, So far as children are concerned, Is never, NEVER, NEVER let Them near your television set -- Or better still, just don't install The idiotic thing at all. In almost every house we've been, We've watched them gaping at the screen. They loll and slop and lounge about, And stare until their eyes pop out. (Last week in someone's place we saw A dozen eyeballs on the floor.) They sit and stare and stare and sit Until they're hypnotised by it, Until they're absolutely drunk With all that shocking ghastly junk. Oh yes, we know it keeps them still, They don't climb out the window sill, They never fight or kick or punch, They leave you free to cook the lunch And wash the dishes in the sink -- But did you ever stop to think, To wonder just exactly what This does to your beloved tot? IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD! IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD! IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND! IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND! HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE! HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE! HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES! 'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say, 'But if we take the set away, What shall we do to entertain Our darling children? Please explain!' We'll answer this by asking you, 'What used the darling ones to do? 'How used they keep themselves contented Before this monster was invented?' Have you forgotten? Don't you know? We'll say it very loud and slow: THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ, AND READ and READ, and then proceed To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks! One half their lives was reading books! The nursery shelves held books galore! Books cluttered up the nursery floor! And in the bedroom, by the bed, More books were waiting to be read! Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales And treasure isles, and distant shores Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars, And pirates wearing purple pants, And sailing ships and elephants, And cannibals crouching 'round the pot, Stirring away at something hot. (It smells so good, what can it be? Good gracious, it's Penelope.) The younger ones had Beatrix Potter With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter, And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland, And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and- Just How The Camel Got His Hump, And How the Monkey Lost His Rump, And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul, There's Mr. Rate and Mr. Mole- Oh, books, what books they used to know, Those children living long ago! So please, oh please, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install A lovely bookshelf on the wall. Then fill the shelves with lots of books, Ignoring all the dirty looks, The screams and yells, the bites and kicks, And children hitting you with sticks- Fear not, because we promise you That, in about a week or two Of having nothing else to do, They'll now begin to feel the need Of having something to read. And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy! You watch the slowly growing joy That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen They'll wonder what they'd ever seen In that ridiculous machine, That nauseating, foul, unclean, Repulsive television screen! And later, each and every kid Will love you more for what you did.

Roald Dahl

November 28, 2004 - 09:52 am
that's a wonderful poem and not so light either. I sent it to my daughter whose son is a reader because they did shackle the monster . . . somewhat but he's still afraid of things he's seen there. My daughter got a trip to the used book store and bought seven used books for her birthday one year. . . her choice of course but by then she was reading. even before she could. the three of us were doing it and she was six sitting in a chair holding a book upside down looking frustrated. so cute.


November 28, 2004 - 12:02 pm
Wonderful poems!! I loved both versions of the Coleridge -- it is so true, it made me really think!!

And Jan is great! These really need to be published!

When my kids were little, I wouldn't have a TV in the house. I finally gave in, and boy was I sorry. Now, if you go to the children's section of the bookstore, all of the books are based on TV characters.

November 28, 2004 - 12:08 pm
I'm glad Anna posted that: as I was about to post a poem I remembered from my childhood.

I can't seem to get through November without getting at least one cold. But I would have preferred not to come down with it the day before Thanksgiving. It reminded me of a Winnie-the-Pooh poem I loved as a child. I googled it, and here it is:


Christopher Robin Had wheezles And sneezles, They bundled him Into His bed. They gave him what goes With a cold in the nose, And some more for a cold In the head. They wondered If wheezles Could turn Into measles, If sneezles Would turn into mumps. They examined his chest For a rash Of his body for swellings and lumps. They sent for some doctors In sneezles And wheezles To tell them what ought To be done All sorts and conditions of famous physicians come hurrying around At a run. They all made a note Of the state of his throat They asked if he suffered from thirst; They asked if the sneezles Came after the wheezles, Or if the first sneezle Came first. They said, "If you teazle A sneezle Or wheezle, A measle May easily grow. But humour or pleazle The wheezle Or sneezle, The measle Will certainly go." They expounded the reazles For sneezles And wheezles, And manner of measles When new. They said, "If he freezles in droughts and in breezles, Then PHTHEEZLES May even ensue." Christopher Robin Got up in the morning, The sneezles had vanished away. And the look in his eye Seemed to say to the sky, "Now, how to amuse them today?"

A.A. Milne

November 29, 2004 - 06:09 am
I haven't read all of the poems. There are so many listed which makes me happy. I stopped at the new one by Linda Pastan about Emily Dickinson. I love that one MarjV.

Zinnia, I'm looking forward to reading and enjoying your link. I had never heard of Linda Pastan until the first poem was listed here one day.

Now, I need to catch up and enjoy all the other great poems and poets. I will have fun today and this evening.

November 29, 2004 - 06:42 am
JoanK, What a cute poem. My sneezes have taken on a new meaning. Again, the ordinary becomes extraordinary along with humor.

Zinnia, I loved, loved Prosody 101. Maybe this is because I have never conquered the Iambic Pentameter.

My favorite lines are,

and the tension I felt
between the expected and actual
was like that time I came to you, ready
to say goodbye for good, for you had been
a cold front yourself lately, and as I walked in
you laughed and lifted me up in your arms
as if I too were lacy with spring
instead of middle aged like the camellias,
and I thought: so this is Poetry!

I think MarjV and I connected to the same lines. Beautiful.

November 29, 2004 - 06:54 am
After the Winter

Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning's white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
Have sheltered for the night,

We'll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire to shafted grove
And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

And we will seek the quiet hill
Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
And works the droning bee.
And we will build a cottage there
Beside an open glade,
With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,
And ferns that never fade.

November 29, 2004 - 12:14 pm
What a lovely, lyrical poem! The style reminds me of William Butler Yeats, a favorite of mine.

I love this discussion for just this reason -- people post poets I have not read before and that opens new doors for me. I can hunt down more by the same poet and then, in so doing, run across still others whose work(s) I enjoy. It's a treat quite similar to finding a new author of books I enjoy.

November 29, 2004 - 12:59 pm
lvoely poem .. . images and flow . . . and Ilive in the southern part of california near the see and they sound just like hometo me. . . . claire

November 29, 2004 - 03:22 pm
Love the Winnie Pooh rhymes. Off to find one to share.

I love Tigger so you get to read that one! It's wonderful in its musical form.

The wonderful thing about tiggers, Is tiggers are wonderful things, Their tops are out of rubber, Their bottoms are made out of springs, They're bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy, Fun! Fun! Fun! Fun! Fun! But the most wonderful thing about tiggers is I'm the only one!

Oh, the wonderful thing about tiggers Is tiggers are wonderful chaps They're loaded with vim and with vigor, They love to leap in your laps. They're jumpy, bumpy, clumpy, thumpy, Fun! Fun! Fun! Fun! Fun ! But the most wonderful thing about tiggers is I'm the only one!!

Tiggers are cud-dl-y fellows, Tiggers are awfully sweet, Everyone else is jealous, That's why I repeat and repeat:

The wonderful thing about tiggers, Is tiggers are wonderful things, Their tops are made out of rubber, Their bottoms are made out of springs, They're bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy Fun! Fun! Fun! Fun! FUN! But the most wonderful thing about Tiggers Is I'm the only one!! Yes, I'm the only one (GRRrrrrrr...) ooOOoooOOooooOOOO

November 29, 2004 - 03:30 pm
Here's a web page with "The Tigger Song" amongst some other Tigger wavs.


November 29, 2004 - 07:43 pm
andsent it off to my daughters family where my grandson lives although he's probably too crown up at twelve for this now. my daughter will like it. claire

November 29, 2004 - 09:59 pm
Somebody reeeally likes Tigger. I have a friend who claims that everyone is really a Winnie-the-Pooh character. I think I'm Eeyore (LOL)

November 29, 2004 - 11:00 pm
I wish they still wrote books like this for children... books that challenged them, had big words, etc. I love Pooh and Wind in the Willows... and I've read that before.. that everyone is a Pooh character.. but I'll have to think about it some before I choose. My daughter says she's Rabbit and I'm Owl.

EDIT! HEY! Here's a link where you can find out which character you are! http://quizilla.com/users/dreamduster/quizzes/Which%20Winnie%20the%20Pooh%20character%20are%20you%20%3F%20(with%20Pics)/

We took the quiz and she's Eeyore and I'm Owl or Tigger.

And here is a nice page with bios of all the characters: http://www.billbam.com/winnie-pooh-characters-bio.html

November 30, 2004 - 05:39 am

November 30, 2004 - 08:47 am
Yuo all have been busy ..and what absolutely great poems ...and I took the test and found I am WINNIE THE POOH which makes me laugh since we look a wee bit alike LOL

Spent two hours yesterday looking for a poem and never found one I really liked...so I will return with one of mine for a day without a poem is a day without sunshine...anna

November 30, 2004 - 08:51 am
The First Thing in the Morning 

The first thing in the morning I awake to see what kind of day Is waiting there for me In winter the sun shining in my eyes Makes me smile and jump from bed Ready to start, begin my chores If the dawn is hidden in dreary clouds My smile turns into a frown And all the day I feel down If I could I would lay in bed Snuggle down beneath the quilts Await a sunny day

In summer it is just the opposite A sunny day declares heated breath A dragon spitting fire The sun too bright hurts my eyes I long to stay abed To wait for cooler times A day that foretells rain The sun obscured by clouds Makes me sing Hug the day and think of all the things I can do while I hear rain Beat a sharp tattoo On my window pane

I think what I am saying Temperate weather is my thing Warm sunny days in spring Crisp sharp days of fall To awaken then is a heady draught I am ready for anything The morning and the day will bring Then the first thing in the morning My heart smiles and sings

anna alexander 1/14/99 all right reserved

November 30, 2004 - 10:31 am
oooooooooooo- that bio page is fun to read.

I read those books over and over to my kids.

Another great fav is Paddington Bear. Anyone remember him. I have a couple Paddingtons sitting on my jelly cupboard.

November 30, 2004 - 10:53 am
"My heart smiles and sings" reminds me of your personality.

This is my favorite line,

A sunny day declares heated breath
A dragon spitting fire

November 30, 2004 - 10:59 am
This is a secret. I took the quiz, and I am Piglet.

November 30, 2004 - 12:36 pm
HATS - Never fear... we won't tell a soul! LOLOL!


Good-by and Keep Cold ...Robert Frost

This saying good-by on the edge of the dark And the cold to an orchard so young in the bark Reminds me of all that can happen to harm An orchard away at the end of the farm All winter, cut off by a hill from the house. I don't want it girdled by rabbit and mouse, I don't want it dreamily nibbled for browse By deer, and I don't want it budded by grouse. (If certain it wouldn't be idle to call I'd summon grouse, rabbit, and deer to the wall And warn them away with a stick for a gun.) I don't want it stirred by the heat of the sun. (We made it secure against being, I hope, By setting it out on a northerly slope.) No orchard's the worse for the wintriest storm; But one thing about it, it mustn't get warm. 'How often already you've had to be told, Keep cold, young orchard. Good-by and keep cold. Dread fifty above more than fifty below.' I have to be gone for a season or so. My business awhile is with different trees, less carefully nurtured, less fruitful than these, And such as is done to their wood with an ax-- Maples and birches and tamaracks. I wish I could promise to lie in the night And think of an orchard's arboreal plight When slowly (and nobody comes with a light) Its heart sinks lower under the sod. But something has to be left to God.

NOTE: I just tried out something on a hunch, and it turned out to be something interesting and helpful... if you put the PRE code and then do a double-enter before your actual title and text, you don't get the strange default font that is so hard to read. Then you use the end of the PRE code in the normal way at the end of the poem. Send me an email if you wonder what the heck I'm prattling about and would like to know how to do it.

November 30, 2004 - 05:35 pm
HATS: (I came out as piglet too. I won't tell if you won't).

I knew you were pooh, Anna. You love to make poems and eat honey, right?

December 1, 2004 - 12:05 am
Thanks so much for the poem ..I have never read a poem by Robert Frost I didnt love I just cant seem to find a poem I want to post..none of them regardless of how good seem to speak to me..will try again tomorrow

Joan well I do like to write poetry and every day I have a bit of honey..on toast, or with peanut butter or when I have vanilla ice cream I put some honey on top..and always in my tea ...SO I guess I am a pooh bear LOL You know what I miss is the honey that used to come in combs....we would chew the wax comb and a bit in the honey on bread was so good.. I suspect my children have NO idea bees make honey! and my grandchilren either .I think i am going to try and find a local beekeeper and see if I can buy honey in the comb...

Will be sure and find a poem tomorrow...anna

December 1, 2004 - 08:39 am
I am not sure how you all are faring but for me this is a busy time. My Christmas tree, fake I sadly say , has been up since Thanksgiving Day and the boxes full of trimmings block my path so today I MUST begin to decorate the thing. Last night again I spent some time reading poems and none said USE ME..This am I had to go out early and came home and wrote a poem...so you are going to witness the birth of my thinking this am ...now I have to finish some Christmas gifts, write checks for December bills, and think about all the tasks this holiday season asks...Here is my poem ..anna
December 1 2004

The temperature at dawn was like a summer day Still dark stuffed pillows full of rain Denied the sun and displayed the beginning Of a winter morn The streets and lawn flaunt gaudy rugs Of fallen leaves , matted down While on the trees their remaining kin Frantically wave and then bravely Parachute to the ground Funny how in summer tree limbs Appear as living things, supple They move in those warm days But today in December they seem stiff and old And flail the sky with blackened boughs My face is pressed against the pane Of rain streaked glass , a fractured view I see And hear the beat of falling rain On the skylight overhead No window open but I can feel There is colder air approaching and night Will see , it was not a summer day Waiting this morn for me But winter riding in ….

Anna Alexander 12/1/04©

December 1, 2004 - 02:23 pm
Again, you brought tears to my eyes. What a WONDERFUL poem! I am absolutely astounded at your ability to transport me to a scene and give me all the feelings included in it.

December 1, 2004 - 02:32 pm
I am in good company. We Piglets have to stick together (hats, laughing).

December 1, 2004 - 02:34 pm
Transport it does, Zinnia. Thanks Anna!

I like: My face is pressed against the pane Of rain streaked glass , a fractured view I see

December 1, 2004 - 02:37 pm
I agree with MarjV and Zinnia. Your poem is simply beautiful, and your poems do "transport" us to the familiar places we take for granted and to the unknown, where we would like to go. Thank you, Anna.

December 1, 2004 - 07:34 pm
it is one thing to be talented, another to use it well, you have the one and honour it I think.

Where The Pelican Builds.

Mary Hannay Foote.

The horses were ready, the rails were down,
But the riders lingered still --
One had a parting word to say,
And one had his pipe to fill.
Then they mounted, one with a granted prayer,
And one with a grief unguessed.
"We are going," they said, as they rode away --
"Where the pelican builds her nest!"

They had told us of pastures wide and green,
To be sought past the sunset's glow;
Of rifts in the ranges by opal lit;
And gold 'neath the river's flow.
And thirst and hunger were banished words
When they spoke of that unknown West;
No drought they dreaded, no flood they feared,
Where the pelican builds her nest!

The creek at the ford was but fetlock deep
When we watched them crossing there;
The rains have replenished it thrice since then,
And thrice has the rock lain bare.
But the waters of Hope have flowed and fled,
And never from blue hill's breast
Come back -- by the sun and the sands devoured --
Where the pelican builds her nest.

I might add the pelican builds around here, and this is essentially where she writes of, the Australian bush.


December 2, 2004 - 03:09 am
Anna and Anneo, how fine!

Anna the lines"My face is pressed against the pane Of rain streaked glass , a fractured view I see " define November for me. Whenever I think of November, I have a vivid image of myself as a child, doing just that. Thank you.

Anneo, how interesting. I think of pelicans as salt water birds. Do they really nest inland?

December 2, 2004 - 05:24 am
pelicans are found in both fresh and salt water areas, In good seasons though they nest out here in the channel country in great numbers.On Lake Eyre after a great wet they are a wonderful sight.

A wonderful bird is the Pelican,
His bill can hold more than his belican.
He can take in his beak
Food enough for a week;
But I'm damned if I see how the helican. "

The above ditty was written by Dixon Lanier Merritt, though most people think Ogden Nash is the author.


December 2, 2004 - 10:33 am
I like the "music" of the pelican poem. They are such interestingi creatures. Thanks\ Reminds me a bit of the rhythm of Robert Service.


December 2, 2004 - 04:13 pm
Marvelous poem... and what an expressive picture it paints of the Bush and the hopefulness of the prospectors!

December 2, 2004 - 11:23 pm
about "pre" before the poem means that it will be presented in it's current form and /pre afterwards simply ends the command. do it in these <> brackets as usual though both fore and aft. . . . claire

December 3, 2004 - 12:55 am
I found this excerpt from WORDSWORTH"S "WANDERER" in a text book on mathematics. Surprising what one finds in math books, these days....

Nature was at his heart as if he felt--
Though yet he knew not how -- a wasting power
In all things which from her sweet influence
Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her lines,
Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms,
He clothed the nakedness of austere truth,
While yet he linger'd in the rudiments
Of science, and among her simplest laws,
His triangles-- they were the stars of heaven,
The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight
to measure the altitude of some tall crag
That is the eagle's birthplace, or some peak
Familiar with forgotten years, that shews
Inscribed, as with the silence of the thought,
Upon its bleak and visionary sides
The history of many a winter storm,
Or obscure records of the path of fire.

Some peak, Familiar with forgotten years... (and,) obscure records of the path of fire. I like those two lines....

As a school boy I once tried to measure the height of a tall peak near our home, not with triangulation, but by climbing it with an old barometer.I was never sure if my calculations were accurate but even today, some 60 years later, I can still trace in my mind's eye the cliffs and hollows of that many thousand year's old face.++ Trevor

December 3, 2004 - 10:47 am
Winter Night ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

Pile high the hickory and the light Log of chestnut struck by the blight Welcome-in the winter night

The day has gone in hewing and felling Sawing and drawing wood to the dwelling For the night of talk and story-telling

These are the hours that give the edge To the blunted axe and the bent wedge Straighten the saw and lighten the sledge

Here are question and reply, And the fire reflected in the thinking eye So peace, and let the bob-cat cry

This is a winter-night of long ago and even though the poem tells of what happened in our past there is one sentence that might apply to the here and now: "And the fire reflected in the thinking eye". Today as we sit by the fire and wrap ourselves in blankets we reflect on our own days and nights with a "thinking eye".

December 3, 2004 - 01:15 pm
First I want to say some day when I feel down I will post a poem of mine and bask in the warmth of your remarks and smile....

Second I want to thank everyone for the poems you have posted..anneo I love the poem about the pelicans ...it has an unique quality ..first because when I am at the shore I love to watch them in flight and see them swoop down for thier meals...we have roosts along the sea here where the pelicans can build their nests..and of course the funny little rhyme ,..now that brings me a peculiar joy since it was a poem my husband often quoted..I think he just loved the rhythm of the words...

And 3Kings it is so nice to see yuo here and share the poem about the mountains...and the eagle ...we have the Blue Ridge mountains here in Virgina ..not as rugged as our Rockies but I love to drive North toward my oldest daughter who is sheltered there in the mountains and as soon as I go over a a few low hills there on the horizon lie the mountains...what can I say ..but a lovely peace comes over me ...regardless of the season they just make me feel not small but welcomed...of course I only scale them from my car!! About an hours drive from where I live you can take an inland boat trip and watch the eagles where they have built nests in the high cliffs that edge the river...I can see we all share and love the gifts of nature ...And Edna St Vincent Millay wrote many poems about nature ..she was very important to me when I was in school ..so thanks for sharing one of hers...I did find a poem for today and it really meant a lot to me for I was afraid there would be no winter birds at my feeders.. The summer ones had left and each day I looked and waited for the winter ones to arrive..it was over two weeks before the first one appeared and now the harbingers have spread the word THERE IS FOOD AND WATER HERE >..here is the poem I found for today...anna
A Winter Bluejay

Sara Teasdale
Crisply the bright snow whispered, 
Crunching beneath our feet; 
Behind us as we walked along the parkway, 
Our shadows danced, 
Fantastic shapes in vivid blue. 
Across the lake the skaters 
Flew to and fro, 
With sharp turns weaving 
A frail invisible net. 
In ecstacy the earth 
Drank the silver sunlight; 
In ecstacy the skaters 
Drank the wine of speed; 
In ecstacy we laughed 
Drinking the wine of love. 
Had not the music of our joy 
Sounded its highest note? 
But no, 
For suddenly, with lifted eyes you said, 
"Oh look!" 
There, on the black bough of a snow flecked maple, 
Fearless and gay as our love, 
A bluejay cocked his crest! 
Oh who can tell the range of joy 
Or set the bounds of beauty?

December 3, 2004 - 05:25 pm
I like most of them so it's hard to send ou only one. but this just happened. . . it may not be in it's finalform but I like it pretty well the way it is..

"Hi Here's one I assembled a few minutes ago.


That creation Is the result of Prestidigitation Is worth, I suppose, Some contemplation. Prior to that event Designated “bang”, Somewhat oversized, Was there, perhaps, A “pop”, mayhap a “clang” That might have compromised The silence heretofore Complete? Out of this bang, clang or pop Emerged the stuff of us, A nanodot of soup, preatomic That bulged and burped In ways most comic Surging out in frantic fuss Well before the birth of light.. The progress then, contentional, Followed paths conventional To produce, in ways quite loose, Events some say, are intentional. But, please excuse, I have doubts, ‘Cause you can see All this wild activity Resulted in skeptic me.

Jan Sand"


December 3, 2004 - 05:39 pm

Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser

Each time I go outside the world is different. This has happened all my life.

The clock stopped at 5:30 for three months. Now it's always time to quit work, have a drink, cook dinner.

  • "What I would do for wisdom," I cried out as a young man. Evidently not much. Or so it seems. Even on walks I follow the dog.

  • Old friend, perhaps we work too hard at being remembered.

  • JoanK
    December 3, 2004 - 06:12 pm
    Wonderful poems, as always. The skaters and bluejay lifted my heart right up. And I chuckled with Jan.

    Trevor: do you mind telling me what math book you found that poem in. We have a house-full of math books (two ex-mathematicians) and I've never seen anything like it in them.

    December 4, 2004 - 03:57 pm
    the last two lines are imortal and the rest is for poets and poetry lovers who memrize such thing. here.


    Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

    1 Whose woods these are I think I know. 2 His house is in the village though; 3 He will not see me stopping here 4 To watch his woods fill up with snow.

    5 My little horse must think it queer 6 To stop without a farmhouse near 7 Between the woods and frozen lake 8 The darkest evening of the year.

    9 He gives his harness bells a shake 10 To ask if there is some mistake. 11 The only other sound's the sweep 12 Of easy wind and downy flake.

    13 The woods are lovely, dark and deep. 14 But I have promises to keep, 15 And miles to go before I sleep, 16And miles to go before I sleep.

    Robert Frost


    December 4, 2004 - 06:52 pm
    JOANK You are Mathematicians ? I fear I may have misled you. They are not math texts as I stated, but are rather popularizations.

    The quote from WORDSWORTH came from "Mathematics for the General Reader" By EC Titchmarsh. Oxford University.

    Then there is "The Turbulent Mirror" about Chaos theory (John Briggs & David Peat.) They present a poem demonstrating self-similarity by Pulitzer prise winner Richard Wilbur. I will post this poem later as I think it is very good poetry.

    And finally "Taking the Quantum Leap" by Fred Alan Wolf. It has quite a few poetic quotes. I especially like this one from Emily Dickinson.

    I never saw a moor
    I never saw the sea;
    Yet I know how the heather looks
    And what a wave must be.


    December 5, 2004 - 12:53 pm
    I really enjoyed this winter poem. I would love to read more Sara Teasdale poems. Thank you, Anna.

    Now I need to go back up and read the other poems which look wonderful too.

    December 5, 2004 - 12:58 pm
    I love both these poems, the one by Robert Frost and the one by Emily Dickinson. Thank you for posting each one.

    December 5, 2004 - 05:34 pm
    Again, I was looking for something else and ran across this poem.


    Maya Angelou - Touched by An Angel

    We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life.

    Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.

    We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.

    December 5, 2004 - 06:25 pm
    I love Maya Angelou, and I love love!!!

    thanks Zinnia


    December 6, 2004 - 06:16 am
    Hi Zinnia,

    I simply love, love Maya Angelou. This is a new poem for me. It is very beautiful and true. Maya Angelou has that ability to mix beauty and truth. Thank you for sharing it.

    I love these lines,

    And suddenly we see
    that love costs all we are
    and will ever be.
    Yet it is only love
    which sets us free.

    December 6, 2004 - 09:51 am
    Great read on these last 7 posts~

    December 7, 2004 - 11:22 am
    Some of the poems are old friends and Jan Sand is a new friend..Maya Angelou has a way of getting right to the heart and Emily is just so special,,,,Robert Frost , Sara Teasdale always provide a poem when needed....Sorry I have been absent but two things happened ..first a surprise birthday party at a restaurant gave me some problems ,,since no one else complained I guess they either have cast iron stomachs or mine is really in trouble, to top it off my provider Verizon went out I have no idea why but when called was told ALL of VIrginia, parts of DC Maryland and New Jersey could not get on line...From the time I noticed it ..13 hours passed before it came back on and it may have been longer since I wasnt home or in a condition to even try..but it is back as I ponder why computers are so important to us! For they certainly are...

    I am sharing a poem from the past by Edgar Guest whose poems I have posted before...I like to think my preferences have not changed from the time I was young and his poems were the only ones I read ..since they were posted in each days newspaper..but here is the one I chose for today and I AM GLAD TO BE BACK...anna
    At Christmas  
    (Edgar Albert Guest, 1881-1959) 

    A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year; He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season's here; Then he's thinking more of others than be's thought the months before, And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for. He is less a selfish creature than at any other time; When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.

    When it's Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part; He is keener for the service that is prompted by the heart. All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile And the true reward he's seeking is the glory of a smile. Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me That at Christmas he is almost what God wanted him to be.

    If I had to paint a picture of a man I think I'd wait Till he'd fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate. I'd not catch him at his labors when his thoughts are all of pelf, On the long days and the dreary when he's striving for himself. I'd not take him when he's sneering, when he's scornful or depressed, But I'd look for him at Christmas when he's shining at his best.

    Man is ever in a struggle and he's oft misunderstood; There are days the worst that's in him is the master of the good, But at Christmas kindness rules him and he puts himself aside And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is opened wide. Oh, I don't know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be.

    December 7, 2004 - 02:01 pm

    I really enjoyed this Christmas poem. I have never thought of the Christmas spirit in this way. "That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be." I think this is so true. Maybe this is why Christmas is such a special time of year.

    December 8, 2004 - 06:19 am
    While there are still many scrooges I often see a happier and jollier persona from those I have known all year...When I read my newspaper this time of year I see so many organizations offering collections for people in need. Now they need all year but at Christmas time there is something in people that seems to say SHARE!

    Here is a poem by one of my favorite poets...hope you enjoy it ..
    The snow 

    It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood, It fills with alabaster wool The wrinkles of the road. It makes an even face Of mountain and of plain, ­ Unbroken forehead from the east Unto the east again. It reaches to the fence, It wraps it, rail by rail, Till it is lost in fleeces; It flings a crystal veil. On stump and stack and stem, ­ The summer's empty room, Acres of seams where harvests were, Recordless, but for them. It ruffles wrist of posts, As ankles of a queen, ­ Then still its artisans like ghosts, Denying they have been.

    By Emily Dickinson

    December 8, 2004 - 05:25 pm
    I got some news today that I've been eagerly awaiting. A dear friend, after years of thinking it would never happen, became a grandmother for the first time. I sent her this poem -- I've posted it here before, but perhaps it's worth another look.

    Colored Toys
    Rabindranath Tagore

    When I bring to you colored toys, my child, I understand why there is such a play of colors on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints ---when I give colored toys to you, my child.

    When I sing to make you dance I truly know why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth ---when I sing to make you dance.

    When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice ---when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.

    When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body ---when I kiss you to make you smile.

    December 8, 2004 - 07:19 pm
    What a great poem that is! It is so descriptive of snow and the feeling of looking at her world on a snow-blanketed day. I always loved waking up to that sight and to the quiet that seemed to be a part of it.


    What a glorious poem! Your friend is a remarkable poet. I could just feel the love and joy in her heart as she wrote that poem.

    December 9, 2004 - 05:50 am
    I enjoyed the poem too, JoanK. How beautiful!

    December 9, 2004 - 08:50 am
    Congratulations to your friend..My children waited to marry and waited to have children so like your friend I wondered IF I would ever be a grandmother..Well they didnt disppoint me and I am now NANA to 7 ...I loved the poem and thanks so much for posting it again. I hate to use my own poetry too often but please know I spend a lot of time looking...and have some requests to authors whose poems I would like to share..and while winter has only breathed down our neck and hasnt fully arrived I know from the past it will and perhaps one winter day snow will arrive..It is always welcomed ..at first and this is one of my poems about how snow affects me!!


    Snow, that debutante in winter dress dances ‘cross my lawn. With fancy arabesques she shows her ruffled gossamer gown.

    Wind escorts her willingly pas de deux they advance. Bow to each, they chase and lift and whirl and spin in space.

    Their promenade covers my wood piled high with a mantle of loveliness. Exiting stage right they leave behind a landscape of shimmered serenity.

    Snow? that temptress with her flaunting ways, seals my doors so I cannot escape. Sheds icy tears, encapsulates my car, imprisons me with snowy bars.

    Vehicles slip and slide into the ditch while people trudge and seek to find. A warm place to melt their icy palms, curse feet they no longer can control.

    How can it be this frothy snow contains both a beauty and a beast? Was it me that yearned for snow ? now I plead... Please, Please GO!

    anna alexander 2/10/00 all rights reserved

    December 9, 2004 - 10:37 am
    The Housewife ~ Josephine Miles (191 - 1985)

    Occasional mornings when an early fog Not yet dispersed stands in every yard And drips and undicloses, she is severely Put to the task of herself.

    Usually here we have view window dawns, The whole East Bay at least some spaces into the room, Puffing the curtains, and then she is out In the submetropolitan stir.

    But when the fog at the glass pauses and closes She is put to ponder A life-line, how it chooses to run obscurely In her hand, before her.

    In the busy days ahead of us it is good to relect not only upon ourselves but also on the natural beauty that surrounds us.


    December 9, 2004 - 12:26 pm
    All I have to say is that Emily Dickinson has nothing on YOU! And I don't think I'm prejudiced. Another brilliantly crafted poem!



    December 10, 2004 - 07:58 am
    Scrawler thanks for the poem and the reminder that nature often offers the best gifts of all.

    Karen you are too kind but thanks any way.

    I have been OFF because we have had continuous Tstorms from early evening through the night and more forcast for today. These have been LOUD and made sleep impossible butwhen it ceases the temperature will also drop and seem more like December.

    Before the weather hindered me I had found a place on the net with Cowboy Poetry,,,and after several emails back and forth to the website I obtained permission to share some poems.

    They are not the usual poetry but I rather like the pictures that they paint ..hope you do too ( and I lived in Texas for about 3 years many years ago , in 3 different locations as my husband pursued his dream to become a USAF pilot)PS I have promised the author to let him know what everyone says...so if you dont wish to be quoted please say so. I had to go through the person who monitors the site, who emailed the author , who gave his permission, who replied to my thank you eamil!!!
    My Winter Conditions 

    I'll meet you in Texas this Christmas if I can just get away from the ranch But snow is falling here now in the Rockies and I'm not sure I should jump at the chance True, there's nothing to do when the work's done but sit around and just read Christmas mail So, yes, Texas at Christmas sounds perfect -- yes, Christmas in Texas sounds swell

    I'll meet you in Texas this Christmas if we can sled down a Hill Country road And go ice fishing up on the Brazos as a Lone Star 'winter of wonder' unfolds I'll bring sleigh bells to hang on the fencepost if we can snowshoe to Del Rio from home And then cross country ski to Uvalde -- and do it all before Christmas is gone

    I'll greet you in Texas this Christmas if the coastline will be covered in snow If there's Aransas Pass avalanche warnings screaming to the Gulf's frigid waters below I'll bring soft flannel sheets for the cabin and mistletoe we can run up the mast I'll buy lift tickets now for Mount Corpus -- and never want for this Christmas to pass

    I'll head down to Texas this Christmas if you can promise me all of these things If you can accept all my winter conditions we'll watch the snow fall on Carizzo Springs We'll eat bowls of some good beanless chili and we'll chain up my four-wheel for the drive Up over the mountains that drop to Laredo -- and across the Rio that's frozen beside

    Yes, I'd meet you in Texas this Christmas if I could just get away from the ranch But with snow now embracing the mountains the hard winter chores just don't offer a chance True, I could use a South Border vacation if I could just get away from the herd But when you live, work, and play in the Rockies -- Christmas in Texas, sounds frankly, absurd

    © 2000, G. Don Ensminger used by permission of the author.

    December 10, 2004 - 04:36 pm
    I am anything BUT too kind and I wish I had the words to be as kind as I would wish. I can see right into your lovely and loving heart and soul when I read your poems.

    I love "My Winter Conditions," too. My dad, his dad, and HIS dad were cattlemen from Texas to Wyoming, so this poem really speaks to me. To make an endearing and descriptive poem from hard truths is a piece of genius! Nit picking: I would remove the commas from the last line or only enclose the word "frankly."



    December 10, 2004 - 05:12 pm
    Excellant. Thank Mr. Ensminger for us! His love of that country really comes through, and makes me long to be there.

    December 10, 2004 - 05:24 pm
    I found several sites featuring that cowboy poet and the first one on this page (The Ranches of Walden) really reminded me of my dad:


    It also reminded me of a digital piece I did for a class assignment about family a couple of years ago, so I'm sharing that here, too. Pay no attention to the "Next" and "Back" buttons... I have not moved those pages to this server but I might, so I left them.


    December 10, 2004 - 05:30 pm
    Zinnia: great!!

    December 11, 2004 - 11:18 am
    Never been to Texas, but I certainly enjoyed the poem. Poems take us traveling. That's part of the fun. Thanks, Anna.

    December 11, 2004 - 11:23 am

    Thank you for the websites.

    December 11, 2004 - 01:06 pm
    Thank you so much for finding this marvelous poet and sharing him with us. I am really enjoying his work. At the holidays, I guess we all think of lost loved ones and my dad has been particularly on my mind, so reading these poems really brings him back to me.

    Here is one of my paintings of my dad, if anyone wants to see it:


    Please forgive all the popups on that server and don't say yes to anything they offer!

    December 13, 2004 - 05:41 pm
    Zinnia~~~ thanks so much. Really enjoyed this last webpage. Love your work.

    December 13, 2004 - 05:46 pm
    I Googled for a 'cold poem' and one that came up was this one by Mary Oliver. It didn't get aboveo freezing today and the windchill is 15 degrees F.

    Cold Poem Mary Oliver

    Cold now. Close to the edge. Almost unbearable. Clouds bunch up and boil down from the north of the white bear. This tree-splitting morning I dream of his fat tracks, the lifesaving suet.

    I think of summer with its luminous fruit, blossoms rounding to berries, leaves, handfuls of grain.

    Maybe what cold is, is the time we measure the love we have always had, secretly, for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

    that is what it means the beauty of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

    In the season of snow, in the immeasurable cold, we grow cruel but honest; we keep ourselves alive, if we can, taking one after another the necessary bodies of others, the many crushed red flowers.

    December 13, 2004 - 06:22 pm
    WOW!! Mary Oliver always makes me see things in new ways!

    December 14, 2004 - 11:05 am
    WOW! Stunning poem, that was! I definitely agree with Joan about Mary Oliver.

    December 14, 2004 - 12:01 pm

    Time Sister Mary Faith Schuster, OSB

    Life is all questions, but oh how beautiful they are as we travel. And at the end how beautiful is the beginning.

    December 14, 2004 - 12:09 pm

    The Last Wolf

    Mary Tallmountain

    The last wolf hurried toward me
    throught the ruined city
    and I heard his baying echoes
    down the steep smashed warrens
    of Montgomery Street and past
    the ruby-crowned highrises left standing
    their lighted elevators useless

    Passing the flicking red and green of traffic signals
    baying his way eastward
    in the mystery of his wild loping gait
    closer the sounds in the deadly night
    through clutter and rubble of quiet blocks

    I hear his voice ascending the hill
    and at last his low whine as he came
    floor by empty floor to the room where I sat
    in my narrow bed looking west, waiting
    I heard him snuffle at the door and I watched

    He trotted across the floor
    he laid his long gray muzzle
    on the spare white spread
    and his eyes burned yellow
    his small dotted eyebrows quivered

    Yes, I said.
    I know what they have done.

    December 14, 2004 - 01:18 pm
    For some reason I am getting bogged down and dont seem to have the time I need to do all I need to do..Thank you all so much for keeping this discussion flowing and thanks to Zinnia for adding the connection for more of Ensinger's poems..and thanks for the MAry Oliver poem she was the poet used by first professor and I always find her saying things and nodding my head and saying I KNOW I KNOW ..she just opens the door to new ways to look at the world. And Time and MAry Tallmountain ..just grabs you and for a second you hold your breath and take in the poems..and feel them ..

    I will return as soon as I find a poem I need to find. In this am's email I read the passing of a dear seniornet friend from AOL some of you may remember her Joan MCB ..she was witty and funny and a great poet and I feel desolate ...anna

    December 14, 2004 - 08:19 pm
    I looked through a lot of poems and found this one by Mary Oliver that spoke to me about the loss of my friend..It sounds like one she herself could have written since she was a poet ..gifted with the ability to share her deepest feelings in poetic form..anna

    When Death Comes 

    When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

    to buy me, and snaps his purse shut; when death comes like the measle pox;

    when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

    I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering; what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

    And therefore I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility,

    and I think of each life as a flower, as common as a field daisy, and as singular,

    and each name a comfortable music in the mouth tending as all music does, toward silence,

    and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.

    When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

    When it's over, I don't want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened or full of argument.

    I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

    Mary Oliver

    December 14, 2004 - 08:24 pm
    It is so sad to hear of Joan's death and I know she would have appreciated that poem. I sure did and it gives voice to many thought we all share, I think.



    December 15, 2004 - 12:32 am
    That is a wonderful poem.

    December 15, 2004 - 05:23 am
    After All These Years

    ~~ by Patti Stephen

    You still have a way with me even after all these years,
    you know my soul
    so well, so completely that I cannot hide-
    sometimes I cannot tell where "I" end
    and "you" begin in my heart,
    the connection is so intricate, so complete-
    the power and passion, so intense
    that I am swept up into an ocean
    of tenderness and emotions--
    yet I do not drown.
    Nor am I afraid.
    The trust I have in you is clear and unspoken,
    true and uninhibited,
    pure and uncensored.
    You know my thoughts, my heart so well-
    as if you orchestrate their
    every move.
    my soul is knit with yours
    and I am pleasantly lost in the fabric
    of your enveloping arms.
    You clothe me with a sweetness
    that I have only known with you
    and you keep me warm with a blanket of kindness
    and deep, abiding friendship

    Just looking today, found this,think its beautiful.


    December 15, 2004 - 02:09 pm
    The Last Wolf is startling and fantastic!!!

    December 15, 2004 - 02:13 pm
    Anna, I like your choices as a remembrance toward missing a friend.

    December 15, 2004 - 05:53 pm
    Joan was such a rare person and I am glad you found my choice of poem right.

    Anneo now there is another wonderful poem and touches me and makes me thankful that once in awhile in my life I have known and cherished some special people like that .

    Right now I have no poem for you but will later tonight or early in the morrow .>I had some Christmas shopping to do and found a gentleman at the BX, a retired military man who when he left the service found a deep need in him to do different things. First he taught himself to paint and did so well he taught others. But inside there was still places he needed to discover and some of that discovery led to his writing poetry.

    I leafed through his book and read a few. They were good, really good and a couple touched me ..So I bought his book and I intend to read it and share some of his poetry with you . I have his permission to do so and will give you his website as well .I havent had time to visit it yet so I am not sure what we will find. But from what I read and from his own graciousness I would say it will be very special indeed. anna

    December 16, 2004 - 11:41 am
    If I, like Solomon... could have my wish -

    my wish...O to be a dragon, a symbol of the power of Heaven - of silkworm size or immense; at times invisible. Felicitous phenomenon! ~ Marianne Moore (November 15,1887 - February 5, 1972)

    Like Moore I wished that I too could be "a Dragon" to be able to soar over the world and look down upon the earth.

    December 16, 2004 - 02:57 pm
    And to breathe fire when angry or sometimes when only grumpy, just to smolder a bit.

    December 16, 2004 - 06:49 pm
    This is from http://www.about.com, where there is a wealth of poetry. I have a wonderful book of Yeats, a gift from my stepmother over 40 years ago, but it's so much nicer to be able to simply copy and paste!

    William Butler Yeats

    An Irish Airman Forsees His Death
    Poem lyrics of An Irish Airman Forsees His Death by William Butler Yeats.

    I know that I shall meet my fate
    Somewhere among the clouds above;
    Those that I fight I do not hate,
    Those that I guard I do not love;
    My county is Kiltartan Cross,
    My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
    No likely end could bring them loss
    Or leave them happier than before.
    Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
    Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
    A lonely impulse of delight
    Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
    I balanced all, brought all to mind,
    The years to come seemed waste of breath,
    A waste of breath the years behind
    In balance with this life, this death.

    December 17, 2004 - 10:18 am
    Thanks for the dragon poem ..never gave it any thuoght but there are times when I would love to be a dragon..spitting fire and roaring...interesting thought ...and Zinnia Yeats is another poet I could never get enough of ..thanks for that one too.

    The old saying is news of death always comes in threes. A few days before I learned my good friend had died I heard from a friend that her daughter in law had been killed instantly in a car accident leaving behind her husband and two college age daughters. Why the old saying came to my mind I dont know but in yesterdays mail was a Christmas card from old and dear friends in Tennessee, The mother had been in an accident which has required major surgery, and is still in rehab and on 11/14/04 their only daughter died in her sleep. No known cause ...I dont ask for your sympathy for me but kind thoughts for those who have lost a precious person.

    In looking through the book of poems I told you about I found one I liked ..especially the line "Am I at the beginning or at my end?" That is a question I often consider myself As the poet says " My tomorrow may be my today "

    How Far Is That? 

    I look out of my window at a distance As far as my eyes and imagination can See…I then wonder… How far is that ? I have dreams of all sizes, colors and shapes. What will I be tomorrow? Where will I Be tomorrow? Will I see tomorrow? How far is that … What’s over there? If I journey to that Distant place will I be there, or once Again at my beginning…when do I reach The end… How far is that … My tomorrow my be my today . Who’s to say? I cant find an authority For my destiny. Perhaps I should take life One step at a time. I’m looking at a distance … Am I at the beginning or at my end? Maybe life is one big circle where At some point you get to see yourself From a distance… How far is that.

    Gerome Meminger Sr Used with permission of the author

    December 17, 2004 - 04:17 pm
    Super poem there, Anna. I was going to highlight and paste a couple lines but then it got to be most of the poem. So I didn't.

    December 17, 2004 - 07:24 pm
    A really thoughful and though-provoking poem, Anna!

    December 17, 2004 - 07:28 pm
    the whole subject is one that poets keep dealing with and is relavant in our senior lives. both poems touching and to the point. . . . claire

    December 17, 2004 - 07:38 pm


    Frequently these days have I approached Some storage place, the fridge, the sink, And then stand there in puzzlement As to why I came. My mind meandered to think Of other things. The entanglement Of extranealities led me astray. Will I then approach death and not know How it came to be I lost my way, And now I stand ,look at him, tip-toe To wonder why I came to here. Will it come to me before I disappear?

    Jan Sand


    December 17, 2004 - 07:43 pm
    That one sure strikes a chord! That Jan is a wonder, isn't he!

    December 17, 2004 - 07:52 pm
    yep he's somethng else isn't he. He's sent me so many of his poems I'd like to share,but would innundate the HERE. . . .if you ask It's ok with him if I e-mail a batch. . . . claire

    December 17, 2004 - 08:38 pm
    He sent me a file some time back with lots of poetry, but knowing how talented and prolific he is, I imagine he has made a lot more since then!

    December 17, 2004 - 09:51 pm
    Amazing poems. Yes, poetry is the place where we can deal with our thoughts and emotions about death so well.

    December 18, 2004 - 12:43 am
    Poetry has seen me through life.. it seems there is always a poem that helps me understand where I am. There are ones that help me when I am down and need to be comforted and ones that make me laugh and cheer me ..ones that make me reach inside and touch my feelings. Now I am curious ..I was an only girl in a family with 5 boys so I had a lot of alone time..and when I married my husband was away on missions a lot and again I had a lot of alone time ..and poetry gave me reason for hope... do any of you have similiar situations ..I am being nosy I know so dont reply if you prefer not but you seem to be touched by poetry too...anna

    December 18, 2004 - 01:05 am
    Here is the poem I found for today.. I dont buy mistletoe anymore and so I dont know if they sell it ..but for years I did and hung it where I was sure to have an opportunity for a kiss! Someone gave me and ornament a few years ago that looked like a toe with some fake mistletoe on it ...funny thing and I hang it on my tree...anyway here is one of my favorite poets and his poem about mistletoe..anna
    (Walter de la Mare)

    Sitting under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), One last candle burning low, All the sleepy dancers gone, Just one candle burning on, Shadows lurking everywhere: Some one came, and kissed me there.

    Tired I was; my head would go Nodding under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), No footsteps came, no voice, but only, Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely, Stooped in the still and shadowy air Lips unseen - and kissed me there.

    December 18, 2004 - 08:51 am
    That W.La mare poem feels like a lovely soft dream.

    December 18, 2004 - 02:09 pm

    Anna, I didn't really discover poetry till fairly recently. But it was other kinds of reading that gave me space to dream as a child.

    Because I was born with a handicap, my sister and I were home schooled until High School. my mother taught us until we were about 8, then gave us the books and said here, teach yourselves. After school, there were plenty of children in the neighborhood to play with, but what I remember best is the long hours in the morning and afternoon, sitting by myself reading.

    I still need a lot of time by myself. I remember years in New York, working in a room full of people -- I would go and sit in the stair- well, because it was the only way I could be alone.

    December 19, 2004 - 08:18 am
    Joan while I consider myself a very social person I also know I am in need of time alone. Over the years I have had to resign from organizations because I needed to be alone. One thing I found with all of my reading I need time to do it and it is a solitary thing. Fortunately for me I had a lot of time to read and a husband who understood my need to do so. Once he came home to find me reading in the living room with a can of Pledge and a dust cloth on the cocktail table> A book had arrived in the mail while I was dusting and I just stopped and sat down and read, Bless his understanding heart ..he raised an eyebrow and gave a questioning look at the objects on the table, when I started to explain..he said No it is your day and you can choose how to spend it.I have to smile as I say that I did keep reading a bit longer and then finished what I had started. But with a happy heart ..I had a husband who understood my need to read, anna

    December 19, 2004 - 08:22 am
    Here is a poem from a favorite poet of mine..Robert Service ..and his take on a writing poetry..anna

    Robert William Service -  
    Dedication To Providence

    I loved to toy with tuneful rhyme, My fancies into verse to weave; For as I walked my words would chime So bell-like I could scarce believe; My rhymes rippled like a brook, My stanzas bloomed like blossoms gay: And that is why I dream this book A verseman's holiday.

    The palm-blades brindle in the blaze Of sunsets splendouring the sea; The Gloaming is a lilac haze That impish stars stab eagerly. . . . O Land of Song! Oh golden clime! O happy me, whose work is play! Please take this tribute of my rhymes: A verseman's holiday.


    December 20, 2004 - 11:25 am
    It started in the night ..snow and wind howling and this morn we have a snow covered view. Not a lot mind you. but enough to make the world all white.My lavender azalea bush must have been surprised to wake this morning to find white blossoms on her boughs..And I found a poem about snowmen that really spoke to me for I have always made snowmen and when I get enough of the right kind of flakes I still do..here is my poem for yuo ,. anna

    The Snowman in the Yard 
    Joyce Kilmer 

    (For Thomas Augustine Daly)

    The Judge's house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone, And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across the seas; In the Hales' garage you could put my house and everything I own, And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a row of poplar trees.

    Now I have only a little house, and only a little lot, And only a few square yards of lawn, with dandelions starred; But when Winter comes, I have something there that the Judge and the Hales have not, And it's better worth having than all their wealth -- it's a snowman in the yard.

    The Judge's money brings architects to make his mansion fair; The Hales have seven gardeners to make their roses grow; The Judge can get his trees from Spain and France and everywhere, And raise his orchids under glass in the midst of all the snow.

    But I have something no architect or gardener ever made, A thing that is shaped by the busy touch of little mittened hands: And the Judge would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow is laid For the tiny house with the trampled yard, the yard where the snowman stands.

    They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away in tears To toil and suffer their life-time through, because of the sin they sinned, The Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years, To chill their blood with the snow, and pierce their flesh with the icy wind.

    But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour for our bread, Have yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden's gate is barred: And through the Winter's crystal veil, Love's roses blossom red, For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard.

    December 20, 2004 - 06:50 pm
    Karma ~ Edwin Arlington Robinson

    Christmas was in the air and all was well With him, but for a few confusing flaws In divers of God's images. Because A friend of his would neither buy nor sell, Was he to answer for the axe that fell? He pondered; and the reason for it was, Partly, a slowly freezing Santa Claus Upon the corner, with his beard and bell.

    Acknowledging an improvident surprise, He magnified a fancy that he wished The friend whom he had wrecked were here again. Not sure of that, he found a compromise; And from the fulness of his heart he fished A dime for Jesus who had died for men.

    Wishing you all a safe holiday season!

    December 21, 2004 - 09:41 am
    Thanks for that poem ...gives one pause doesnt it..since we have had snow, not much but more may be coming for Christmas..so I looked for a poem about snow....It always seemed strange when we lived in places where it never or seldom snowed not to have cold weather in December..it snowed a lot in St Louis when I was growing up and when we lived in Germany it snowed. So I looked for a snow poem and here it is ..anna


    John Greenleaf Whittier 

    Out of the bosom of the air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

    Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels.

    This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field.


    December 21, 2004 - 11:16 am
    Here's wishing you all a wonderful Winter Solstice. May you find peace and harmony today and throughout the coming year.

    December 21, 2004 - 11:34 am
    The snow poem is absolutely lovely.

    A wonderful Winter solstice to you all. From now on, the days will be getting longer.

    December 22, 2004 - 08:14 pm
    ...by John Betjeman (1906-1984)

    The bells of waiting Advent ring,
    The Tortoise stove is lit again
    And lamp-oil light across the night
    Has caught the streaks of winter rain.
    In many a stained-glass window sheen
    From Crimson Lake to Hooker's Green.

    The holly in the windy hedge
    And round the Manor House the yew
    Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
    The altar, font and arch and pew,
    So that villagers can say
    'The Church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

    Provincial public houses blaze
    And Corporation tramcars clang,
    On lighted tenements I gaze
    Where paper decorations hang,
    And bunting in the red Town Hall
    Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'

    And London shops on Christmas Eve
    Are strung with silver bells and flowers
    As hurrying clerks the City leave
    To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
    And marbled clouds go scudding by
    The many-steepled London sky.

    And girls in slacks remember Dad,
    And oafish louts remember Mum,
    And sleepless children's hearts are glad,
    And Christmas morning bells say 'Come!'
    Even to shining ones who dwell
    Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

    And is it true? and is it true?
    The most tremendous tale of all,
    Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
    A Baby in an ox's stall?
    The Maker of the stars and sea
    Become a Child on earth for me?

    And is it true? For if it is,
    No loving fingers tying strings
    Around those tissued fripperies,
    The sweet and silly Christmas things,
    Bath salts and inexpensive scent
    And hideous tie so kindly meant.

    No love that in a family dwells,
    No carolling in frosty air,
    Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
    Can with this single Truth compare -
    That God was Man in Palestine
    And lives to-day in Bread and Wine.

    This was strange... I was looking for a poem by Arthur Upson and this poem popped up in my search results. No clue why, but it's a nice one for those of us who are Believers.

    December 23, 2004 - 12:30 pm
    Truly an expressive poem! I like the images of London.

    December 23, 2004 - 12:34 pm
    winter solstice  
    light snowfall  
    melts on your lips  

    there are many more jewels on this page: http://www.scifaiku.com/xmas/

    December 23, 2004 - 02:36 pm

    December 24, 2004 - 06:59 am
    Oh thank you for those lovely, lovely poems and for all the good wishes expressed here. I cant believe today is Christmas Eve ...for two days this nana has watched over grandchildren while the parents worked or did some last moment shopping. Now my grandchildren are young ..11 10 8 5 4..One 5 year old the other grandmother cared for, They are precious but OH MY energetic and active...tomorrow and Sunday we will still be celebrating but tonight this little old lady is glad to be home and quiet..and of course even if the poem I am going to post is the one we used to read to our children on Christmas Eve and the author in question ..I will put it here to once again enjoy..My wish for all is a simple one ..Be safe, Be well,Be happy and May God Bless..anna

    'Twas the Night Before Christmas 
    or Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas 
    Major Henry Livingston Jr. (1748-1828) 
    (previously believed to be by Clement Clarke Moore)

    'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

    The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

    When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

    The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

    With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

    "Now, DASHER! now, DANCER! now, PRANCER and VIXEN! On, COMET! on CUPID! on, DONDER and BLITZEN! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

    As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

    And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my hand, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

    He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

    His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

    The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly, That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

    He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

    He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

    He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!"

    December 24, 2004 - 12:25 pm
    Always enjoy reciting "Twas the night before....." I once could tell it all by memory.

    I found a web site of classical poets and their Christmas poems to read.


    Some go back as far as the 14th century.

    Happy Holiday time to my poetic loving friends!!! Marj

    December 24, 2004 - 01:29 pm

    Merry .Christmas

    December 25, 2004 - 01:11 am
    I just read this in the AARP magazine and wanted to share it with you all. I love Maya Angelou to pieces and I can hear her voice when I read this. I'm not sure it's meant to have line breaks as I have typed them, but I picked this up online and then spent more time correcting it than I would have simply typing it to begin with... LOL!!! I'm the Third Woman... (and, of course, the Sixth and Seventh) who are you?

    ...Maya Angelou

    The first woman said,
    One thing about me,
    I'm little and low,
    I find me a man
    Wherever I go

    The second woman said,
    They call me string bean
    Cause I 'm so tall
    Men see me
    They ready to fall.

    The third woman said,
    I'm fat as butter
    and sweet as cake.
    Men start to tremble
    every time I shake.

    The fourth woman said,
    I'm young as morning
    And fresh as dew.
    Everybody love me
    And so do you.

    The fifth woman said,
    I'm little and lean,
    sweet to the bone
    They like to pick me up
    and carry me home.

    The sixth woman said,
    When I passed forty
    I dropped pretense,
    'cause men like women
    Who got some sense

    But the seventh woman is my favorite, for obvious reasons.
    The seventh woman said,
    Fifty-five is perfect
    So is fifty-nine
    'cause every man needs
    to rest sometime.

    December 25, 2004 - 08:03 am
    Wonderful, Karen - thanks. I also love Maya. I pick the 7th.

    December 25, 2004 - 03:29 pm
    God greet You, Sacred Child
    poor in the manger there,
    yet happy and rich tonight
    in your own stronghold in glory.

    Motherless once in heaven,
    Fatherless now in our world,
    true God at all times You are,
    but tonight You are human first.

    Mary, vigin and mother,
    open the stable door
    till I worship the King of Creation.
    Why not I more than the ox?

    In the morning I'll bring him water.
    I'll sweep God's Son's poor floor.
    I'll light a fire in my cold soul
    and curb with zeal my wicked body.

    I'll wash His poor garments for Him
    and, Virgin, if you let me,
    I'll shed these rags of mine
    as a covering for your Son.

    And I'll be the cook for His food.
    I'll be doorman for the God of Creation!
    On behalf of all three I'll beg,
    since they need my help to speak.

    A thousand greetings in body tonight
    from my heart to my generous King.
    In that He assumed two natures
    here's a kiss and a greeting to God!

    Aodh Mac Aingil (c. 1571 - 1626) Excerpts from "An Naoidhe Naomh"/The Sacred Child, original in Irish.

    December 25, 2004 - 03:58 pm
    Thanks so much for that beautiful poem! I wish you could post the original Gaelic version, too!

    December 26, 2004 - 12:25 pm

    December 26, 2004 - 02:19 pm
    I found out that Aodh MacAingil (1571-1626) was a Lecale Franciscan who became the first Professor of Philosophy and Divinity at the new Irish College in Louvain. Here is a brief biography:


    I couldn't find the entire poem in Gaelic, but here is the first verse:

    Dia do bheatha, a naoidhe naoimh
    isin [insan] mainséar cé taoi bocht
    meadhrach saidhbir atá tú
    's glórmhar id dhún féin a-nocht.

    It's music to me and I only post it because of the numbers of people here who are of Irish extraction, including our red-haired imp of a discussion leader and Anneo and I don't know who else... and I again thank Kev for sharing it!

    Hugs, Karen

    December 27, 2004 - 01:11 am
    While rain, with eve in partnership,
    Descended darkly, drip, drip, drip, drip,
    Beyond the last lone lamp I passed
    Walking slowly, whispering sadly,
    Two linked loiterers, wan, downcast;
    Some heavy thought constrained each face,
    and blinded them to time and place.

    The pair seemed lovers, yet absorbed
    In mental scenes no longer orbed
    By loves young rays. Each countenance
    As it slowly, as it sadly, caught the lamplight's yellow glance,
    Held in suspense a misery
    At things that had been or might be

    When I retrod the watery way
    Some hours beyond the droop of day,
    Still I found pacing there the twain
    Just as slowly, just as sadly
    Heedless of the night rain.
    One could but wonder who they were,
    And what wild woe detained them there.

    Though thirty years of blur and blot
    Have slid since I beheld that spot,
    And saw in curious converse there
    Moving slowly, moving sadly,
    That mysterious tragic pair,
    Its olden look my linger on --
    All but the couple, they are gone.

    Whither? Who knows, indeed.... And yet
    To me, when nights are weird and wet,
    Without those comrades there at tryst
    Creeping slowly, creeping sadly,
    That lone lane does not exist.
    There they seem brooding on their pain,
    And will, while such a lane remain.


    December 27, 2004 - 02:00 am

    Out Back
    by Henry Lawson

    The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought,
    The cheque was spent that the shearer earned,
    and the sheds were all cut out;
    The publican's words were short and few,
    and the publican's looks were black --
    And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.

    For time means tucker, and tramp you must,
    where the scrubs and plains are wide,
    With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
    All day long in the dust and heat -- when summer is on the track --
    With stinted stomachs and blistered feet,
    they carry their swags Out Back.

    He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
    With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
    The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
    But only God and the swagmen know how a poor man fares Out Back.

    He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
    And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, till the Western stations shore;
    But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack --
    The traveller never got hands in wool,
    though he tramped for a year Out Back.

    In stifling noons when his back was wrung
    by its load, and the air seemed dead,
    And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead,
    Or in times of flood, when plains were seas,
    and the scrubs were cold and black,
    He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.

    He blamed himself in the year `Too Late' --
    in the heaviest hours of life --
    'Twas little he dreamed that a shearing-mate had care of his home and wife;
    There are times when wrongs from your kindred come,
    and treacherous tongues attack --
    When a man is better away from home, and dead to the world, Out Back.

    And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
    He tramped for years till the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
    As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
    With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.

    It chanced one day, when the north wind blew
    in his face like a furnace-breath,
    He left the track for a tank he knew -- 'twas a short-cut to his death;
    For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack,
    And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.

    A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile;
    He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.
    The tanks are full and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,
    Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie
    by his mouldering swag Out Back.

    For time means tucker, and tramp they must,
    where the plains and scrubs are wide,
    With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
    All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track
    With stinted stomachs and blistered feet
    must carry their swags Out Back.

    December 27, 2004 - 08:35 am
    each has caught something special and I apologize for not being here..Christmas here was to cover two days ..Christmas day and the 26th when the family was to gather to celebrate our faith and our number..but guess what early on the 26th a winter storm arrived and when it was over 11 inches covered EVERYTHING .I took pictures and when they are developed will send them to our photo discussion..but right now the cars are Covered and I mean covered ..this was a wet snow and it clung to everything ..I kept a small fire in my little stove and made soup and hot cocoa and tried to put seed out for the birds and critters..The sun is out but it isnt melting ...and I found a poem to share about snow...glad to have a warm home and enough food so I can just hibernate..anna

    John Clare - The Winter's Spring 

    The winter comes; I walk alone, I want no bird to sing; To those who keep their hearts their own The winter is the spring. No flowers to please—no bees to hum— The coming spring's already come.

    I never want the Christmas rose To come before its time; The seasons, each as God bestows, Are simple and sublime. I love to see the snowstorm hing; 'Tis but the winter garb of spring.

    I never want the grass to bloom: The snowstorm's best in white. I love to see the tempest come And love its piercing light. The dazzled eyes that love to cling O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring.

    I love the snow, the crumpling snow That hangs on everything, It covers everything below Like white dove's brooding wing, A landscape to the aching sight, A vast expanse of dazzling light.

    It is the foliage of the woods That winters bring—the dress, White Easter of the year in bud, That makes the winter Spring. The frost and snow his posies bring, Nature's white spurts of the spring.

    December 27, 2004 - 11:39 am
    What a lovely poem! I particularly liked "The seasons, each as God bestows, Are simple and sublime."

    I'm sorry to hear about the weather opposing your family gathering, but glad to hear that you are staying toasty and warm!

    I missed being with my loved ones, but Christmas was still Christmas!

    Love and hugs,


    December 27, 2004 - 12:21 pm
    Christmas is coming, the geese are

    getting fat,

    Please to put a penny in an Old

    man's hat;

    If you haven't got a penny, a

    ha'penny will do,

    If you haven't got a ha'penny,

    God bless you.

    -Mother Goose

    December 27, 2004 - 12:24 pm
    Fascinating poem, Zinnia. You can really feel the weariness and the lay of the land.

    I do enjoy snow and storms. So that poem just hits the spot. However, not when it comes to heavy shoveling- had to scurry and find my lawn boy to shovel a bit for me. We only had about 5-6 inches here.

    Years ago I would go up into N. Michigan in the winter and do cross country skiing in the woods. Wow! Talk abouto an experience. You learn to see all types of things that you otherwise never would see. Snow fleas. Little mouse foot prints. An owl sitting on a limb. The sound of silence.

    December 27, 2004 - 02:00 pm
    Yeah... for us here in the U.S., it seems odd for a New Year poem until you remember that it's bloody HOT in the ouback at this time of year. Australia has so many wonderful poets and their poetry always seems to tell a very colorful and descriptive story.

    Here is a link to some poems by a marvelous contemporary aboriginal poet (Noonuccal, Oodgeroo, 1920-1993): http://tuffley.hispeed.com/red_bay/oodgeroo.htm These poems really speak to me; break my heart, in fact. Here is a sample:


    We Are Going

    They came in to the little town A semi-naked band subdued and silent All that remained of their tribe. They came here to the place of their old bora ground Where now the many white men hurry about like ants. Notice of the estate agent reads: 'Rubbish May Be Tipped Here'. Now it half covers the traces of the old bora ring. 'We are as strangers here now, but the white tribe are the strangers. We belong here, we are of the old ways. We are the corroboree and the bora ground, We are the old ceremonies, the laws of the elders. We are the wonder tales of Dream Time, the tribal legends told. We are the past, the hunts and the laughing games, the wandering camp fires. We are the lightening bolt over Gaphembah Hill Quick and terrible, And the Thunderer after him, that loud fellow. We are the quiet daybreak paling the dark lagoon. We are the shadow-ghosts creeping back as the camp fires burn low. We are nature and the past, all the old ways Gone now and scattered. The scrubs are gone, the hunting and the laughter. The eagle is gone, the emu and the kangaroo are gone from this place. The bora ring is gone. The corroboree is gone. And we are going.

    December 27, 2004 - 03:12 pm
    You know Z, that is very heartbreaking. The abs were treated the same way as Indians in US and Canadad.

    I like reading anything Aussie. When I can get my hands on a novel. Did you ever read for instance, "The Sound of One Hand Clapping". I look for films also from Australia . http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0802137849/002-4877140-8612822?v=glance

    Thanks, Marj

    Thanks for the link to the other poems. Have them marked to read this evening.

    December 27, 2004 - 03:38 pm
    I'm Native American, a half-breed, not a blood, so it really resonates with me. Here is a link to another good piece.. a story about a courageous woman, by Henry Lawson. Anneofavonlea recommended this one to me and I loved it. And as she said, Henry Lawson hated the Outback, Banjo Patterson loved it, and the differense shows in their writing, but Henry Lawson, again as she said, is probably the better writer and poet of the two.


    I also have been reading poetry, cookbooks, novels and non-fiction about Australia for about thirty years and I look for films as well. My current favorite TV show is one from Australia called "McLeod's Daughters." It's on WE channel on Saturday night and sveral other times during the week. We have just begun seeing it here, but it's several seasons on in Oz and I made the mistake of going to a fan site and found out some things I'd prefer not to have known.

    December 27, 2004 - 05:38 pm
    That is an amazing short story. Thanks!!!!

    December 27, 2004 - 06:52 pm
    for locating it Zinnia. Jane won a competition once reciting that story, she learned it and made us all weep.

    It is so true of what western women, some who are still living out here went through.

    One of my seniors Elma, is 84 and she lived on a boundary riders hut on Galway Downs. There was no power, no running water and little kerosine fridges. Men love this harsh country, women I think have a love hate relationship. Elmas husband was in a mustering camp, and she came to the homestead once a week for supplys. She has a reputation here, for being irritable and snappy, but if you look closely you see the heartbreak she bore, in playing the dutiful wife.


    December 28, 2004 - 06:06 am
    A very moving poem, and on that sounds very, very like many of the poems in Irish after what is called the Flight of the Earls, when many of the native Irish nobles fled to the continent and the native Irish culture began to fall under the onslaught of the English.

    A very wonderful book relating to Australian aborigines and a white woman who worked with them is "Daisy Bates in the Desert" by Julia Blackburn.


    December 28, 2004 - 09:36 am
    It is hard this morning to read the news and think of anything but sorrow; And the poems shared here reflect sorrow ...I have searched and really havent found anything that can reflect what I feel ..when you really consider all of the hurts visited on the world by nature and by man it is a wonder we can ever feel good about life..And it is only when we can love ...truly love without judging , with acceptance that we can even begin to feel life is worth living.

    I did find a small poem and I share that but today I am once again reminded that life is really a series of tragedies , small and large, and as Shakepeare said and forgive me if my quote is not completey accurate Life is but a stage and we but players..and as terrible the effect of the earthquake .to me it doesnt compare to the tragedies man keeps inflicting on his own...because those are truly cruel .and avoidable ...sorry but the poems shared here this morning just hit my own feelings...anna

    Life's Tragedy 

    Paul Laurence Dunbar

    It may be misery not to sing at all, And to go silent through the brimming day; It may be misery never to be loved, But deeper griefs than these beset the way. To sing the perfect song, And by a half-tone lost the key, There the potent sorrow, there the grief, The pale, sad staring of Life's Tragedy. To have come near to the perfect love, Not the hot passion of untempered youth, But that which lies aside its vanity, And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth. This, this indeed is to be accursed, For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by what we have, But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

    December 28, 2004 - 09:44 am
    Thanks for the book lead, Kevxu. I see my library has a copy of that albeit not available until my branches new building opens. I'll reserve it anyway.

    December 28, 2004 - 10:57 am
    "As To How Much" ~ Louis Zukofsky (1904-1978)

    Of the right way That branches may be Described - Laden with snow - What proscribed A limit long ago?

    We do not know Of any we see - Inscribed Here bark is next snow. Love is so. Thrived. And we do not know. No.

    As to how much Such love may be Ascribed To bark or snow You proscribed Some music long ago.

    Louis Zukofsky was born in New York City on January 23, 1904. He sent his poems to Ezra Pound in 1926. Zukofsky was introduced to William Carlos Williams in 1928. Later in 1957 he met T.S. Eliot in Europe. He taught poetry at San Francisco State College in 1959. I really like this little poem. It's simple but right to the point.

    December 29, 2004 - 05:01 am
    I dont think the year 2004 is going down in history as good year. So many natural disasters as well as man made ones ..and I found a poem about the ending of the year. We can only hope and pray a new year will bring a brighter day ...anna

    The Passing of the Year

    By Robert W Service

    My glass is filled, my pipe is lit, My den is all a cosy glow; And snug before the fire I sit, And wait to feel the old year go. I dedicate to solemn thought Amid my too-unthinking days, This sober moment, sadly fraught With much of blame, with little praise.

    Old Year! upon the Stage of Time You stand to bow your last adieu; A moment, and the prompter's chime Will ring the curtain down on you. Your mien is sad, your step is slow; You falter as a Sage in pain; Yet turn, Old Year, before you go, And face your audience again.

    That sphinx-like face, remote, austere, Let us all read, what're the cost: O maiden! why that bitter tear? Is it for dear one you have lost? Is it for fond illusion gone? For trusted lover proved untrue? O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan, What hath the Old Year meant to you?

    'And you, O neighbour on my right, So sleek, so prosperously clad! What see you in that aged wight That makes your smile so gay and glad? What opportunity unmissed? What golden gain, what pride of place? What splendid hope" O Optimist! What read you in that withered face?

    And you, deep shrinking in the gloom, What find you in that filmy gaze? What menace of a tragic doom? What dark, condemning yesterdays? What urge to crime, what evil done? What cold, confronting shape of fear? O haggard, haunted, hidden One, What see you in the dying year?

    And so from face to face I flit, The countless eyes that stare and stare; Some are with approbation lit, And some are shadowed with despair. Some show a smile and some a frown; Some joy and hope, some pain and woe: Enough! Oh, ring that curtain down! Old weary year! it's time to go.

    My pipe is out, my glass is dry; My fire is almost ashes too; But once again, before you go; And I prepare to meet the New: Old year! a parting word that's true, For we've been comrades, you and I - I thank God for each day of you; There! bless you now! Old Year, goodbye!

    December 30, 2004 - 07:11 am
    When searching for a poem for today this one by Emily Dickinson felt right considering the news ...anna
    Poem: "There came a Wind like a Bugle," by Emily Dickinson.

    There came a Wind like a Bugle

    There came a Wind like a Bugle- It quivered through the Grass And a Green Chill upon the Heat So ominous did pass We barred the Windows and the Doors As from an Emerald Ghost- The Doom's electric Moccasin That very instant passed- On a strange Mob of panting Trees And Fences fled away And Rivers where the Houses ran Those looked that lived-that Day- The Bell within the steeple wild The flying tidings told- How much can come And much can go, And yet abide the World!

    December 30, 2004 - 11:23 am
    Boogie: 1 A.M. ~ Langston Hughes

    Good evening, daddy! I know you've heard The boogie-woogie rumble Of a dream deferred Trilling the treble And twining the bass Into midnight ruffles Of cat-gut lace.

    For all those who feel like dancing.

    December 31, 2004 - 12:49 am
    A rhythmic piece.


    by Hilaire Bellog.

    Do you remember an Inn,
    Do you remember an Inn?
    And the tedding and the spreading
    Of the straw for a bedding,
    And the fleas that tease in the high Pyrenees,
    And the wine that tasted of the tar,
    And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
    (Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
    Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
    Do you remember an Inn?
    And the cheers and the jeers of the young Muleteers
    Who hadn't got a penny,
    And who weren't paying any,
    And the hammer at the doors and the din?
    And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
    OF the clap
    Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
    Of the girl gone chancing,
    Backing and advancing,
    Snapping of the clapper to the spin
    Out and in--
    And the Ting, tong, tang of the Guitar!
    Do you remember an Inn,
    Do you remember an Inn?
    Never more;
    Never more.
    Only the high peaks hoar:
    And Aragon a torrent at the door.
    No sound
    In the walls of the Halls where falls
    The tread
    Of the feet of the dead to the ground.
    No sound:
    But the boom
    Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

    I feel there is an echo of the Indian Ocean Tsunami in this poem. The happiness of the holiday makers at the sea side Inn, suddenly ceasing and the torrents of water replacing all that joy of living. Or so it seems to me. Am I too fanciful, do you think? --- Trevor

    December 31, 2004 - 01:47 am
    How appropriate, and I just love Belloc, wonderful stuff.

    Anna well chosen also, there always seems to be a poem somewhere for the occasion.

    Have a wonderful New Year all.


    December 31, 2004 - 07:08 am
    Do I think you fanciful? No I suppose we will all look at some poems now and see that water flow over mankind and take their breath away and wonder when it will be our day...Thanks so much for posting that poem.I have searched for something to say about this terrible event and you found a perfect one..anna

    December 31, 2004 - 07:12 am
    Some days I view a hundred poems ..to find the right one to share..i dont mind doing it for in doing so I have found poems and poets I have never known and that makes it all worthwhile.. Today I chose a poem by a living poet whom I admire ..anna
    New Year's  
    by Dana Gioia 

    Let other mornings honor the miraculous. Eternity has festivals enough. This is feast of our mortality, The most mundane and human holiday.

    On other days we misinterpret time, Pretending that we live the present moment. But can this blur, this smudgy in-between, This tiny fissure where the future drips

    Into the past, this flyspeck we call now Be our true habitat? The present is The leaky palm of water that we skim From the swift, silent river slipping by.

    The new year always brings us what we want Simply by bring us along—to see A calendar with every day uncrossed, A field of snow without a single footprint.

    December 31, 2004 - 07:30 am
    I cannot get into chat.....

    December 31, 2004 - 08:50 am
    There seems to be some problem getting into chat ..you might use the link when you enter senironet to ask for help. anna

    December 31, 2004 - 08:54 am
    By Robert Burns with an explantion of some of the original words...will be thinking of all tonight and wishing you a HAPPY NEW YEAR..anna

    Auld Lang Syne 

    SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?

    We twa hae rin about the braes, And pu'd the gowans fine; But we've wander'd monie a weary fit Sin' auld lang syne.

    We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roar'd Sin' auld lang syne.

    And here 's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught For auld lang syne.

    And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne!

    For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne.

    GLOSS: gowans] daisies. fit] foot. dine] dinner-time. fiere] partner. guid-willie waught] friendly draught.

    December 31, 2004 - 05:52 pm
    I intended Never to grow old -- But the New years bell sounds!

    Adapted from Jokun.

    December 31, 2004 - 09:06 pm
    that is simple but very profound ..anna thanks for sharing it

    December 31, 2004 - 09:59 pm
    especially the rhythmic Tarantela, so full of music and dancing . I can hear it and smell the air. beautiful poem. . .thankyou trevor. . . . claire

    January 1, 2005 - 01:35 am
    Im trying to convince AJ to post in here.. and will succeed soon, I hope. Meanwhile, here is his first poem for 2005, posted with his permission:

    "The Meaning of Life"

    My heart is heavy and I grieve on this, the start of New Year's Eve. We've had a calamity so vast it can't compare with Christmas past and the words "Thy kingdom come" will not appeal to everyone. So I wonder while I strive "Why is it I am still alive?"

    I can but try to quell my fears while weeping in this vale of tears and it's amazing still to me this all comes from an angry sea.

    Our future lies before us now and we must learn to cope somehow; again seek Churchill's finest hour. but first we must restore the power.

    While we know there's thousands dead, disease now rears it's ugly head. Essential aid must now arrive so this world can still survive, and people we have never known will bless us for the love we've shown.

    Now I'm involved in all of this strife I ponder on the meaning of life. Am I at the mercy of some monstrous sea or are life lessons awaiting me? At 71, I have not long to wait, I'll know when I pass thru God's pearly gate.

    January 1, 2005 - 03:42 pm
    AJ I too wish to convince you ..you and your poems are welcome here..Your poem is the first I am sure of many who will try to make sense of this catastrophic event ...I know I have been struggling with it ..and from one poet to another thanks for putting your feelings so well into words...please come in and share ..anna

    As a poet come lately ..having only even begun to follow that path a brief ten years ago ..One class I attended at the local U the professor asked us to say why ./we were there..I had several answers but it takes a poet I admire to give a reply ...anna

    Pablo Nureda 

    And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me.

    I did not know what to say, my mouth had no way with names, my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wings, and I made my own way, deciphering that fire, and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing, and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open, planets, palpitating plantations, shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe.

    And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke loose on the wind.

    January 1, 2005 - 04:45 pm
    I'm simply dumbstruck by that poem... thanks so much! Now I think I'll just sit and stare at it for a while. Pablo Neruda was one of the most amazing and touching poets of all time, in my estimation. I can't read any of his poetry without being really hit by feelings.

    His real name was Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, practically a poem in itself if you speak Spanish.

    Love and hugs,


    January 1, 2005 - 09:25 pm
    I too am in awe of that poem.

    January 2, 2005 - 12:40 am
    not just in words but in our senses ..I have read at least 20 poems this night to find one that said STOP post me..and here is the one I chose ..as always it is my hope you will find something so you can say I chose well. anna
    Mark Strand - Lines For Winter  

    Tell yourself as it gets cold and gray falls from the air that you will go on walking, hearing the same tune no matter where you find yourself -- inside the dome of dark or under the cracking white of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow. Tonight as it gets cold tell yourself what you know which is nothing but the tune your bones play as you keep going. And you will be able for once to lie down under the small fire of winter stars. And if it happens that you cannot go on or turn back and you find yourself where you will be at the end, tell yourself in that final flowing of cold through your limbs that you love what you are.

    January 2, 2005 - 09:40 am
    I like Neruda. Never had read that particular one. Thanks-thanks.

    January 2, 2005 - 10:45 am
    I only recently discovered Neruda and in an unusual way. I am a knitter and a knitting blogger in Canada showed a picture of some beautiful socks that she had knit with the words of Pablo Neruda's poem "Ode to a Pair of Socks" knit into them (in Spanish)! Beautiful socks! Beautiful poem! These are words that are knit into the socks:

    "beauty is beauty twice over and good things are doubly good when you're talking about a pair of wool socks in the dead of winter."

    and this is the entire poem: (I love Neruda's poetry!)

    Ode to a pair of socks

    Maru Mori brought me a pair of socks that she knit with her shepherd's hands. Two socks as soft as rabbit fur. I thrust my feet inside them as if they were two little boxes knit from threads of sunset and sheepskin.

    My feet were two woolen fish in those outrageous socks, two gangly, navy-blue sharks impaled on a golden thread, two giant blackbirds, two cannons: thus were my feet honored by those heavenly socks. They were so beautiful I found my feet unlovable for the very first time, like two crusty old firemen, firemen unworthy of that embroidered fire, those incandescent socks.

    Nevertheless I fought the sharp temptation to put them away the way schoolboys put fireflies in a bottle, the way scholars hoard holy writ. I fought the mad urge to lock them in a golden cage and feed them birdseed and morsels of pink melon every day. Like jungle explorers who deliver a young deer of the rarest species to the roasting spit then wolf it down in shame, I stretched my feet forward and pulled on those gorgeous socks, and over them my shoes.

    So this is the moral of my ode: beauty is beauty twice over and good things are doubly good when you're talking about a pair of wool socks in the dead of winter.

    January 2, 2005 - 11:22 am
    Another great Neruda poem! I love that one -- it reminds me of my socks! I have two pair of thick, ugly grey woolen men's socks that came from Ireland. In wintertime, I put a pair of them on over a pair of cotton socks and my feet and ankles couldn't be toastier. Then they become beautiful.


    That winter poem surely does tell the story. You DID choose well, as always. That one is a keeper!

    January 2, 2005 - 02:50 pm
    Love that poem about the socks~~~~ thanks so much.

    January 2, 2005 - 02:52 pm
    I think it important to love what we are as we go along---the winter poem points us in that direction.

    January 2, 2005 - 07:44 pm
    But the neruda poems if I can say KNOCKED MY SOCKS OFF ..it is so good and so beautiful and so wonderful and a reminder that beauty is often simple things....thanks so very much for sharing it with us...anna

    January 3, 2005 - 09:46 am
    This is a poem by the Russian Poet Alexander Pushkin 1799-1837 and was written in 1826...When I was very young we often went to visit relatives who lived in rural areas on 100 acre farms...the roads were two lane and at night , ( my uncle always liked to leave at night because the roads were empty and we would arrive at dawn) Between my sleeping I would peer out the windows and all was dark..if the night was clear the stars would be shining , more than I ever saw in the city and there were no outside lights and only here and there a home with a light shining from a window, It was to me a mysterious and wonderous time. True my chariot was a car but when I read this poem my mind went back to those special times and the beauty of the world caught in moonlight and the brave beam from the car....anna

    Winter Road

    Through the murk the moon is veering, Ghost-accompanist of night, On the melancholy clearings Pouring melancholy light.

    Runs the troika with its dreary Toneless jangling sleigh-bell on Over dismal snow' I'm weary, Hungry, frozen to the bone.

    Coachman in a homely fashion's Singing as we flash along; Now a snatch of mournful passion, Now a foulmouthed drinking-song.

    Not a light shines, not a lonely Dusky cabin. . . Snow and hush. . . Streaming past the troika only Mileposts, striped and motley, rush.

    Dismal, dreary. . . But returning Homewards! And tomorrow, through Pleasant crackles of the burning Pine-logs, I shall gaze at you:

    Dream, and go on gazing, Nina, One whole circle of the clock; Midnight will not come between us, When we gently turn the lock

    On our callers. . . Drowsing maybe, Coachman's faded, lost the tune; Toneless, dreary, goes the sleigh-bell; Nina, clouds blot out the moon.

    January 3, 2005 - 03:47 pm
    Lovely. People who know Russian tell me it's impossible to appreciate Pushkin in English. But he sounds very good to me.

    January 3, 2005 - 04:03 pm
    I am so glad you agree..and since I dont understand Russian I am just grateful for the translation. I love Pushkin ..he wrties of places you usually dont read about and expierences that most of us never knew...I will take poetry anyway I can get it anna

    January 4, 2005 - 07:51 am
    The Pushkin poem took me right to the sleighride and the dreadful cold. Reminds me of the movie, which the title eludes me right now.

    January 4, 2005 - 02:49 pm
    could be a modern writer. . . it's the cold and the singing etc. that I understand. . . . claire

    January 4, 2005 - 03:39 pm
    And what a perfect name for a poet to write a winter song...years ago when we were young and living on a hill in Tennessee my husbands aunt was with us and it was snowing and all the world was white Auntie watched the children and my husband and I bundled up and took a walk outside..it wasnt a bitter cold and there was a magical quality to the whole thing..I wish I were young enough to do that again...anna
    Robert Frost - Good Hours 

    I had for my winter evening walk-- No one at all with whom to talk, But I had the cottages in a row Up to their shining eyes in snow.

    And I thought I had the folk within: I had the sound of a violin; I had a glimpse through curtain laces Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

    I had such company outward bound. I went till there were no cottages found. I turned and repented, but coming back I saw no window but that was black.

    Over the snow my creaking feet Disturbed the slumbering village street Like profanation, by your leave, At ten o'clock of a winter eve.

    January 4, 2005 - 05:55 pm
    It's rather a sad ending poem. I like the first two verses. What do you suppose he meant by 'repented'?

    I too used to go out walking in every evening snowfall for years. The city was so quiet; everyone else was inside.


    January 5, 2005 - 06:22 am

    I love snow and winter. I especially enjoyed this poem. These are my favorite lines

    And I thought I had the folk within:
    I had the sound of a violin;
    I had a glimpse through curtain laces
    Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

    January 5, 2005 - 10:39 am
    Here after our foot of snow on Dec 26th winter just disappeared. It was like he said Hello here is some snow and now goodbye I have to go..we have had 70 degrees in the day time and barely reach into the 50's at night..I fear my pear tree will think it is spring and will put on its lacy dress too soon. so I didnt really look for a snow poem today..anna
    Jessica MacBeth

    In the winter things are reduced to essentials. We see the bones of the land, the bones of trees, the stark elegance of the underlying structure of life. And we see the frailty of our own soft flesh, the brittle, yet lasting structure

    of our own bones - our bid for eternity.

    January 5, 2005 - 12:14 pm
    That is quite a poem there, Annna. Reminds me how I like to look at the tree silhouettes in winter- each type of tree has it's unique form,

    Fragile for sure. Never so much reminded of it as when there is some kind of storm going on and there is no control over it whatsoever. And as like the tsunami and its victims.

    January 5, 2005 - 08:52 pm
    One book That I like is A Guide to Nature in Winter. It has a chapter on the shapes of trees. As Marj said, you can truly see them in the winter. And the author claims you can read the life history of the tree in their shape: the years they fought winds and storm, the years they grew straight and tall, whether they flourished or struggled. I've never looked at a winter tree the same way since reading that.

    January 6, 2005 - 07:19 am
    I bet that is a good book. I am going to look for it at the library. Thanks for the title.

    January 6, 2005 - 07:55 am
    but it is a tree that I think I enjoy even more in the winter. It's twisted, and what I call "naked", trunks show much more clearly when the leaves are gone. Much more interesting to look at, I think. When our first grandson was born, to honor his birth his grandfather and I planted a flowering purple plum in his yard in northern VA. The prevailing west wind has bent the branches in such an interesting way. I really love it more than the traditional pyramidal shape of the plum tree.

    Anna, the extreme warm weather is enjoyable but has us all a little nervous in NC. We're waiting for the other shoe to drop. We just know that we will probably pay for this respite soon now. Sound a little paranoid? No, just experienced with our weird NC weather. It can be so sweet to you and then turn right around and slap you silly.

    January 6, 2005 - 12:00 pm
    From Disaster ~ George Oppen

    Ultimately the air Is bare sunlight where must be found The lyric valuables. From disaster

    Shipwreck, whole families crawled To the tenements, and there Survived by what morality Of hope

    Which for the sons Ends its metaphysics In small lawns of home

    In watching the disaster unfold in Indonesia the only bright spot is how the whole world seems to be coming together to give aid and hope. My only question is why do we have to wait for a disaster before the world comes together?

    January 6, 2005 - 12:32 pm
    Good question, Scrawler. Same thing happens in my neighborhood to a degree- people come out to help when there is a snow storm but otherwise don't ever ask if there is anything they can do. Guess it is necessary in a city where people's dwellings are so on top of each other that even sounds from the next house carry. Seems like my priviacy is invaded; same with barking dogs. I have a dream to live where this doesn't happen daily. The sounds I mean.

    January 6, 2005 - 01:55 pm
    I sure agree with you. I had a life lived mostly in isolated areas where neighbors might be anywhere from a mile to many miles away and those were really good neighbors and always there when anyone needed help. since about 1984, when we came down off the mountain, I have lived in progressively more gathered places, with proportionate decreases in neighborliness and increases in noise. I now live with barking dogs all around me and new neighbors on one side who are the noisiest people I have ever encountered in my life. I'm in a neighborhood with my own place, so heaven help me if I ever have to go to an apartment, condo, or some kind of group living situation. Over and above "good fences make good neighbors," I think now "good sound barriers make good neighbors" might be appropriate. In the era when Robert Frost wrote this poem, I think people had more thought for their neighbors, and I think that is what we lack now.


    MENDING WALL .....Robert Frost

    Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say '.Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

    January 6, 2005 - 02:54 pm
    Oh, Zinnia-- Amen! to that about sound barriers. Awhile back I had to attempt to confront a neighbor across the street and 2 houses down who played the base on his stereo so loud I could hear it thump in my house. So I went to the door one afternoon and pounded and rang the bell. Of course his music is so loud in his own house he didn't hear me...so I went home and wrote an assertive firm request, noting that he may not realize how the sound of the base carries thru the neighborhood and could he please turn it down a bit. He did. It's just a continuing thing like you are experiencing.

    I grew up on a farm away from close neighbors - the love of that has never left me. And yes, people did come to help when needed as you e experienced on the mountain.

    January 6, 2005 - 04:08 pm
    this is in the literature and books discussion and not lined up with the other two poetry ones. Hard to fin. Anyhow if we're still in winter or approaching it I've got another Jn Sand for you guys. He keeps sending em. And I keep collecting em.

    of course he's in Finland and snow begins early there.



    October lays its snows In a temporary way Like children in an attic Donning adult clothes in play, Trying on maturity For an hour or a day. But soon the snows are gone, The grass beneath still green, And Winter waits to grow a bit To get serious and mean.

    January 6, 2005 - 05:43 pm
    I am blessed as I still have friends from my childhood..and we still keep in touch..Oh there are very few left from that time but I have been doubly blessed for while they are gone I now have you..that is a thought of mine , thinking of my lost friends and the ones I have found through this medium ..and so I found a poem by Walt Whitman that says it well and here it is ..anna

    I Saw in Louisiana a Live-oak Growing

    I saw in Louisiana a live oak growing, All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches, Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of dark green
    And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself, 
    But I wondered how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone 
    there without its friend near, for I knew I could not,
    And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it, and 
    twined around it a little moss, 
    And brought it away, and I have placed it in sight in my room,
    It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends, 
    (For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,) 
    Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me think of manly 
    For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana 
    solitary in a wide flat space, 
    Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend a lover near, 
    I know very well I could not


    January 7, 2005 - 06:32 am
    I love that poem..."uttering joyous leaves". Isn't that just a remarkable phrase. I got all excited when I read that.


    January 7, 2005 - 01:09 pm
    There is a privacy about it which no other season gives you ..... In spring, summer and fall people sort of have an open season on each other; only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself. - Ruth Stout

    January 7, 2005 - 04:46 pm
    Poetry is new to me. I haven't been exposed so when Jan told me he was a jDylan Thomas fan the only poemof his I was familiar with was the one about his father. on the net I came up with this but I don't understand it and the rhythm bothers me. will someone comment? lesson one-A or something like it..

    The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower 
    The force that through the green fuse drives the flower 
    Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees 
    Is my destroyer. 
    And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose 
    My youth is bent by the same wintry fever. 
     The force that drives the water through the rocks 
    Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams 
    Turns mine to wax. 
    And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins 
    How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks. 

    The hand that whirls the water in the pool Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind Hauls my shroud sail. And I am dumb to tell the hanging man How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

    The lips of time leech to the fountain head; Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores. And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

    And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.


    January 8, 2005 - 10:12 am
    Re- the Louisiana Oak Tree poem. I sent it to a friend who then sent me an e-card from webshots. Said the poem reminded her of this photo. It sure does. Take a look.


    January 8, 2005 - 10:22 am
    I found this webpage that has some thoughts on that Thomas poem above. I didn't understand where it was going except to talk about a force- perhaps God, an ultimate being; something that drives events.


    and then I just found another analysis by means of paraphrase


    January 9, 2005 - 01:52 am
    I don't have much time, but I just came in here for a quick read and saw Henry Lawson's Poem. Zinnia said Lawson hated the Outback. Zinnia, I really don't think this is true. Lawson was a very depressed soul and tended to have a black outlook on life, but I really believe that he loved the West deep down. I spent my 20's and 30's in the Outback and I can't remember the number of people who ranted and raved against it but you could tell that they were bound to it forever in their hearts. I always think of "On The Night Train" where he says "I'm the Mother-Bush who bore you, come to me when you are old."

    Of course, I could be totally mistaken!LOL


    January 9, 2005 - 02:16 am
    Lawson and The Bulletin

    Lawson was first published in The Bulletin in 1887 with the poem Song of Australia. The Bulletin was an influential publication which promoted a particular set of views - egalitarianism, unionism, and Australianism. It was also white and male.

    Lawson was a regular contributor, as was Banjo Paterson. A series of verses and other writers were published where Lawson and Paterson debated their different perspectives on the Australian bush - Lawson claiming Paterson was a romantic, and Paterson claiming Lawson was full of doom and gloom.


    It was actually not Zinnia but me who spoke of the dislike or distaste lawson had for the bush. It is of course only a matter of opinion, but their works when compared show their different attitudes. Lawson was reared in the country town of Mudgee and in later life when given journalistic work in the bush, couldnt get back to Sydney quick enough. He was an alcoholic and some say suffered from manic depression. He was way to egalitarian to disrespect the people, only the environment which he saw, quiet truthfully as harsh and unyeilding, as it still is today.

    Sad that he didn't return to the bush in his old age, but died alone in the city.


    January 9, 2005 - 09:58 am
    Here for the reader..thanks Claire for the Dylan poem and thanks Marj for the links regarding the Walt Whitman poem and the explanation of the the Dylan poem and last anneo for your thinking about the Australian poets..Jan appreciate your comments as well.

    Thinking about the differences in Nature ..while I love the green, lushness of nature, the always moving , always changing sea, I have also lived in the west and drove many times in areas that were desolate, lonely, harsh and even there I was enamoured by the stark beauty of it all, They are not places I would choose to live on a permanent basis but places that say I am a lonely place, see my beauty, feel my unique difference and there is a part of me that always feels I would like to stay there for just a little while and find out who I am...okay that is enough of what I think for today and here is the poem i found to share. while winter seems to have passed us by after dumping 12 inches of snow on dec 26 I know it will return and January will freeze again.. my bird feeders are full and the birds come but the ground is visible and so they are not using the feeders as much because they can find seed on the ground..here is a poem about January as it usually is .anna
    Early Morning, January

    By Robert Hogg

    Though it's totally

    winterstruck and

    barren as death

    the tree is the tree

    of life

    and the birds

    (chickadee & gross-

    beak & several

    haughty jays

    dust back &

    forth among the



    & the three


    bird feeders

    from which

    at each


    they deftly

    pick a




    January 9, 2005 - 12:08 pm
    Anna, I enjoyed this poem. I love birds and bird feeders. For the past two weeks, we have been using a screensaver of a snowy scene and a cardinal.

    Claire, I enjoyed your snowy poem a few days ago.

    January 9, 2005 - 01:06 pm
    Anna - That really describes it, doesn't it. It really amazes me how you can always find something so appropriate.

    Anneo - Thanks for the clarification and further information. I really enjoy all the education I get from you and George.

    Jan - I may have said it but, if so, I was parroting something Anneo had told me - she is an Outback Aussie and we often talk on these subjects. I have no Australian experience of my own and am only an admirer and a student of things Australian. Anneo's husband, George, is a history maven and also a never-ending source of knowledge, descended from the original Australian Outback pioneer (Anneo - did I say that right?) I imagine you had some interesting experiences during your sojourn there and I appreciate your information and thoughts, too. It's nice to see you posting again!

    January 10, 2005 - 06:50 am
    I sure do like that one. Describes my current outdoor scene and feeling to a T.

    January 10, 2005 - 11:59 am
    Sitting in my sunroom watching the birds at my feeders I have often wondered WHY ? do they only pick one seed at a time to feed? and why do they fly away and return for one more seed? None seem greedy except maybe the starlings..Once in awhile I will see a bird or two gobbling the small seed but it is rare.

    This poem keeps cropping up and each time I read it I think ..nothing really changes..the date is January 1795 and you could make that 2005 and it seems most of it would still apply anna

    Short bio of Mary Darby Robinson


    Mary Darby Robinson (1758-1800) was born on the 27th November, 1758 in Bristol, England. She was the third of five children born to a ships Captain who eventually left when she was seven to set up a whaling station in Canada. Marys mother moved the family to London, and she set up a boarding school to support them. When she was only fifteen however, her father (now estranged), but still legally in control of the family, forced her mother to close the school; and Mary moved to a finishing school in Oxford, where she was quickly spotted as something of a talent and offered work on the stage. She married at the age of sixteen, and lived beyond her means with her new husband; with him eventually going to debtors prison. At this time her poetry began to bloom; while still actively pursueing her stage career, and she had an affair with the Prince of Wales who she later blackmailed.

    All this, and she is still only twenty-one! Quite a woman
     January, 1795 

    By Mary Darby Robinson

    Pavement slipp'ry, people sneezing, Lords in ermine, beggars freezing ; Titled gluttons dainties carving, Genius in a garret starving.

    Lofty mansions, warm and spacious ; Courtiers clinging and voracious ; Misers scarce the wretched heeding ; Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding.

    Wives who laugh at passive spouses ; Theatres, and meeting-houses ; Balls, where simp'ring misses languish ; Hospitals, and groans of anguish.

    Arts and sciences bewailing ; Commerce drooping, credit failing ; Placemen mocking subjects loyal ; Separations, weddings royal.

    Authors who can't earn a dinner ; Many a subtle rogue a winner ; Fugitives for shelter seeking ; Misers hoarding, tradesmen breaking.

    Taste and talents quite deserted ; All the laws of truth perverted ; Arrogance o'er merit soaring ; Merit silently deploring.

    Ladies gambling night and morning ; Fools the works of genius scorning ; Ancient dames for girls mistaken, Youthful damsels quite forsaken.

    Some in luxury delighting ; More in talking than in fighting ; Lovers old, and beaux decrepid ; Lordlings empty and insipid.

    Poets, painters, and musicians ; Lawyers, doctors, politicians : Pamphlets, newspapers, and odes, Seeking fame by diff'rent roads.

    Gallant souls with empty purses ; Gen'rals only fit for nurses ; School-boys, smit with martial spirit, Taking place of vet'ran merit.

    Honest men who can't get places, Knaves who shew unblushing faces ; Ruin hasten'd, peace retarded ; Candour spurn'd, and art rewarded.

    . .

    January 11, 2005 - 01:16 am

    I take a seat in front of my window, Observing the drops of rain, Solidifying into flakes of snow, Creating a veil edging my windowpane.

    The earthen milieu redesigned, Whilst Mother Nature sleeps, Swathed in a blanket of dreams, Secreted away in a winter haven.

    While gusts of wind are felt passing through me, To the core within the province of thine own self, Winter speaks to me with her cold breath, Sending messages I can’t hear let alone see,

    Obscuring an interlude of what may be, I manage to endure the stinging artic air, Looking out my window from within, Not to feel warmth until winter ends.

    January 11, 2005 - 01:18 am

    The weekend was sweet, warm, and refreshing, The warmth of the summer, my feet are requesting. Yet the cold, blowing wind, reminds me it’s winter, With two more months left, we have of white splendor.

    On nights such as these, I sit by the fire. Now all that is missing, is the one I desire. Cuddled under the blanket, I try to stay warm, Keeping my heart, from the cold winter’s harm.

    Where are you darling, your warmth needed tonight? Keeping me warm, filling my heart with delight. You hold me so close, till sweat falls from my brow, Touching me softly, with knowledge to endow.

    I dream of your lips, how softly you kiss. Heat rushes threw me, the moment intense. My skin’s open pores, lit to heightened extremity, You rush to my rescue, with great sensitivity.

    The arousal now heightens, the temperature rises, With the temperature now, no more comprises, The height of the moment, as you release all the heat. Your accomplishment felt, I now have warm feet.


    January 11, 2005 - 12:21 pm
    thanks for sharing those great poems ...and here we know that while it is uncommoningly warm that winter waits offstage to bring his cold and frigid breath ..and the second poem now that ending was a bit of a surprise and made me laugh out loud..anna

    January 11, 2005 - 03:51 pm
    thankyou for this site on Thomas. I think this does it for me.

    poem describes the cycle of life and death, noting that creation and destruction are part of the same process, both for man and for nature. Each stanza presents the flow of time moving to its inexorable conclusion.


    January 11, 2005 - 04:13 pm
    good ones especially the last line...warm feet after all essential .. . . claire

    January 12, 2005 - 09:28 am
    With all the news that makes us weep I wanted to find a poem to remind us ..( As if we need to be reminded) how brief life is..anna

    Constantine P. Cavafy - Candles  

    The days of our future stand in front of us like a row of little lit candles -- golden, warm, and lively little candles.

    The days past remain behind us, a mournful line of extinguished candles; the ones nearest are still smoking, cold candles, melted, and bent.

    I do not want to look at them; their form saddens me, and it saddens me to recall their first light. I look ahead at my lit candles.

    I do not want to turn back, lest I see and shudder at how fast the dark line lengthens, at how fast the extinguished candles multiply.

    January 12, 2005 - 10:53 am
    Staring at the Sea on the Day of the Death of Another ~ May Swenson (1913-1989)

    The long body of the water fills its hollow, slowly rolls upon its side, and in the swaddlings of the waves, their shadowed hollows falling forward with the tide,

    like folds of Grecian garments molded to cling around some classic immemorial marble thing, I see the vanished bodies of friends who have died.

    Each form is furled into its hollow, white in the dark curl, the sea a mausoleum, with countless shelves, crading the prone effigies of our unearthly selves,

    some of the hollows empty, long niches in the tide. One of them is mine and gliding forward, gaping wide.

    January 12, 2005 - 01:11 pm
    yes indeed it captures the essence of friends past and sadly the future as well. . . . claire

    January 13, 2005 - 08:25 am
    That poem surely reminds us of our immortality. Thus creating anew the purpose to capture each day as special and beautiful because they quickly wash past. Thanks Scrawler.

    And same with the Candles poem.


    January 13, 2005 - 09:51 am
    Here in SE VA we often find spring arriving in Jan ..she doesnt stay and of when winter returns she just scampers off leaving us shivering and then she stays away and when she should return ..doesnt..so I am taking the easy way out this am and sharing a poem about the same situation a few years ago..that year I lost all of my plums and apples due to that early spring...and the bulbs that hastened to appear when spring was here never really fulfilled thier promise that year so here is the poem..anna

    Spring that capricious lass, With tentative toe touched the dry brown grass. Finding no one to stop her path Trailing gossamer garments filled with southern breezes She skipped North with winter still upon us. Seducing trees in winter garb. Confused, they brought forth buds Swollen by her siren’s touch. Proudly displayed before their time, In January when the earth was cold and still, The beauty meant for March or May.

    Alas she led them all astray! Danced among them, teased their branches bare. Whispered promises she could not keep. When Winter shook his frigid fist She shook her golden head of hair Scampered South to hide her face. Now when she should be here She loiters on southern beaches. The early buds wither and die, Shiver in the frosted air. Wonder what happened to that sassy lass Whose guile their best efforts failed To captivate,Whose smile they welcomed. Where is she now ? That False Spring? When March has almost gone away ? Will April bring her back to stay Or will Winter linger still awhile?

    anna alexander 3/27/99 all rights reserved

    January 13, 2005 - 01:56 pm
    The "candles" metaphor poem was so apt and so touching and I am again astonished by your gift in your "Spring?" poem. Thank you so much!

    I was looking for the May Swenson poem so that I could see if it was formatted that way or in lines, but have not found it yet. I did find this one, which is marvelous ... but REALLY depends on proper formatting.

    with my breath
    to make a mountain,
    with my sucked-in breath
    a valley, with my pushed-out
    breath a mountain. I will make
    a valley wider than the whisper, I
    will make a higher mountain than the cry,
    will with my will breathe a mountain. I will
    with my will breathe a valley. I will push out
    a mountain, suck in a valley, deeper than the shout
    YOU MUST DIE harder, heavier, sharper a mountain than
    the truth YOU MUST DIE. I will remember. My breath will
    make a mountain. My will will remember to will. I, suck-
    ing, pushing, I will breathe a valley, I will breathe a mountain.


    I think I want to go and get one of her books, Scrawler, and I really thank you for posting the previous poem!

    January 13, 2005 - 10:11 pm
    All poems have something to say ..I am taken by the May Swenson poems ..I havent read her poetry before but thank you for sharing your finds.

    Over my life span I have read 1000's of poems I am sure /and sometime one will creep out from where it was stored in my mind and nag at me ..today this poem is one that nagged ..I have no idea where I first read it or heard it and am not even sure why it came to me today ..I thnk a lot of it has to do with all the news , the lost and bereaved from not only the earthquake and subsequent flooding and the terrible loss of life, the weather disasters and just the plain every day loss of people we have known and loved...I dont know but I googled and found the poem but cant seem to find out who wrote the poem..OH yes I have a name but who David Cory was I have no idea and if it is in some remote note somewhere my search did not uncover it..but here is the poem that has haunted me all day..anna
    Miss you, miss you, miss you; 
    Everything I do 
    Echoes with the laughter 
    And the voice of You. 
    You're on every corner 
    Every turn and twist, 
    Every old familiar spot 
    Whispers how you're missed. 
    Miss you, miss you, miss you! 
    Everywhere I go 
    There are poignant memories 
    Dancing in a row. 
    Silhouette and shadow 
    Of your form and face 
    Substance and reality 
    Everywhere displace.

    Oh, I miss you, miss you! God! I miss you, Girl! There's a strange silence 'Mid the busy whirl Just as tho' the ordinary Daily things I do Wait with me, expectant For a word from You.

    Miss you, miss you, miss you! Nothing now seem true Only that 'twas heaven Just to be with You.

    Miss You, David Cory

    January 13, 2005 - 11:06 pm
    thankyou. . . . claire

    January 14, 2005 - 12:00 am
    I don't know if this will solve your mystery, but here is a link to the poem itself... http://www.cs.memphis.edu/~ramamurt/gems/gem384.html

    And then to the person who apparently posts "Beautiful Gems." http://www.cs.memphis.edu/~ramamurt/

    And from there to a list of Beautiful Gems, which ought to be a goldmine! http://www.cs.memphis.edu/%7Eramamurt/mohan_gems.html

    The trail, for now, ends there.

    EDIT: The poem also on this page with a lot of others that would appear to have been written by the same person, but that doesn't mean the page belongs to the author.


    ANOTHER EDIT: And, after looking about a bit, it seems to have been plagiarized by a high school person named "Brandon." So the trail still ends. (SIGH!)

    January 15, 2005 - 05:08 am
    Thanks for your efforts ..one link was the one where I found the poem..and I have no idea where or when I read the poem..I could only recall the the first line and one of the latter lines ..that is what I typed in for google ..and I tried just putting David Cory in and there was no bio ...I think perhaps it was a single poem this person wrote ..and may have been published years ago in a newspaper.

    When I was young newspapers ran poems by anyone , if the paper liked it..too bad they dont do that now...anna

    January 15, 2005 - 05:14 am
    Sorry but sometimes I dont have the time to find a poet who has written a poem I want to share. So I take the easy way out and share one of my own.. This one was written one year when I attended a service at the cemetery near me..It is located about four blocks away and I dont mean to offend anyone who places silk or plastic arrangements at a loved ones grave.

    I think why I feel the way I do is expressed in the poem anna
    The cemetery 

    plastic flowers row on row a garden in December grow they do not wilt in summer sun nor droop in autumn’s wind
    plastic or silk these sentinels keep 
    watch for those that do not sleep 
    I beg when my time has come  
    and beneath the earth I’m placed  
    do not bring flowers of molded silk 
    or plastic shaped like baby’s breath

    if you must .....lay a single rose upon my resting place and when its petals fade and lay silent there above my grave their perfume sinking into the ground will tell you were there

    anna alexander © modified 7/23/2004

    January 15, 2005 - 08:17 am
    The Beautiful Gems list is great!

    Following some links I found a page on Tagore.

    And a few of his Fireflies which are like Haiku to me. Here is one.

    The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.

    January 15, 2005 - 08:22 am
    One of India's most cherished renaissance figures, Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) put India on the literary map of the world when his Gitanjali was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1913.

    Fireflies resemble the sayings of a wise man rather than poetry. The possibility of the influence of Japanese Haiku can be suggested. The compact style conveys memorable poetic expressions with great force and intensity. The brevity and crispness of these verses combined with the wit and wisdom contained in them make these poems extremely delightful and reader friendly.

    January 15, 2005 - 01:53 pm
    Now you've gone and done it! You made me cry with that one. I always enjoy your poetry and it always touches me, but that one went straight to the heart. Thank you, my friend.


    Another wow! What a magnificent form. I'll be checking that out, also, and thanks so much for sharing! You gotta URL? Huh? Do ya? LOLOL!!!

    I just have to say that I love this discussion and the people who post here, and I doubt we could have a better or more talented Discussion Leader than Annafair.

    January 15, 2005 - 07:20 pm
    http://terebess.hu/english/tagore5.html Here's one to read about Tagore. Then if you just Google his name you will find a lot of his poetry. Or google 'fireflies'

    January 15, 2005 - 11:41 pm
    That is absolutely wonderful! Thanks! I found "Fireflies" way down on that page and I'll Google, as you said, and see what else I can find.

    January 16, 2005 - 01:07 pm
    Zinnia, I am with you. Anna, that poem is simply beautiful. I will think of it for a long, long time.

    January 16, 2005 - 07:52 pm
    I just stuck jans last batch to me on his page at my site here

    check it out

    http://www.geocities.com/artetal/jansand.html if that works

    January 17, 2005 - 12:12 am
    The Tagore site is wonderful!! In addition to the Fireflies, check out the link, "Stray Birds" in the paragraph above it:

    "These little thoughts are the rustle of leaves; they have their whisper of joy in my mind".

    January 17, 2005 - 10:11 am
    the poems of a few words, tiny gifts but still huge in stirring our thoughts, painting pictures in our minds,.larger, longer poems flow like rivers ..some end in a tranquil pond and others in a seething sea...thanks for all ..for the links to a favorite spot..oasis in this world of cyber space and for poets who feel and feel and feel and share their thoughts..wonderful place to be..

    I have mentioned the 12 inches of snow in Dec and the summer days in January and now bitter cold again..the temperature at noon is 28 and I dare say the wind chill much much less ..I found a poem about January Thaw ..a weather event usually occuring after we have suffered some bitter cold ..here it is out of sync we had our thaw .but in normal weather this poem tells a lovely tale,,anna

    Robert Frost - A Hillside Thaw  

    To think to know the country and now know The hillside on the day the sun lets go Ten million silver lizards out of snow! As often as I've seen it done before I can't pretend to tell the way it's done. It looks as if some magic of the sun Lifted the rug that bred them on the floor And the light breaking on them made them run. But if I though to stop the wet stampede, And caught one silver lizard by the tail, And put my foot on one without avail, And threw myself wet-elbowed and wet-kneed In front of twenty others' wriggling speed,-- In the confusion of them all aglitter, And birds that joined in the excited fun By doubling and redoubling song and twitter, I have no doubt I'd end by holding none.

    It takes the moon for this. The sun's a wizard By all I tell; but so's the moon a witch. From the high west she makes a gentle cast And suddenly, without a jerk or twitch, She has her speel on every single lizard. I fancied when I looked at six o'clock The swarm still ran and scuttled just as fast. The moon was waiting for her chill effect. I looked at nine: the swarm was turned to rock In every lifelike posture of the swarm, Transfixed on mountain slopes almost erect. Across each other and side by side they lay. The spell that so could hold them as they were Was wrought through trees without a breath of storm To make a leaf, if there had been one, stir. One lizard at the end of every ray. The thought of my attempting such a stray!

    January 17, 2005 - 12:05 pm
    I love the language of this poem.

    January 18, 2005 - 09:48 pm
    There is a website for NOAA and poems written my employees .this one was written by the head of NOAA in Ohio about 25 years ago if I remember ..anyway I sort of liked it ,,made me smile and is a good answer to those who ask When does winter begin..?? I can tell you it is surely here in SE VA with wind chills of 1..augh ..anna

    An Untitled Poem on Winter 
    by George W. Mindling 

    There’s a certain old question the Weather Man hears; In the fall of the year it gets into his ears. And whenever they ask him, when does winter begin?” He will tell them naively, “When cold weather sets in.”

    There are some who insist on a calendar date, And they want it the same for every State, From the northernmost plain in a terrible blizzard To the southernmost shore warm enough for a lizard.

    Now the Weather Man thinks that it does not make sense In Duluth and Miami on the same day to commence To declare that it’s winter and that winter will stay Till the day off in March called the equinox day.

    While the almanac makers do state in their ways That the length of the winter is just ninety days, Up in Maine I have heard in the best Yankee style That it’s winter nine months and it’s cold all the while.

    In Miami, however, or down at Saint Pete, They assume that your house never needs any heat. If you speak about winter, they warmly reply, “Such a thing is unknown under our friendly sky.”

    So the Weather Man says you can not fix a date That is true in each year and is true in each State. And to each one that asks, “When does winter begin?” He will answer naively, “When cold weather sets in.”

    January 19, 2005 - 10:34 am
    This poem made me smile. We had an ice storm here in Portland, Oregon last Saturday and yesterday and today the temperature will be in the high 60s. I've decided to wear my shorts and T-shirt under my warm winter coat. That should do it!

    January 19, 2005 - 07:36 pm
    Scrawler! I love your attire

    January 20, 2005 - 03:52 pm
    Next Friday the 28th I will take off at dawn ,..well at least turn the key in the ignition of my car and with another "bookie" head for Isle of Palms SC we will be there for a week and I am not sure if I will have internet access SO I might not be posting here until after my return on the 5th Of Feb...

    Even now I am busy getting everything ready for the trip so my time is limited ;;we had snow yesterday and today more is promised with additional amounts on Sat and Sun ..in cleaning my house ..since Eloise is coming three days before we are too leave and I am not a good housekeeper..( once wrote a poem about the seven deadly sins and turned them into virtues ) any way found some haiku I did for my poetry class back in FEb 98 and share one with you..anna

    Winter wind scours 
    frozen frigid frosted land  
    Spring cringes 
    anna alexander  
    2/1/98  all rights reserved

    January 22, 2005 - 07:37 am

    Snowflakes spill from heaven's hand 
    Lovely and chaste like smooth white sand. 
    A veil of wonder laced in light 
    Falling Gently on a winters night.  
    Graceful beauty raining down 
    Giving magic to the lifeless ground. 
    Each snowflake like a falling star 
    Smiling beauty that's spun afar.  
    Till earth is dressed in a robe of white 
    Unspoken poem the hush of night.  
    by Linda A. Copp   

    January 22, 2005 - 07:38 am
    Anna- your haiku is just right.

    January 22, 2005 - 07:40 am
    I think snow is so beautiful!

    January 22, 2005 - 11:11 am
    Last Saturday we had an ice storm here in Portland, Oregon, today they are expecting temperatures to rise in the high 50s possibly 60s. Go figure!

    My daughter and son-in-law left here last Wednesday for their home in Rhode Island and the temperature here was in the low 60s and they arrived home to find their pipes had burst and it was -2! More reason for them to move back here!While they were here they told us they were moving back to Portland.

    January 22, 2005 - 12:13 pm
    Oh Scrawler- what a mess when pipes burst like that.Takes major repeairs.! I hope it works well if they move back there. I think I'd like it there.

    January 23, 2005 - 05:38 am
    We were in a winter storm watch here but the worst of the storm was north of us. We did have some snow and sleet and freezing rain and I have stayed indoors by my small stove and did nothing!

    I love the snow poem too..and for the most part love snow but not the terrible blizzards and a foot or more of snow..About ten years ago we had 23 inches of snow and it stayed cold for three weeks .perhaps even longer because I was driving to Florida at the end of three weeks, My son came over and helped me get the ice off my car and load it up ..The interstate was clear but there was snow on the fields almost to Charleston.

    Newport News and Hampton Va are called sister cities since except for a sign you would never know ..we run into each other..They had a fire in a substation and 16,000 have been without power...And this is not the time of year to be without power. They are slowly restoring power but still almost 10,000 are without power.

    Frozen pipes ..oh what a mess Ican see where your family would prefer to move away ...We seldom have temperatures that dip below about 8 or 9 degrees and that is rare..have no poem right this minute but will find one for later..anna

    January 23, 2005 - 11:57 am
    Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening  

    Whose woods these are I think I know, His house is in the village though. He will not see me stopping here, To watch his woods fill up with snow.

    My little horse must think it queer, To stop without a farmhouse near, Between the woods and frozen lake, The darkest evening of the year.

    He gives his harness bells a shake, To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep, Of easy wind and downy flake.

    The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

    -- Robert Frost

    January 23, 2005 - 12:00 pm
    How I would like to be in that scene. I can shut my eyes and take a trip

    January 23, 2005 - 12:12 pm
    Without electricity in the cold!! It happened to us a few years ago. I cursed our electric heat (not the first or last time) but it turned out almost everyone was without heat unless they had a fireplace. All of the heating systems used electricity to turn on, no matter what the fuel. We were better off than most because our heating system was so bad, we also had kerosine stoves. (We now have a new, better system).

    January 23, 2005 - 12:18 pm
    I can see the images in this poem too. I can hear the shaking bells.

    Being without electricity and cold is just miserable. That's the worse part of a snow blizzard.

    January 23, 2005 - 02:49 pm
    Before my new heating system I had a coal furnace converted to gas with draft heat. Well, in a power outage you could turn on the thermostat manually downstairs with a lever--- well, with my nice new efficient heating/cooling that is gone of course. Plus, it radiated heat so the basement was passable warm and the first floors of the house were warmish. I do enjoy the lower heating bills!!!

    I can hear the jingle of the bells and even see the woods.

    I've always wondered what his promises were to keep??? Anyone have an inkling. And he uses the word "but". Like whatever is the promise keeps him from staying.

    January 24, 2005 - 05:49 am
    Thanks for posting Robert Frost's poem..I am not sure what it means but I do know there is a lot of disagreement on the meaning of the last two lines.

    The beginning paints a picture and I can see it clearly..There is something so special about being out in snow..and alone or with just one person...

    I always felt the last lines were not difficult to understand ..in spite of people saying they were mysterious.. He is with a horse, and I have never owned a horse but people who do and they require a lot of attention,.And before Frost would be able to go to sleep he would have to attend to the horse, and other tasks in that cold and snowy time..bringing in wood, stirring the fire etc..and of course being a poet he would also be thinking of of his future and his death..most poets think about that ..So in my mind those lines had more than one meaning ..which may be why he repeated them..I just think it is a lovely poem..and like all poetry it means whatever you think it means..

    In my poetry class it was interesting to see how each of us "saw" a poem..the author may have meant one thing and the listener or reader reacted in another way..which is why I love poetry IT SPEAKS TO ME>. it becomes individualized and my own memories and my own expierences affect how I relate to the poem and each of you have the same freedom to do the same,. Now that makes poetry truely unique..anna

    January 24, 2005 - 05:53 am
    Here is the poem I decided to share after a LOT of reading..hope you enjoy it.anna

    Billy Collins - Snow Day  

    Today we woke up to a revolution of snow, its white flag waving over everything, the landscape vanished, not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness, and beyond these windows

    the government buildings smothered, schools and libraries buried, the post office lost under the noiseless drift, the paths of trains softly blocked, the world fallen under this falling.

    In a while I will put on some boots and step out like someone walking in water, and the dog will porpoise through the drifts, and I will shake a laden branch, sending a cold shower down on us both.

    But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house, a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow. I will make a pot of tea and listen to the plastic radio on the counter, as glad as anyone to hear the news

    that the Kiddie Corner School is closed, the Ding-Dong School, closed, the All Aboard Children's School, closed, the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed, along with -- some will be delighted to hear --

    the Toadstool School, the Little School, Little Sparrows Nursery School, Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School, the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed, and -- clap your hands -- the Peanuts Play School.

    So this is where the children hide all day, These are the nests where they letter and draw, where they put on their bright miniature jackets, all darting and climbing and sliding, all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

    And now I am listening hard in the grandiose silence of the snow, trying to hear what those three girls are plotting, what riot is afoot, which small queen is about to be brought down.

    January 24, 2005 - 06:03 am
    I enjoyed this snow poem too. He's a talented poet who would relate a snowy day to a "revolution." I think he mentions the reason why I like snowy days. If you are prepared for a heavy day of snow, it's easy and fun and desirable to become a "willing prisoner."

    I would have loved to become a "willing prisoner" this weekend, but the snow passed us by.

    January 24, 2005 - 10:58 am
    Love Billy's poem of snowstorm!!!!

    January 24, 2005 - 11:10 am
    Someone said that the instant we look at art or poetry, we begin to analyze it and we each take from it our own personal meaning. As you said, Anna, I also like to hear what others take from poetry (and art as well) and I agree with your comments about double meaning.

    January 24, 2005 - 11:18 am
    I loved the "snow" poems too, but I bet if you asked my daughter who is living in a hotel because they are re wiring her house and fixing the pipes she'd probably not have the same feeling. They had over $3200 worth of damage. They had their kitty at a kennel when they came out to Portland, Oregon the holiday weekend, so she was safe from the cold - but not happy that her family has deserted her.

    Haiku poem:

    late January your footprints still frozen ~ Rob Scott

    January 24, 2005 - 06:53 pm
    I love the Billy Collins poem -- since I have a grandson in pre-school (the Leaps and Bound Academy -- he calls it "The Leaps and Bounds A-caterpillar"). If I know him, he's over by the fence, plotting with those girls. But since he's in Southern California, he doesn't know the pleasure of a snow day.

    January 25, 2005 - 12:23 am

    This is a 62-page website I just finished building for Aussie John, who is an active SeniorNetter in the chat room. I posted about him here before -- he is a prolific poet and a good friend.

    I still have a lot of nitpicking to do on it, but it's up and running fairly well.

    He also writes personal poems for anyone who signs his guestbook or sends him an email with a bit of information on which to base a poem. First name only, please, unless you want to take a chance of having your full name included in the poem.

    January 25, 2005 - 02:39 pm
    Good job, Zinnia. I just poked around at a few things on the website. It was working well for me.

    January 27, 2005 - 10:47 am
    Like white butterflies flying in the cold winter air, 
    The snowflakes fall so gently upon the ground, 
    Making a clean unblemished blanket on the earth 
    Later the snow chrystals will glisten like diamonds in the sun without a sound.  


    I have often described certain snows as looking like white bflys. And today it is in the single digits temps & the sparkles are all over the place.

    January 27, 2005 - 12:00 pm
    Lovely quote! Now I'll go and look at the whole poem. What a good idea to post a quote and a link, and also a great idea as to copyright infringement. I'm a fanatic for copyright issues with my art and yet I have probably infringed here a bazillion times without thinking.

    January 27, 2005 - 12:06 pm
    winter stars -

    the wild goose tucks its head

    under a wing

    ~ Kirsty Karkow

    The wild geese are coming home to Oregon. I just saw a flock fly over my apartment building and this morning my first dafaddoil popped up! Does this mean Spring is just around the corner.

    January 28, 2005 - 08:57 am
    BEautiful haiku!

    January 28, 2005 - 10:54 am
    O flock of ducks in the wind in winter, 
    The wine of flight inspires your wings! 
    Ecstatic with dreams of remoteness, 
    Drunk with the sky’s blueness, 
    Tell me, how can I fill my songs 
    With that same liquor? 

    Translating Tagore page

    January 28, 2005 - 10:57 am
    That's lovely... and thanks for the link, also! I always enjoy being able to "read more" when someone posts great poetry.

    January 30, 2005 - 10:27 am
    In beauty                                       may I walk 
    All day long                                    may I walk 
    Through the returning seasons                   may I walk 
    Beautifully I will possess again 
    Beautifully birds 
    Beautifully joyful birds 
    On the trail marked with pollen                 may I walk 
    With grasshoppers about my feet                 may I walk 
    With dew about my feet                          may I walk 
    With beauty                                     may I walk 
    With beauty before me                           may I walk 
    With beauty behind me                           may I walk 
    With beauty above me                            may I walk 
    With beauty all around me                       may I walk 
    In old age, wandering on a trail of beauty, 
                                        lively,     may I walk 
    In old age, wandering on a trail of beauty, 
                                  living again,     may I walk 
    It is finished in beauty 
    It is finished in beauty  

    -- Anon. (Navajo)

    I totally fell in love with this when I came upon it so I am sharing. It was just on a page by itself- there was no other info. ~Marj

    January 30, 2005 - 11:46 am
    Marj: that's wonderful.

    January 30, 2005 - 12:13 pm
    I love that poem, Marj.

    Here's an Indian poem that I wrote:

    Prayer to the Great Spirit:

    Oh, long, long Has the spirt possessed the mountains Where brother elk lives

    Oh, long, long Has the spirit possessed the rivers Where brother fish swims

    Oh, long, long Has the spirit possessed the land Where brother buffalo roam

    Oh, long, long Has the spirit possessed the sky Where brother eagle flies

    Oh, long, long Has the spirit we retreat Where can Indian brothers live in peace?

    January 30, 2005 - 02:38 pm
    That is part of the Diné (Navajo) "Night Way Ceremony". Do you have a link to the page?


    Nice poem, and thank you for sharing it. Is there something missing from the last line?

    January 30, 2005 - 02:54 pm
    -from what I could understand it is part of a 9 day ceremony. So here are the links I came across, Zinnia, after I found the poem.

    Google Nightway Links

    January 31, 2005 - 02:53 pm
    Here is an excerpt from a poem by Joy Harjo called Eagle Song. Joy is an American Indian and one of my favorite poets.

    We are truly blessed because we
    Were born, and die soon within a
    True circle of motion,
    Like eagle rounding out the morning
    Inside us.
    We pray that it will be done
    In beauty
    In beauty.

    And you can read the entire poem here if you like:


    January 31, 2005 - 03:09 pm
    Excellent. the whole poem is great.

    February 1, 2005 - 06:20 am
    The poems are beautiful. Thank you for the links. I like the one that relates to the fish, buffalo and eagle as our brothers. Native Americans, I think, really appreciate the earth and its beauty.

    February 1, 2005 - 07:44 am
    Thanks, Zinnia-- I was glad to read the whole poem. Just so captures a feeling of the nature and good and healing for us if we would allow.


    February 1, 2005 - 11:24 am
    winter sunset...

    a raven scrapes her beak

    on a power line

    ~ Thomas Hoyt

    The hallmark of the United States has been growth. Ravens have always been a symbol of power especially here in the Northwest. You see them carved into many of the totem poles. As shown by this haiku poem the raven adopts to her surrounding world.

    Malryn (Mal)
    February 2, 2005 - 07:18 am
    I thought some of you might like to read this poem by Holman Day. "Born in Vassalboro, Maine and an 1887 graduate of Colby College, Holman Day was a poet, a novelist, and a filmmaker, as well as a correspondent for the Lewiston Sun for years. He produced over 25 books about Maine."

    By Holman F. Day

    Take a chair by the fireplace, mister. Pull up, s'r, pull up to the blaze!
    Cheerfuler some than an air-tight, hey? Too many air-tights these days!
    But that ain't a matter to harp on--complainin' isn't my style:
    Do you notice that rug where ye're sittin? Let me tell ye 'bout that
    for a while.

    That's an old hooked rug; just burlap with snippin's o' rags looped through-
    A hit-or-miss pattern they call it; it looked pretty smart when t'was new.
    Some fami'lies have his'ries about 'em an' docyments filed away,
    But ourn hain't ever done nothin' that his'rys can find to say,
    Yet next to my Bible, mister, the readin' I like the best
    I find right there in that old hooked rug, when there's ary a minit to rest.
    I come an's read it o' daytimes, but the readin' goes best at night
    With the wind and the rain at the winder an' the hearth flames burnins' bright.

    February 2, 2005 - 12:32 pm
    I really like that. I dreamed once that I had a hooked rug, in which everyone who hadever touched my life added a strand.

    February 2, 2005 - 01:53 pm
    Great poem! Rag rugs and quilts... my grandmother made both of them and they were lovely histories, remarkable memory albums. I loved to lie on a rug or quilt and pick out "myself" and others -- pieces that I remembered. And somehow it made me feel a part of the tapestry of the family. I think I'll work on a poem about it, probably full of similies and metaphors as well as memories!

    February 2, 2005 - 04:24 pm
    You better post it here if you do, Zinnia

    February 3, 2005 - 01:21 am
    Here's a beginning:

    In Memory of Grandma
    Karen Weston, January 2005
    They are all there, all of them, in the tapestries of my lovely Irish kin, aunts, uncles, grandfolks, cousins galore, and me, too, sometimes me, from the right side of the blanket, wrong side of acceptance for some Their stories and mine are there in the quilts and the rag rugs If there is anyone to read them. That orange print from the missionary bag... I wore it when I came to her. It was ugly, but they said it was good enough. I was so happy to see her cutting it into tiny pieces to change it into something beautiful. I thought Grandma would say "It's still serviceable," But she looked into my heart instead. She declared it worn out and took it apart, made me something new, plain and serviceable, but it wasn't orange or ugly. Daddy's soft blue shirt is there, too, But Daddy is far away. Sometimes I could lay my head on his shoulder Now I pretend. Mama's green dress is in there, too, She threw it away when she ran off with that lawyer man. It was Daddy's favorite. I don't know how to find her and I can't go where she is. I hope she can find her way. Pieces of Uncle Jim's uniform wind through the rag rug. He died, you know. Defending his country, they said. He was gone somewhere I could not go, too, Hard truths And his uniform helped soften the hard floor. Auntie Awful's purple skirt got shiny on the back, So I got a little skirt out of the good parts and Grandma used up the rest for the quilt and the rug. Waste not, want not. The strands of the dark navy gabardine that Grandma wore to Grandpa's funeral because she hadn't anything in black. "James wouldn't have wanted me to wear black," she said. And held her head up. She took me along and held her head up. Grandpa went to heaven and they laughed at the wake. No more candy, no more songs. They told funny stories and laughed and cried and ate. I never saw her cry, but I heard her in the night. I think she cried for all of us. I know she cried for me when they took me away again. I saw her. If I had that purple skirt, I could make a quilt. A quilt to remember all of them, But mostly in memory of Grandma Who taught me to hold my head up.

    February 3, 2005 - 07:21 am
    Both poems are beautiful. I like to think of memories and what is made by our hands put together. My sister's mother in law made quilts. I don't think she ever bought new fabric, just used old clothing and made the pieces in to quilts. Her hands, I know now, were busy making memories.

    February 3, 2005 - 11:16 am
    Both poems are beautiful and bring back a lot of childhood memories. My mother-in-law made quilts for my children when they were born out of bits and pieces from family members' clothing. I think my daughter still has hers. My daughter makes quilts herself. She designs them on the computer and than transfers the designs to the material she is working with.

    February 3, 2005 - 12:03 pm
    Thanks for your kindness! That just came pouring out late last night and, of course, I am already rewriting, adding, changing, etc.

    My grandma was always piecing quilts and making rag rugs. When my dad died, I found three pieced quilt tops in an old trunk. They were put together in pattern sections but not joined. I sent one to Auntie Awful and she had the Mormon ladies finish it for her. Then I sent another to a daughter who quilted and she made wall hangings for all of us. I have one left. I plan to parcel out the motifs among my children and grands.

    My aunt Ethel was my dad's youngest sister and my close buddy all my adult life. I called her "Auntie Awful" when I was tiny and she remained Auntie Awful until she died. There was never a soul less awful!



    February 3, 2005 - 05:39 pm
    Wonderful poem. It really captures the feeling of family.

    February 5, 2005 - 03:10 pm
    Thanks, Zinnia. How I could see the different fabrics.

    Looking at the pieces of used fabrics is like a poem.

    February 7, 2005 - 01:27 pm
    It was so good to stop here today and read all the lovely poems and comments.

    Zinnia I especially loved your poem >>my mother sewed her clothes, my Irish grandmothers dresses and my clothes and eventually I sewed my clothes, all of my husbands sport shirts and even made his sport jackets as well as clothes for my 4 children,

    My mother used EVERY leftover scrape..they went to the rag rugs or to the lovely quilts she made. I am sorry it took me so long to appreciate the effort, the quality of the workmanship, the beauty and memories found in each quilt.

    Now I look at each piece of fabric in the quilts and remember ..my clothes, my childrens clothes and love to show my grandchildren the quilt pieces that came from the clothes I made for thier mothers and fathers..It is a priceless gift, those memories and your poem just took me back and gave me joy,

    Will post a poem tomorrow but now I have to play catch up and get things in order ( well at least make an attempt) Thanks to each of you ...I had a great time but am glad to be HOME ..at my house and here in poetry.. anna

    February 7, 2005 - 02:22 pm
    It's great to have you back.. hope you had a grand time at the "Bookies" gathering!

    I remember that my grandma even saved bits of thread, ravelings, and fabric pieces too tiny for anything else and put them out for the birds. These days, that mightn't be so good because of the synthetics and the chance of their being tangled in it.

    February 7, 2005 - 07:04 pm
    Rather a sad commentary on progress, isn't it Zinnia. Bottom line- you'd have to make sure they were itty pieces to take for nest building.

    February 8, 2005 - 06:40 am
    Alas I think you are right sometimes it seems we are going backwards..I prefer natural fabrics so I must remember to do as your grandmother Zinnia and put out the bits of thread and fabric for my birds.

    Years ago when my children were young I purchased a wonderful book of poems called The Golden Treasury of Poetry selected with a commentary by Louis Untermeyer..this is grand book for children ..it has wonderful illustrations and so many good poems..When I am feeling a bit down ..And I have to confess a good week at the beach with good people and my friends departure made me feel a bit down..I pick up this book and read. I found the perfect poem to share last night ..I will make no comments on it but will look forward to yours..anna


    by Ralph Waldo Emerson

    Let me go where'er I will I hear a skyborn music still: It sounds from all things old, It sounds from all things young, From all that's fair, from all that's foul, Peals out a cheerful song.

    It is not only in the rose, It is not only in the bird, Not only where the rainbow glows, Nor in the song of woman heard, But in the darkest, meanest things There alway, alway something sings.

    'Tis not in the high stars alone, Nor in the cup of budding flowers, Nor in the red-breast's mellow tone, Nor in the bow that smiles in showers. But in the mud and scum of things There alway, alway something sings

    February 8, 2005 - 08:05 am
    "Music" by Ralph Waldo Emerson. is a beautiful poem. Thank you for printing it. Too often, I look for beauty in the expected places. For me, it's a good lesson to learn that beauty can be found in the most unexpected places.

    By the way, this is the first poem I have ever read by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I would have expected it to be far more dense and full of intellectuality. Don't know why I would think that.

    February 8, 2005 - 08:06 am
    I will look for the book by Louis Untermeyer.

    February 8, 2005 - 10:47 am
    Daylily garden

    the orange tail of the cat

    wanders here and there

    Carol Purington

    I thought of this poem while my neighbor's cat was sunning himself curled up in one of my flower tubs.

    February 8, 2005 - 11:08 am
    That is really inspiring poem. So many times we turn away or close our eyes to things that are different, things that don't fit our mold, before we even take a good look at what's in front of us. And in so doing, we miss the beauty that he mentions. Such is prejudice, among other things.

    February 8, 2005 - 12:26 pm
    Beacause all of this is true I had to put it in poetic form and hope you enjoy it too..anna

    Winter is still here but…..

    I know it is early February Winter is still here The trees are bare and stark No leaf shows against the weathered bark My yard is covered with withered grass The color of old and ancient brass Yet my daffodils are giving birth Above the old and darkened earth They have announced there presence Pushing upward from the sod Five inches of bright green stems Promises from a benevolent God That even in the darkest days When winter lays cold and still HE is there and Spring lies… Just beyond the hills

    Anna Alexander 2/8/05©

    February 8, 2005 - 02:24 pm
    You have a wonderful talent. I enjoy reading your poetry.

    February 9, 2005 - 10:13 am
    Scrawler- I'll take a kitty haiku or poem any day!!!!  

    These lines in the Emerson poem are just right- remembering them is just like reminding us to look. Often there is more than what we see or feel as horrible.

    "But in the mud and scum of things There alway, alway something sings"

    February 9, 2005 - 10:15 am
    Anna- thanks for the reminder of green. Today we have snow covering everything. Really a lovely poem of your experience.

    February 9, 2005 - 10:52 am
    Thanks for your poem, Anna. My daffodils are coming up even though its 28 degrees out in my back yard. I guess the only answer is what your poem suggests, HE is watching over us.

    February 13, 2005 - 08:48 am
    Since I was here last. Eloise left on Mon and on Tues I had to see my dentist to have the tooth filling replaced....Wed I tried to make some order in getting things put away and on Thurs take my dog to the vet for her rabies shot and annual physical, Friday I had a cardiology appt ( I am fine) and Sat I had to do laundry and here it is SUNDAY and I am back ..I think in one piece but will have to check...Here is a Valentine day poem for you ..anna

    Bourdillon, Francis William, 1852-1921 

    Bourdillon, Francis William, 1852-1921: A VALENTINE [from Ailes d'Alouette (1890)]

    WHAT is my wish for thee, sweet Valentine? A song of Spring, while Winter yet is here, Heralding Summer in the silent year, Be thine!

    And for myself canst thou my wish divine? To think my greeting may be in thy sight Welcome as Summer's heralds,---this delight Be mine!

    February 13, 2005 - 11:37 am
    Fat Tuesday Cheap beads and morals Flung to the wind ~ Joshua Hanson

    Food for thought!

    February 15, 2005 - 04:38 am
    yes that does give one pause and something to think about..I would hope that some to the revelery is not an indication of how people behave most of the time....

    Thought I would share some of my favorite love poems from some great poets of the past. Does anyone have one they would like to share??/anna

    She Walks In Beauty 
    by George Gordon, Lord Byron 

    She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

    One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

    And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

    February 15, 2005 - 01:18 pm
    This is part of the Rubaiyat and you can go here if you want to read more. It's a favorite of mine and has so many beautiful passages in it.


    When You and I behind the Veil are past, Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last, Which of our Coming and Departure heeds As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.


    A Moment's Halt--a momentary taste Of BEING from the Well amid the Waste-- And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reach'd The NOTHING it set out from--Oh, make haste!


    Would you that spangle of Existence spend About THE SECRET--quick about it, Friend! A Hair perhaps divides the False from True-- And upon what, prithee, may life depend?

    February 15, 2005 - 02:13 pm
    I was thinking about the love expressed in poetic Song of Solomon in the Hebrew Testament.

    Love these lines: For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

    Was reading it online at Song of Solomon

    February 15, 2005 - 08:04 pm
    To me fair friend, you never can be old,
    For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
    Such seems your beauty still: three winters cold
    Have from the forsets shook their summers' pride,
    Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
    In process of the seasons I have seen,
    Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
    Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green,
    Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand
    Steal from the figure, and no pace perceived;
    So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
    Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived;
    For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
    Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.


    February 16, 2005 - 11:43 am
    For those who still have snow:

    Remaining snow

    a crescent moon slides down

    the cloudless sky

    ~ Carol Purington

    February 16, 2005 - 01:14 pm
    YOU have all shared ..thank you so much ..poetry, especially beautiful poetry is like precious jewels ...to me..and I would prefer them to all the pearls and diamonds in the world...thanks ,anna

    February 17, 2005 - 07:12 am
    For some reason when I hit post my message the poem no longer fits on the page..is anyone else having this problem? anna

    February 17, 2005 - 07:23 am
    This is a poem that makes me smile ..it would be too long a story to tell but it reminds me of the phrase "The lady doth protest too much"

    Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton. 1808–1876 

    I do not love Thee

    I DO not love thee!—no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

    I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why, Whate'er thou dost seems still well done, to me: And often in my solitude I sigh That those I do love are not more like thee!

    I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

    I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

    I know I do not love thee! yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art.

    February 18, 2005 - 12:43 am

    The years have stolen
    all her loveliness,
    Her days are fallen
    in the long wet grass
    like petals broken
    from the lilac blossom,
    when the winds have shaken
    its tangled bosom

    Her youth like a dim
    cathedral lies
    under the seas
    of her life's long dream,
    yet she hears still
    in her heart, sometimes,
    the far, sweet chimes
    of a sunken bell.

    A.R.D. Fairburn

    February 18, 2005 - 01:19 am

    He made a place in his dream for the pines to grow,
    He saw the shadows lengthening, as now
    In the slanting sun they lengthen, the house absorbing
    This still coolness; he saw the dogs asleep
    Each in the shade of its kennel; weathered shafts
    Slanted to the ground, and big wheels resting.

    These giant trees he saw spring from his hand,
    And made a place in the air for them to grow,
    A place for the low white house in their deep shelter;
    But now if he could enter as once he entered
    This cool yard, the dogs would suddenly rise,
    Their barking shatter the dream and the sleepy stillness.

    Nobody remembers him, the woman
    Swinging her pail as she walks beneath great branches,
    Going down through the shade to the cool swept cowshed,
    The man on the dusty roadside bringing the cows;
    They do not know they follow the paths he made
    In a dream once for a man and a woman to follow.

    This is the resting centre, leaf and flower
    Have budded from the dream, the roots have grown,
    The earth has accepted the roots and the burden of wheels,
    All is fulfilled; only the man who saw
    In seedings in his hand this quiet hour,
    Has passed from the dream, passed from the trees long shadows


    February 18, 2005 - 06:55 am
    It is so good to see you here again. The poems you share are always special and these two are certainly special. I almost wept to read them.I loved reading them several times and allowing them to enter into my heart.

    Thanks again for sharing them with us..anna

    February 18, 2005 - 09:57 am
    Where the robins go When winter comes here And brings the snow And here in this poem Perhaps I will see The robins are smart And go to sea Or near in Tampa By the shore And I must wait For spring their Song restored

    Here is a poem about tampa robins

    Tampa Robins

    Sidney Lanier

    The robin laughed in the orange-tree: "Ho, windy North, a fig for thee: While breasts are red and wings are bold And green trees wave us globes of gold, Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me -- Sunlight, song, and the orange-tree. Burn, golden globes in leafy sky, My orange-planets: crimson I Will shine and shoot among the spheres (Blithe meteor that no mortal fears) And thrid the heavenly orange-tree With orbits bright of minstrelsy. If that I hate wild winter's spite -- The gibbet trees, the world in white, The sky but gray wind over a grave -- Why should I ache, the season's slave? I'll sing from the top of the orange-tree `Gramercy, winter's tyranny.' I'll south with the sun, and keep my clime; My wing is king of the summer-time; My breast to the sun his torch shall hold; And I'll call down through the green and gold `Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me, Bestir thee under the orange-tree.'"

    February 18, 2005 - 10:53 am
    Those two poems from Trevor are just absolutely NEAT!

    February 20, 2005 - 10:49 am
    Egret's feathers

    Blown backward by the wind:

    Yellow eye, yellow beak

    ~James G. Brueggemann

    February 21, 2005 - 10:00 am
    SUre can picture that Egret

    February 21, 2005 - 10:23 am
    The crocus are up and the daffodil stems are reaching high , there is a difference in the light and this morning I see the azalea buds are beginning to swell. When I read this poem I thought OH that is me ..a bit early I suppose but ME...anna

    I Meant to Do My Work Today

    I meant to do my work today— But a brown bird sang in the apple-tree, And a butterfly flitted across a field, And all the leaves were calling me.

    And the wind went sighing over the land, Tossing the grasses to and fro, And a rainbow held out its shining hand— So what could I do but laugh and go?

    Richard LeGallienne (1866-1947)

    February 21, 2005 - 01:42 pm
    That's cute, Anna.

    I came across this.  I love it on the day after our blizzard. 

    by Sara Teasdale

    There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, 
    And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

    And frogs in the pools singing at night, 
    And wild plum-trees in tremulous white; 

    Robins will wear their feathery fire 
    Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; 

    And not one will know of the war, not one 
    Will care at last when it done. 

    Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree 
    If mankind perished utterly; 

    And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, 
    Would scarcely know that we were gone.  

    February 21, 2005 - 03:15 pm
    How true that poem is Marj. Each year spring will come wether we humans are here or not. Kinda puts us in our place.


    guzzling the fountain shimmering pigeons

    ~Peter Newton

    February 22, 2005 - 06:36 am
    I can see that in the poems and thoughts you have shared. Anyone else out there ready too? Here is the poem I chose for today ..anna

    Spring Pools

    These pools that, though,in forests, still reflect The total sky almost without defect, And like the flowers beside them chill and shiver, Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone, And yet not out by any brook or river, But up by roots to bring dark foliage on. The trees that have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods - Let them think twice before they use their powers To blot out and drink up and sweep away These flowery waters and these watery flowers From snow that melted only yesterday.

    Robert Frost

    February 22, 2005 - 09:00 am
    I love the Sara Teasdale poem. My cat, Boots, spotted the first robin this morning.

    February 22, 2005 - 09:01 am

    Thank you for the spring poem. I always enjoy a Robert Frost poem. I bought a book of his poems a week or so ago at a used bookstore.

    February 22, 2005 - 01:55 pm
    a peach drops -

    spider silk flows

    from the hummingbird's bill

    ~ Sabine Miller

    Just a touch of Spring

    February 22, 2005 - 05:26 pm
    Thank you for those Spring poems, as I am in my winter doldrums. There was a touch of Spring in the air yesterday, but I know we have a way to go.

    February 23, 2005 - 06:39 am
    Love the Haiku. Hummingbirds are so pretty.

    February 23, 2005 - 01:52 pm
    evening bell

    swallows flying through

    the deep tone

    ~ Giselle Maya

    I love the imagery in this one.

    February 23, 2005 - 08:32 pm

    Kevin Freeman
    February 24, 2005 - 05:57 am
    DUST OF SNOW by Bob Frost

    The way a crow 
    Shook down on me 
    The dust of snow 
    From a hemlock tree 

    Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

    February 24, 2005 - 11:22 am
    These poems are beautiful. Thank you.

    February 24, 2005 - 01:52 pm
    These are some cat haikus from undisclosed recipients:

    1. The food in my bowl

    is old, and more to the point

    Contains no tuna.

    2. So you want to play.

    Will I claw at dancing string?

    Your ankle's closer.

    3. There's no dignity

    In being sick -- which is why

    I don't tell you where.

    4. Seeking solitude

    Iam locked in the closet

    For once I need You.

    February 25, 2005 - 01:59 pm
    And had to laugh at the cat ones,,,,they remind me of the many cats who brought me joy over the years..

    Kevin I was going to email a welcome to you but will do it here ..hope you will return often

    My dog< Katie, and I have been under the weather for a few days and today I took her to the vet! Some blood work should tell us tomorrow if she has something serious but today her feeding is restricted and she is eating a lamb and rice dish I have always made for my dogs when they require a bland diet.

    Anyway I knew when I thought of sharing a poem it would have to be about dogs..Which doesnt mean I prefer dogs over other pets it is just that right now that is all I have and I am grateful for her in a hundred different ways..anna


    Rudyard Kipling

    I have done mostly what most men do, And pushed it out of my mind; But I can't forget, if I wanted to, Four-Feet trotting behind.

    Day after day, the whole day through -- Wherever my road inclined -- Four-feet said, "I am coming with you!" And trotted along behind.

    Now I must go by some other round, -- Which I shall never find -- Somewhere that does not carry the sound Of Four-Feet trotting behind.

    February 25, 2005 - 02:19 pm
    5. Tiny can, dumped in

    Plastic bowl. Presentation,

    One star; service: none.

    6. Am I in your way?

    You seem to have it backwards:

    This pillow is taken.


    Your mouth is moving;

    Up and down, emitting noise.

    I've lost interest


    The dog wags his tail,

    Seeking approval. See mine?

    Different message.

    February 27, 2005 - 01:34 am
    The Cat

    I like you cat,
    My wild cat.
    Or am I just imagining that?

    Perhaps I'm yours-
    I'm your what?
    Your friend? Your foe?

    You do not like your food too hot,
    Nor do you like it cold

    I know.
    You don't need words
    To tell me so

    You tell me this,
    You tell me that,
    You are in fact
    A clever cat.

    Your body language is sublime
    You act, I talk
    And all is fine.

    Please try to be a patient cat,
    I'm busy, doing this and that.
    I'll let you have my summer hat
    To sleep in.

    Malwina Z. Schwieters.

    February 27, 2005 - 07:04 am
    So like cats all of them...my daughter once wrote a poem about a cat talking and the cat called her Her people person..it was so funny and true as any cat lover will attest. Everyone who has been owned by a pet will tell each one was different...unique, special ..

    My poor Katie is spending the weekend at the vets and I worry as she is now 10 years old. Every large breed dog we have ever owned we lost when they were about 10...so I am anxious...I thought after seeing the vet on Friday she would get better but a night of her in misery and me in anxiety and we were back early SAT am..The vet seemed to think she has the flu..Now I never knew a dog could get the flu..I am hoping tomorrow the vet will call and tell me I can bring her home, she is well.. In the meantime I am reading poems about dogs...anna

    His Apologies

    Master, this is Thy Servant. He is rising eight weeks old. He is mainly Head and Tummy. His legs are uncontrolled. But Thou hast forgiven his ugliness, and settled him on Thy knee... Art Thou content with Thy Servant? He is very comfy with Thee.

    Master, behold a Sinner! He hath committed a wrong. He hath defiled Thy Premises through being kept in too long. Wherefore his nose has been rubbed in the dirt, and his self-respect has been bruised. Master, pardon Thy Sinner, and see he is properly loosed.

    Master-again Thy Sinner! This that was once Thy Shoe, He has found and taken and carried aside, as fitting matter to chew. Now there is neither blacking nor tongue, and the Housemaid has us in tow. Master, remember Thy Servant is young, and tell her to let him go!

    Master, extol Thy Servant, he has met a most Worthy Foe! There has been fighting all over the Shop – and into the Shop also! Till cruel umbrellas parted the strife (or I might have been chok- ing him yet), But Thy Servant has had the Time of his Life – and now shall we call on the vet?

    Master, behold Thy Servant! Strange children came to play, And because they fought to caress him, Thy Servant wentedst away. But now that the Little Beasts have gone, he has returned to see (Brushed – with his Sunday collar on) what they left over from tea.

    . . . . . .

    Master, pity Thy Servant! He is deaf and three parts blind. He cannot catch Thy Commandments. He cannot read Thy Mind. Oh, leave him not to his loneliness; nor make him that kitten's scorn. He hath had none other God than Thee since the year that he was born.

    Lord, look down on Thy Servant! Bad things have come to pass. There is no heat in the midday sun, nor health in the wayside grass. His bones are full of an old disease – his torments run and increase. Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a quick release!

    - Rudyard Kipling, 1932

    February 27, 2005 - 02:19 pm
    I'm sorry to hear about your dog. I know I was shocked when my vet told me last year that my cat had the flu. I didn't know they could get it. He seemed to think that she got it from me, but I didn' have the flu. According to the vet I probably had the germs and transferred them to my cat when I touched her. She coughed and sneezed just humans and she sleep alot (even more than normal)and drank plenty of liquids. Now which one of us has the bigger brain!

    9. My brain: walnut-sized. Yours: largest among primates Yet, who leaves for work

    10. Most problems can be Ignored. The more difficult Ones can be slept through

    11. My affection is conditional Don't stand up, It's your lap I love

    12. Cat's can't steal the breath Of children. But if my tail's Pulled again, I'll learn.

    February 27, 2005 - 02:37 pm
    Just now caught up on a few day's reading. Those cat haikus are just precious.

    Cold, snow on the ground, forecast: more snow this week!!!!

    Let us know how your dog fares, Anna. Hope it can be well.


    February 27, 2005 - 07:15 pm
    Oh, Anna, we know what you are going through. Hope that there will be better news soon, and that your anxiety will be eased.

    It is sad that our pets have such a short life time compared to ours, but we could not do without a faithful friend always near, could we ? ++ Trevor.

    February 28, 2005 - 11:13 am
    Some things make me break into (ve-ery bad) poetry:

    Spring is coming!

    Today the first portent--

    Girl scout cookies.

    Pardon me while I go eat a thin mint.

    March 1, 2005 - 08:50 am
    Those Girl Scouts are everywhere here!!!!

    March 1, 2005 - 11:33 am
    I love thin mints!! Just ate two. I have the Double Dutch chocolate too. Yummy!! Love the Girl Scouts.

    March 1, 2005 - 02:33 pm
    That's no fair. You guys are making me hungry. I wonder if there are any Girl Scouts in my neck of the woods.

    13. I don't mind being Teased, any more than you mind A skin graft or two.

    14. So you call this thing Your "cat carrier." I call these my "blades of death."

    15. Toy mice, dancing yarn Meowing sounds. I'm convinced: Your an idiot.

    I know my cat thinks I'm an idiot. The last time I went to vet I had to put the carrier on it's side and dunk the cat upside down into it. My cat was not amused and I have the scars to prove it from those "blades of death."

    March 1, 2005 - 07:54 pm
    My dog is still at the vets ..and I am so ..I am sorry but am feeling so low...she is such a good companion and since my hearing is poor she is more than a pet she is my good companion and friend..The vet called this am to tell me she was better and I could bring her home tomorrow ..later I found a message on my voice mail ..she again was having problems and they will do a sonogram of her pancreas tomorrow since they seem to think that is the problem ..which upsets me even more since my last dog died at 10 of pancreatic cancer.. I am sorry to unload on you and I have no poem ..but who else can I tell all this to???anna

    March 1, 2005 - 08:05 pm
    ANNA: of couse you should tell us. We will hold you and your companion in our hearts and prayers.

    March 2, 2005 - 06:39 am
    Anna, I am praying that your companion will get well soon. Praying for a miracle. I love my Boots. I know how you feel. JoanK is right. You should tell us.

    March 3, 2005 - 02:14 pm
    retired mime

    his old dog sauntering along

    in sync with him

    ~ Gretchen Graft Batz

    Dogs make such good companions. I lost my dog the same day I lost my husband. I hope your dog will get well soon. I'm sure he misses you as much as you miss him.

    March 4, 2005 - 11:28 am
    reaching the top of the mountain -


    the click of a laptop

    ~Hayat Abuza

    I just thought this one was an usual haiku but the combination works for me.

    March 4, 2005 - 12:34 pm
    for Anna to let you know that her beloved Katie died, hope this helps Annafair. I have always liked Kipling, and know poetry often helps.

    The Power of the Dog"

    By Rudyard Kipling

    There is sorrow enough in the natural way
    From men and women to fill our day;
    And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
    Why do we always arrange for more?
    Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

    Buy a pup and your money will buy
    Love unflinching that cannot lie --
    Perfect passion and worship fed
    By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
    Nevertheless it is hardly fair To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

    When the fourteen years which Nature permits
    Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
    And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
    To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
    Then you will find -- it's your own affair -- But . . . you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

    When the body that lived at your single will,
    With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
    When the spirit that answered your every mood
    Is gone -- wherever it goes -- for good,
    You will discover how much you care, And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

    We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
    When it comes to burying Christian clay.
    Our loves are not given, but only lent,
    At compound interest of cent per cent.
    Though it is not always the case, I believe,
    That the longer we've kept'em, the more do we grieve;

    For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
    A short-time loan is as bad as a long --
    So why in -- Heaven (before we are there) Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

    Hang in there, Annafair.


    March 5, 2005 - 10:08 am
    physics class

    even the speed of light

    moves slowly

    ~Steven Bleich

    Anna, my prayers are with you. May you remember Katie's companionship and find peace.

    March 6, 2005 - 07:18 am
    But I do thank you one and all for your thoughtfulness and caring and anneo for the poem by Kipling..he did catch it just right..I wrote a poem this am which I will share ,, anna
    Goodbye to Katie-Star

    It was hard to say goodbye For you were my ears that Could no longer hear The announcer that said Someone was at the door The nodding toward the Ringing phone so I knew Someone was calling too The companion in my walks My protector when alone You were so intelligent Understanding a vocabulary Of words like ride, car, outside The night you told me you Needed to leave I saw Your shadow leaving in my dreams And when the vet agreed you Wanted to go , you looked at me And said goodbye Now in dreams I see you Your tail a golden plume Waving and saying thank you But it is I who thank for your time For your gift of love And whisper in my heart A sad goodbye..

    Anna Alexander 3/6/05 ©

    Jackie Lynch
    March 6, 2005 - 08:29 am
    Anna, that is just beautiful.

    March 6, 2005 - 09:37 am
    on my palm

    a lifeline wrinkled

    with future deadlines

    ~ Zinovy Vayman

    I liked this little poem - even when we're old and wrinkle we still have future deadlines. Anna, I loved your poem - thanks!

    March 7, 2005 - 05:39 am

    I am very sorry to hear about Katie. Your tribute in poetry to Katie is truly beautiful.

    March 7, 2005 - 06:00 am
    Anna, I am so so sorry to hear of your loss of Katie. Thanks for sharing your inmost feelings thru the poem. And make sure to write us of yourself as time goeso along.

    My heart & eyes weep for you, Marj

    March 7, 2005 - 07:15 am
    I know as poets and lovers of poetry you know and understand how the deepest feelings in life need to be said Tomorrow I am going to think of spring but today I still have a poem to share..Please bear with me..anna

    Grief comes in little bits And eats away the day I am weighed by all the grief That life displays Can one grief be deeper Can one equate A love lost and gone away Whose voice is dead To all the world But still resounds Within my head ? Does each new grief Push you back to A loss that was so deep I think it does Even when a beloved pet Leaves you now to weep It adds to the loss of When you left me in your sleep And forlorn I lay My heart feels strange And burdened by that ancient grief. Again I weep.

    Anna Alexander 3/7/05©

    March 7, 2005 - 07:42 am

    This poem is a keeper too. These lines, to me, are so special.

    Does each new grief
    Push you back to
    A loss that was so deep

    Thank you for sharing your sorrow. Sorrow unifies us.

    March 7, 2005 - 11:31 am
    Thank you, Anna, for sharing your grief with us. It is a true gift.

    March 7, 2005 - 02:33 pm
    Awakened early

    by a wrong number...such a

    lovely spring morning!

    ~ Renge

    March 8, 2005 - 06:20 am
    Beauutiful Anna, and thanks for allowing us to be a part of your life.


    March 8, 2005 - 09:16 am
    Stirring my coffee. The warm sunlight

    spills softly on the concrete floor

    ~ Federico C. Peralta

    March 8, 2005 - 09:34 am

    I like this haiku. I love coffee and a quiet space in the morning.

    March 8, 2005 - 10:23 am
    Anna,I would like to offer a poem in memory of "Katie" and for your sorrow . The poem is by Robinson Jeffers written(1941) upon the loss of his dog and companion 'Haige"

    The House Dog's Grave

    I've changed my ways little;I cannot now Run with you in the evenings along the shore, Except in a kind of dream; and you, if you dream for a moment, You see me there.

    So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door Where I used to scratch to go out or in, And you'd soon open; leave on the kitchen floor The marks of my drinking-pan.

    I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do On the warm stone, Nor at the foot of your bed; no, all the nights through I live alone.

    But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet Outside your window where firelight so often plays, And where you sit to - read and I fear often grieving for me- Every night your lamplight lies on my place.

    You, man and women, live so long, it is hard To think of you ever dying, A little dog would get tired, living so long. I hope that when you are lying

    Under the ground like me your lives will appear As good and joyful as mine.

    No,dears that's too much hope: you are not so well cares for As I have been.

    And never have known the passonate undivided Fidelities that I knew. Your minds are perhaps too active,too many-sided... But to me you were true.

    You where never masters. but friends. I was your friend. I loved you well,and was loved. Deep love endures To the end and far past the end. If this is my end, I am not lonely, I am not afraid. I am still yours.

    Poem by Robinson Jeffers_ Selected Poems

    March 8, 2005 - 03:00 pm
    Wonderful poem for a wonderful dog.


    March 8, 2005 - 06:55 pm
    Thank you so much for your warm and loving thoughts and that poem touches me so , it moved me to tears as anyone who has loves and lost a dog would too. I am using someone else's computer since mine seems to have crashed I am not sure what is wrong with it but we had a storm today and I was unable to connect for several hours so I have no idea if the storm is to blame..I will be back when I can ,...love and God Bless to all ,,,anna

    March 9, 2005 - 10:57 am
    Light mist around us

    a faint green

    where the maple was

    ~ Anne M. Ogle (Scrawler)

    March 9, 2005 - 12:17 pm
    That's neat Scrawler -- it really evokes a picture.

    March 9, 2005 - 05:07 pm
    When I look out to the tops of the trees I see a green mist and it tells me even though it is still winter that spring is lurking and will come. I chose a poem that certainly decribes yesterday's storm It RAINED snow for seven hours. Nothing on the roads as the earth was warm from the nearly 70 degree temperature of the preceding day..but on the bushes it looked like they were covered with white blossoms.

    I must tell you a pair of cardinals are already house hunting and today a friend was here and heard my two owls that come each year, and the mourning doves who stay all winter and look like blossoms on the trees are looking in my shrubs for a place to nest..

    A number of people lost power since the wind was so fierce and I know my yard is full of dead branches culled from the trees,. So I share this poem by Johann von Goethe written more than a hundred years ago, anna

    THE snow-flakes fall in showers,

    The time is absent still, When all Spring's beauteous flowers, When all Spring's beauteous flowers

    Our hearts with joy shall fill.

    With lustre false and fleeting

    The sun's bright rays are thrown; The swallow's self is cheating: The swallow's self is cheating,

    And why? He comes alone!

    Can I e'er feel delighted

    Alone, though Spring is near? Yet when we are united, Yet when we are united,

    The Summer will be here.


    Barbara St. Aubrey
    March 9, 2005 - 11:45 pm
    It has been quite awhile since I visited poetry and just as long since I wrote anything - my life goes in chunks and the last chunk was devoted to my kids two of whom made major moves last year, and my new passion with the Lower Colorado River Corridor Partnership and work - worked a lot last last year -- well I am still behind on lots including some major problems with the installation of new duct work that is still not right so it may be awhile before I am back full time -

    But all said my youngest grandboy - Cade is 10 and wrote this poem that he called tonight to tell me he was sending by e-mail - he wrote another limerick that was OK but this - oh I just thought this was so special. I did suggest to him two of the commas but the rest is all his - I was blown away --
    Blue is the sky,
    the sweet essence of water.
    Blue is the rushing of waves at noon.
    Blue is a berry,
    freshly picked from the bush.
    Blue is cool
    and sends a shiver through your body
    as you, touch it.
    Blue is the sky, at that time
    between day and night.
    Blue is the spring that trickles down
    to nurture everyone.
    Blue is a plum whose gushy substance
    is itching for a bite.
    Blue is the rain that comes down
    from the great blue.

    March 10, 2005 - 12:40 am
    Barbara that is mind blowing for any age and for a 10 year old quite remarkable . Locally it seems they are offering workshops for young people in poetry ..I ran into one of my fellow poets with his granddaughter and she had just left one and showed me her poem ..Like Cade's it was very good and original I am impressed with both..thanks for sharing ...and good to see you here ..anna

    March 10, 2005 - 05:35 am
    He is talented, and blue is my favourite colour.

    Nice to see you again.

    Anna, thats kind of special, even today


    March 10, 2005 - 09:37 am
    a wisp of fog descends

    - with it a deer

    as silently

    ~ Brent Partridge

    This poem reminds of the other day when Mt. St. Helen's blew. I fell asleep and I woke to my cat racing around the apartment and landing on top of the refrigerator. While I was asking her what her problem was I realized that it was strangely quiet - no animal or bird sounds at all! It was only a few minutes later that my TV was squawking about the eruption.

    Barbara and Anna I love your poems.

    March 10, 2005 - 10:09 am
    Scrawler- Ms Kitty is one wise kitty. No wonder she flew on top of the frig. I was wondering how you were faring that day. Didn't realize that wild life reacted with silence.

    All the haikus are so great.

    Lovely poem about snow seeming to fall like rain, Anna. We've had a couple of those kinds of snows this winter.

    March 10, 2005 - 10:29 am
    I love that haiku, Ann.

    Cade's poem is amazing. I am sure you and his parents will encourage him to write more -- he obviously has a poet's soul.

    March 11, 2005 - 06:15 am
    Hi Barbara,

    I loved your grandson's poem. I especially enjoyed the mention of plums and berries. He is very talented.

    March 11, 2005 - 09:54 am
    What a good poem, I said,

    not knowing it went on

    to the next page.

    ~ Victor R. Ocampo

    March 11, 2005 - 12:37 pm
    Chuckled at that one, Scrawler!!!!!

    March 11, 2005 - 12:40 pm
    Poem in Your Pocket website. I just came across it. And the poem There is a poem within a graphic so you must go there to see it!!!


    It's just plain COOL!!!!!!

    March 11, 2005 - 12:59 pm
    What a "COOL" site for the weekend! Thanks, Marj.

    Barbara St. Aubrey
    March 11, 2005 - 03:26 pm
    what a neat idea - a poem in a pocket - thanks for all the kind words about Cade's poem - I have copied them all and pasted them on an e-mail for him - I know we are all proud of our grands - but I loved that bit about the plum also Hats.

    March 12, 2005 - 09:31 am
    I was thinking of walks on the beach when I came across this one:

    early morning walk

    the boy runs ahead

    to scatter the gulls

    ~Kay Grimnes

    March 13, 2005 - 08:17 am
    Spring isnt here but I feel a need to straighten things , to clean out a closet to sort through the debris of my life..So instead of being here that is what I have been doing..

    I was so impressed with Cade's poem I checked out a first grade class on the web and am posting a poem found there

    I loved the Pocket Poem link that is neat ...here is the poem I found to share..anna

    If sunlight fell like snowflakes gleaming yellow and so bright we could build a sunman we could have a sunball fight. We could watch the sunflakes drifting in the sky We could go sleighing in the middle of July through sundrifts and sunbanks we could ride a sunmobile and we could touch sunflakes- I wonder how they'd feel.

    -Frank Asch


    March 13, 2005 - 09:42 am
    ice out of the pond -

    newly budded maple saplings

    on the beaver lodge

    ~ Evelyn Lang

    Barbara St. Aubrey
    March 13, 2005 - 11:45 am
    The cherry tree blooms
    on the roadside to freedom
    upheaval blushes

    March 13, 2005 - 11:52 am
    Barbara's grandson sounds like one who would like the Sunflake poem. I liked his also.

    I like the Sunflakes, myself.

    March 14, 2005 - 10:56 am
    next in line

    at the DMV waiting

    for freedom

    Seth Skora (high school student)

    March 15, 2005 - 06:04 am
    Raised in an Irish Catholic Neighborhood , although it was only the Irish ancestors I could claim St Patrick's Day was A BIG DAY..the local pub offered free corned beef and cabbage, green carnations for ladies and lots of green beer.My father would stop on his way home, it was a bus stop because those who owned cars were few, He would have his brew and then bring home a plate of corned beef and the green carnations for my mother and me..

    So today I am sharing a poem from my favorite Irish poet .William Butler Yeats, and all of his poems are gifts to those who love and enjoy poetry.. anna

    The Song of Wandering Aengus

    I WENT out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout.

    When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air.

    Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

    March 15, 2005 - 07:30 am
    I love the 'SUNFLAKES' poem. The thought of a "sunman" makes me giggle. So creative.

    March 15, 2005 - 07:32 am
    The Song of Wandering Aengus by William Butler Yeats is beautiful. Thank you for sharing it, Anna.

    March 15, 2005 - 09:44 am
    spring morning;

    frost on the window

    melting into dew

    ~ Gerard John Conforti

    March 16, 2005 - 08:22 am
    I hope that is true..this morning when I looked out my bedroom window I saw the dogwood blossoms swelling, the daffodils a yellowing and my pansy faces smiling..but the sky is gray and drear and they say we may have snow ..where is spring this year?

    Sorry sometimes I think in a sort of rhyme.

    I posted a poem the other day by a first grade child .today I post one from an elderly lady .that seems fair...anna

    Four Leaf Clover 
    by Ella Higginson (born in 1861)

    I know a place where the sun is like gold and the cherries bloom forth in the snow; And down underneath is the loveliest place, Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

    One leaf is for FAITH, And one is for HOPE, And one is for LOVE you know; And GOD put another in for LUCK: If you search you will find where they grow.

    But you must have FAITH, And you must have HOPE, You must LOVE and be strong and so... If you work and you wait, You will find the place Where the FOUR-LEAF CLOVERS grow!

    Sorry but it leaves out her age .Back later with that ...

    March 16, 2005 - 09:51 am
    Love that poem Anna, especially the last stanza. Here's my haiku for the day because we have the first rain in almost 40 days:

    evening shower

    the moon dripping

    from each leaf.

    March 16, 2005 - 11:55 am
    Scrawler: I love your haiku. I love all poems, but haiku the most. I think because they force you to get down to the essence of things.

    I once made a great discovery about four leaf clovers. I told a friend from India that four leaf clovers were considered lucky. She at once went to her yard and found a bunch. She said you can find them anywhere if you just look. I went home and looked in my yard, and sure enough, there they were. I think it is the looking that is lucky, not the clovers.

    March 17, 2005 - 07:05 am
    Sure and be'gorrah 'tis St Patrick's Day and I can hear my Irish grandmother give her usual "pronouncement" on this. day."Weel there are them that 'are Irish on St Patrick's Day and them that wish they ware and them that say they 'are" It is hard to write just what she said..But I can hear the brogue in my mind and hope you can too.

    I will just leave you with a small Irish Blessing ..and a word from a friend who shall be nameless who sent me an email and said "It takes a saint to live with an Irish lady" AND A POX on him..LOL

    May you always have 
    Walls for the winds, 
    A roof for the rain, 
    Tea beside the fire, 
    Laughter to cheer you, 
    Those you love near you, 
    And all your heart might desire!

    March 17, 2005 - 07:16 am
    Oh Scrawler young people say they can tell seniors by the TV we watch and the weather channel is one they always mention. Yesterday it was about the rain coming into the northwest and how much it was needed. I just know how it must have felt since we had 3 years of drought here and lost plants and trees weakened by lack of water toppled in a good wind. So let us hope you get the rain you need but not a flood..that is sort of an Irish Blessing and THANK YOU FOR YOUR HAIKU and for the reason you could write it ...

    I too love Haiku's but find I dont do well with terse verse..I am too talky ..but like like Joank says it gets you down to basics and that is GOOD.. anna

    March 17, 2005 - 09:36 am
    among the crocuses

    a black top hat

    where the snowman stood

    ~ Alan Pizzarelli

    Top of the morning to You All! Yes, Anna we were grateful for the small among of rain that fell - only about an inch, but they say it might storm this weekend. Like you I'm hoping that as the snow melts in the mountains it won't flood the valley. As for today it's overcast now, but looks like it will be in the high 60s later on.

    March 17, 2005 - 06:54 pm
    Today I celebrate my "designated birthday," a gift from my Irish father, and the 5th one I have received since I thought I would never see another. On Sunday I will celebrate five years from my "terminal, inoperable" lung cancer diagnosis, a few moments in my life burned forever into my brain. This is a very rough poem I have begun in celebration of this astounding anniversary.

    Receiver of Miracles
    Karen Weston,17 March 2005

    "No hope, and very little time,” she said.
    She said, “Spend your money.” I could not dissemble — I cried.
    I cried; stung, yet impressed by her coldness and brutality.
    Brutality and lack of compassion reigned, so angrily I replied.

    “You don't know me and you don’t know,” (I took one tortured breath,)
    Breath sputtered out, “You don’t know what God has in store for me,”
    Me, spitting words just for the sake of argument, for I had doubts…
    Doubts about my willingness to fight impending death.

    There would be myriad times when I would have those doubts,
    Doubts about continuing the fight, doubts about what lay ahead.
    Ahead was a blackness I could not discern,
    Discerning only that “death” approached, which meant I would be dead.

    I prayed not for healing, but for courage and comfort;
    Comfort came, but I knew the final choice was not mine.
    Mine but to hope that prayer could slow the course of death.
    Death faltered, but could hope alone stop the advancing line?

    In the end, it was not doctors who returned my life;
    Life I counted lost as further on that painful path I trod.
    Trod however reluctantly, and at the last, medicine could not save me.
    Me, receiver then of miracles, through faithful friends, a tiny boy, and his friend, God.

    March 18, 2005 - 10:49 am
    Karen! Thanks for sharing that poem here. Gave me goosebumps galore. What an astounding life event. For one, I am thankful you are here to tell it; and happy for you that life is yours.


    March 18, 2005 - 11:00 am
    Your poem was both eloquent and deeply moving. I am touched by your faith, by your courage and determination ..and also give thanks you can celebrate five years of life,.

    My husband didnt live five years but we too believed a six month sentence wasnt the end..FOR as you say doctors do not decide only God can say..Two and 1/2 year later death did come knocking and this time it stayed but still even then death did not win.

    Thank you again for sharing your pain and your triumph..GOD LOVE YOU < anna

    March 18, 2005 - 11:12 am
    Looking for a poem about spring I looked for the usual things, the grass become green, the crocus and daffodils showing gold across my yard, the faint cloud of color that tinges the trees .so faint it seems a fog ..and yet it wasnt there two weeks ago. and we still have raining snow..but I found a poem that spoke to me..34 years ago this small neighborhood hidden by trees that had stood for 25-100 years in the country also rang with the sound of children. Families came here to give the children this great area to grow in..and they did ,, grew up and moved away leaving a neighborhood of aging seniors. but for the last two years we have seen an exodus of seniors and the new families have children and while I cant hear their voices I can see and enjoy thier joy. So I share a poem that really hit me this am..amma


    The kids are out-of-doors once more; The heavy leggins that they wore, The winter caps that covered ears Are put away, and no more tears Are shed because they cannot go Until they're bundled up just so. No more she wonders when they're gone If they have put their rubbers on; No longer are they hourly told To guard themselves against a cold; Bareheaded now they romp and run Warmed only by the kindly sun. She's put their heavy clothes away And turned the children out to play, And all the morning long they race Like madcaps round about the place. The robins on the fences sing A gayer song of welcoming, And seems as though they had a share In all the fun they're having there. The wrens and sparrows twitter, too, A louder and a noisier crew, As though it pleased them all to see The youngsters out of doors and free. Outdoors they scamper to their play With merry din the livelong day, And hungrily they jostle in The favor of the maid to win; Then, armed with cookies or with cake, Their way into the yard they make, And every feathered playmate comes To gather up his share of crumbs. The finest garden that I know Is one where little children grow, Where cheeks turn brown and eyes are bright, And all is laughter and delight. Oh, you may brag of gardens fine, But let the children race in mine; And let the roses, white and red, Make gay the ground whereon they tread. And who for bloom perfection seeks, Should mark the color on their cheeks; No music that the robin spouts Is equal to their merry shouts; There is no foliage to compare With youngsters' sun-kissed, tousled hair: Spring's greatest joy beyond a doubt Is when it brings the children out.

    Author: Edgar Guest

    March 18, 2005 - 11:50 am
    I loved both poems. The first one brought back alot of memories for me too. When my husband came home from Vietnam, they said he wouldn't live through the night and he lived for 25 years. Years I wouldn't have missed for the world even if they were full of lots of ups and downs.


    distant thunder

    the neighbor's dog

    scratches at the door

    ~ W.F. Owen

    March 19, 2005 - 10:54 am
    rainy day

    finally unfurled

    the roll of old faxes.

    ~Anna Tambour

    March 19, 2005 - 11:22 am
    Thank, thank you Zinnia. I will celebrate my five year anniversary in a few months, and I will surely read your poem again then. Ungrateful wretch that I am, I had almost forgotten those days, and how I felt that every day was a gift.

    Our neighborhood, too, has turned. The children who grew up with mine have left, ad a new group will be playing outside in a few weeks when our Spring comes. The front of my house is on an enclosed court which is the favorite gathering place for the children. The back faces woods and fields, the favorite gathering place for birds and deer. What riches.

    March 20, 2005 - 11:10 am
    Desert moonlight -

    my breathing

    the only sound

    ~ Joe Cepuran

    March 21, 2005 - 07:13 am
    My daffodils are BLOOMING and over the years the few I planted have now become a whole phalanx of golden blooms and so I post again this familiar and loved poem ..anna

     The Daffodils 

    By William Wordsworth

    I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

    Continous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

    The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed - and gazed - but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

    For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

    March 21, 2005 - 09:01 am
    I'm afraid all my daffoils are gone. I either burned them or froze them because they bloomed in January and February instead of waiting until March and April. Our warm weather fooled them.


    the clock ticks


    ~ Mathew Cheney

    March 21, 2005 - 09:17 am
    Lovely poem --- worth visiting at least once a year (or more).

    March 21, 2005 - 05:31 pm
    Good read tonite. Thanks to all.

    I've never read that one about the chilren playing before. Rather neat.

    March 22, 2005 - 11:03 am
    no moon -

    no dream

    long night

    ~Pud Houstoun

    March 22, 2005 - 11:57 am
    Not only are my daffodils blooming but yesterday I noticed the trees have a rosey haze and from my windows I could see they are minature leaves unfolding...Any way here is the poem I chose for today..enjoy..anna


    by Alfred Lord Tennyson

    Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow.

    Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown'd in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song.

    Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail, On winding stream of distant sea;

    Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood, that live their lives.

    From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest.

    March 22, 2005 - 09:50 pm

    We may believe
    in the souls continuance
    the creative mind's
    long term effects
    But the flesh has its own immortality

    our bodies share
    the elements and chemicals
    that brought about
    the genesis of stars;
    how can such celestial matter
    be destroyed in death?

    imagine if you can
    our dust our ashes
    gathered up from earth and air
    into the universe itself
    and there united with
    our cosmic ancestors

    light years from now
    you my dear, and I could meet
    as molecules of stellar dust;
    although we would not know it
    you, perhaps
    and parts of me will merge
    where white hot stars
    are daisies
    in galactic fields.

    Mavis Wentworth

    Jan Sand
    March 22, 2005 - 10:04 pm
    Here is another viewpoint on Spring

    Edna St. Vincent Millay
    To what purpose, April, do you return again?
    Beauty is not enough.
    You can no longer quiet me with the redness
    Of little leaves opening stickily.
    I know what I know.
    The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
    The spikes of the crocus.
    The smell of the earth is good.
    It is apparent that there is no death.
    But what does that signify?
    Not only under ground are the brains of men
    Eaten by maggots.
    Life in itself
    Is nothing,
    An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
    It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
    Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

    March 23, 2005 - 07:26 am
    Yesterday, while cleaning up winter's debris in the garden I came across the first, and surely the shyest, little violet in bloom. It reminded me of this poem by Rosetti.

    O wind, where have you been, 
    That you blow so sweet? 
    Among the violets 
    Which blossom at your feet. 

    The honeysuckle waits For Summer and for heat But violets in the chilly Spring Make the turf so sweet.
    Christina (Georgina) Rossetti (1830--94)

    March 23, 2005 - 11:39 am
    from house to home

    the postman

    shaking off the rain

    ~ Giovanni Malito

    While the rest of you wallow in the new spring, we here in the Pacific Northwest are grateful for the Rain! It might dampen our Easter egg hunts, but at least it will help with the drought we are expecting.

    Love your poems 3Kings and JanSand and yours too Anna.

    Jan Sand
    March 23, 2005 - 12:09 pm

    Dancing with the wind
    The leaves beckon to participate,
    Join the whirling company
    And fly with them to levitate
    Up through the branches,
    In between the the shaking twigs
    And into chill, clear, free blue air,
    Tumbling up and down in zigs
    And zags, competing with the kites and crows,
    Touching heights no more earthbound to astound
    The sleepy passengers on silver jets
    Who stare at me with open mouths and eyes all round.

    March 23, 2005 - 12:30 pm
    Jan Sand,

    I really appreciated the spring poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. A sad way and another way to see spring. I can feel her pain coming through the words.


    I enjoyed your "postman" haiku by Giovanni Malito.

    Haven't read all the poems yet.

    March 24, 2005 - 07:09 am
    Each is so special and I thank everyone for sharing ...yesterday thunderstorms were predicted all day so I just shut my computer down and did other things.I know when spring is here and the thunderstorms bring thier wind and rain and shake the world about...

    What ever happened to kite flying in March? My first beau and I used to meet in March in the large lot behind the Moose Hut and fly our kites. Then we built our own ..you could buy kits and we would use newspapers and paste of flour and water to make our kites..mother would give us pieces of fabric for the tails and how wonderful it was to see them soar! Does anyone fly kites anymore?

    Here is the poem I chose for today ..for the child in all of us..who always wondered about the wind...anna

    A.A. Milne - Wind on the Hill 

    No one can tell me, Nobody knows, Where the wind comes from, Where the wind goes.

    It's flying from somewhere As fast as it can, I couldn't keep up with it, Not if I ran.

    But if I stopped holding The string of my kite, It would blow with the wind For a day and a night.

    And then when I found it, Wherever it blew, I should know that the wind Had been going there too.

    So then I could tell them Where the wind goes... But where the wind comes from Nobody knows.

    March 24, 2005 - 08:35 am
    Thank you, Anna. I enjoyed the A.A. Milne poem. To this day, I love kites and wonder about the coming and going of the wind.

    March 24, 2005 - 09:41 am
    The old grey fence in rain -

    half-standing, half-fallen

    where we all walk through

    ~Jason Heroux

    March 24, 2005 - 11:02 am
    Wonderful, Anna and Scrawler.

    I love A.A. Milne. I started to read him to by grandson when he was still a baby, and he loves him too.

    March 24, 2005 - 04:35 pm
    ANNA Kite flying seems to disappeared these last few years. Here the Chinese community has a kite day every year, but nobody else seems to bother. Pity. ++ Trevor

    March 25, 2005 - 10:34 am
    hell-fire sermon

    the preacher pauses to wipe

    a watery eye.

    ~Maurice Tasnier

    March 25, 2005 - 02:37 pm
    I enjoyed all the poems today. Haven't read here in awhile.

    March 26, 2005 - 10:50 am
    Colonial church...

    presence of those who worshipped

    in these pews before

    ~ Robert E. Major

    March 27, 2005 - 05:40 am
    Seasons are funny things ..eleven years ago my husband died on March 24th and I remember how beautiful it was ..Spring had arrived early and everything was in bloom ..The azaleas were in thier glory ..lighting up the yards, My tulips were there and my plum tree had on its lacy gown..the birds at my feeders were ready for nesting and it was just the loveliest time and now it seems winter will not leave,,and rain and dreary skies are all I see..so I found a poem about April ...anna


    In April

    James Hearst

    This I saw on an April day: Warm rain spilt from a sun-lined cloud, A sky-flung wave of gold at evening, And a cock pheasant treading a dusty path Shy and proud.

    And this I found in an April field: A new white calf in the sun at noon, A flash of blue in a cool moss bank, And tips of tulips promising flowers To a blue-winged loon.

    And this I tried to understand As I scrubbed the rust from my brightening plow: The movement of seed in furrowed earth, And a blackbird whistling sweet and clear From a green-sprayed bough.

    March 27, 2005 - 05:52 am
    I am sorry to hear that kite flying is disappearing everywhere. The news paper and TV news had some information about a new PLAY STATION and I have to confess I dont know the OLD Play Station ..but it seems it is a computer type of thing that people can play games on..any way there was a picture of a young boy with his dad first in line waiting for the store that was selling them to open so he would be able to buy one for $250.00 ! That almost made me weep! It may be a fun thing to do but sitting indoors when warm weather is near seems wrong to me and we do have an area where you can fly a kite..34 years ago the newspaper would show families there flying kites...now we are showing people waiting to buy a 250 dollar gizmo...I believe my age is showing..anna

    March 27, 2005 - 09:12 am
    Have to agree with you about the "gizzmo," Trevor. When my son was alive, he wanted all the latest gizzmos too, I finally had to put up my hand and say stop! Reality check here. We can't afford "gizzmos" that cost $$$$$$$$. If you really want it, you'll have to get a job and earn it. I think it helped him to set his priorities when he had to pay for the "gizzmos" himself. Somehow or other the "gizzmo" wasn't that important any more.

    Anna, my son died in March 10th 1992 and the day he passed away it had been raining all day and than it stopped and was warm and sunny throughout the funeral and than when we buried him there was a sudden cloudburst that sent us all scrambling. Weather is very unpredictable just like life.


    the flash of lightning -

    a hundred cameras silenced

    on the stormy shore

    ~Brian Henderson

    March 27, 2005 - 03:07 pm
    I heard this read on CBC radio today and found it on the Canadian National Library website.


    Carman, Bliss, (1861-1929)  
    I know a shining meadow stream 
    That winds beneath an Eastern hill, 
    And all year long in sun or gloom 
    Its murmuring voice is never still.  

    The summer dies more gently there, The April flowers are earlier,-- The first warm rain-wind from the Sound Sets all their eager hearts astir.

    And there when lengthening twilights fall As softly as a wild bird's wing, Across the valley in the dusk I hear the silver flute of spring

    March 28, 2005 - 07:55 am
    Anna and MarjV,

    The spring poems are very pretty. We are having many rainy days here.I have seen a robin perched on a branch just this morning.

    March 28, 2005 - 09:41 am
    gathering mushrooms

    a child again

    hunting colored eggs

    ~ John Quinnett

    March 28, 2005 - 09:53 am

    I like that one.

    March 29, 2005 - 04:54 am
    Do you ever start a project that seems simple to begin but soon you find it is more than you had bargained for? That is me! All I wanted was to take up a carpet and lay a floor of laminated wood ..weary of vacuuming I thought this would be easier ..and it will when done. BUT it has turned into a project that is taking time and effort and I am weary of it all but have to finish it..I found a poem that sort of pleased me .because I am now a senior lady, I have been a daughter but am no more except in the past,A wife but again that time in reality has gone, A mother still , yet my children are on thier own and as a Nana I am loved but I do not raise my grandchldren..SO the last line of this poem said that is ME. I hope you see a bit of yourself in it as well..anna

    Jesse Stuart
    Spring in Kentucky Hills (1934)

    Spring in Kentucky hills will soon awaken; The sap will run every vein of tree. Green will come to the land bleak and forsaken; Warm silver wind will catch the honey bee. Blood-root will whiten on the barren hill; Wind-flowers will grow beneath the oaks and nod To silver April wind against their will. Bitterns will break the silence of the hills And meadow's grass sup dew under the moons, Pastures will green and bring back whippoorwills And butterflies that break from stout cocoons. Spring in Kentucky hills and I shall be A free-soil man to talk beneath the trees And listen to the wind among the leaves And count the stars and do as I damn please.

    March 29, 2005 - 10:31 am
    Lovely poem, Anna. Good luck on your project.


    Following the stonewall

    enough wild strawberries

    to share with a friend.

    ~ Carol Purington

    March 29, 2005 - 11:11 am
    I love strawberries. Haikus say so much in such a few words.

    Anna, I would like to say good luck too. Spring seems like a good time to begin or finish such a project.

    March 30, 2005 - 12:08 pm
    old man snoring

    tide rising

    between his toes

    ~Edith M. Ellwood

    March 31, 2005 - 10:30 am
    waxing moon

    we take turns cranking

    the ice cream maker

    ~W.F. Owen

    March 31, 2005 - 06:17 pm
    It always amazes me how a haiku can catch a whole world in just a few choice words..Thanks so much for sharing them ..my project is not finished and I am eager to be done! But if one starts something there is no point in doing it half way ..so I struggle each day to complete the job ..and find I am longing to be out doors, My plum tree is showing some lacy buds and I know a few warm days and it will be in full dress, The birds are so many of course part of that is my fault. I left a 20 lb bag of unopened bird seed on the deck. The bag was realy STRONG plastic for which I needed scissors to open ..sometime before the next day an eager squirrel had opened it and 20 lbs of seed were scattered over all. I want you all to know I have obese birds and the fattest squirrels around ..and I KID you not! I am sharing 3 verses from a Robert Frost poem called Two Tramps in Mudtime..Because the verses I chose were about April. And Frost was really right about his thoughts on this wonderful and capricious month.. Hope you enjoy..anna


    Excerpts from Two Tramps in Mudtime
    Robert Frost

    The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, A cloud comes over the sunlit arch, A wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March.

    A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume, His song so pitched as not to excite A single flower as yet to bloom. It is snowing a flake; and he half knew Winter was only playing possum. Except in color he isn't blue, But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.

    The water for which we may have to look In summertime with a witching wand, In every wheelrut's now a brook, In every print of a hoof a pond. Be glad of water, but don't forget The lurking frost in the earth beneath That will steal forth after the sun is set And show on the water its crystal teeth.

    April 1, 2005 - 11:23 am
    Yes, I'm glad of water at least Rain. But enough already! I think mother nature is making up for lost time. January and February saw beautiful warm days and even the beginning of March, but now - its almost like mother nature realized that she might have been a little off and wants to make up for it all in one month. If we don't drown, we'll probably have a nice warm summer.


    park bench -

    sharing the silence

    with a deaf-mute

    ~ Emily Romano

    April 2, 2005 - 06:07 am
    Love those excerpts from that poem, Anna.

    Here is the whole poem which was fun to read.

    Two Tramps in Mudtime

    I remember learning to split wood in my 30s. It is a most satisfying action to get it split just right; and as Frost describes: Fell splinterless as a cloven rock

    April 2, 2005 - 10:20 am
    A ball bouncing in a dream -

    thunder over the mountains.

    ~Carol Mayfield

    April 3, 2005 - 10:34 am
    three crosses

    in an open field

    "for sale by owner"

    ~ Charles Rossiter

    April 3, 2005 - 11:05 am
    This is national poetry month. To celebrate, my local basketball team (the Washington Wizards) is having a "poetry slam-jam" with the basketball game today. A poetry workshop before the game, and readings by contest winners and one of the basketball players who writes poetry afterwords.

    Kind of amazing. Maybe I'm not the only one in the world who likes both poetry and basketball. We think of poetry as being something elite and literary, but in every time and place, people have described their lives and how they felt about them through poetry.

    April 3, 2005 - 11:19 am
    JoanK, have a fun time at the "poetry slam-jam." I have a son who loves poetry and basketball.

    April 4, 2005 - 10:43 am
    Yeah! Me too. I love poetry and basketball - actually I love all kinds of poetry and the same goes for sports.


    deep bootprints

    alongside ladyslippers

    stub of a cheroot

    ~ Emily Romano

    April 5, 2005 - 09:49 am
    assisted living

    grandfather pares a perfect coil

    of apple peel

    ~Elizabeth Howard

    April 5, 2005 - 12:15 pm
    Ah Joan you are so right everything in life can be said through a poem ..If I hadnt already picked a poem to use I would have looked up and found one about basket ball , I am sure there must be one out there.. for we are captives of our lives and our lives and every thing we can be expressed in poetry. LONG LIVE POETRY here is the one I found for today . and its title and sadness may be explained by the information about the poet which I am including..anna

    Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882) is best known as one of the original four founders of the Pre-Raphaelite School of painting. In 1862 his wife died, and with romantic flourish buried the manuscript of a number of his poems with her. This grand gesture was undone however in the summer of 1869, when he thought better of it and had them exhumed! Rossetti's poetry in many ways stands apart from his painting, as he seemed compelled to portray the darkness in his writing; while his painting was tinged with hope.

    Barren Spring 

    By Dante Gabriel Rossetti

    Once more the changed year's turning wheel returns: And as a girl sails balanced in the wind, And now before and now again behind
    Stoops as it swoops, with cheek that laughs and burns, - 
    So Spring comes merry towards me here, but earns 
             No answering smile from me, whose life is twin'd  
             With the dead boughs that winter still must bind, 
    And whom today the Spring no more concerns.

    Behold, this crocus is a withering flame; This snowdrop, snow; this apple-blossom's part To breed the fruit that breeds the serpent's art. Nay, for these Spring-flowers, turn thy face from them, Nor stay till on the year's last lily-stem The white cup shrivels round the golden heart.

    April 6, 2005 - 02:06 pm
    The waves

    retreat -

    ribbon of kelp

    on the rusted helmet

    ~ Ernest Sherman

    April 7, 2005 - 11:12 am



    ~taylor, m

    April 7, 2005 - 09:41 pm

    WE are here and not there Why

    ARE we in this situation?

    SUCH a statement makes you

    STUFF your hands in your pockets & shrug

    AS you consider the philosophical implications;

    DREAMS have no place in your life. You

    ARE reality itself. You argue. again you have

    MADE me smile. I watch you, thinking

    OF our times together

    AND the inevitability of change.

    OUR Bodies have aged; ambitions have

    LITTLE significance in the general scheme

    LIFE is the present; death plays a waiting game there

    IS no future to concern us but today is a

    ROUNDED spoon of honey waiting to be sipped

    WITH a prospect of delight even the old may know

    A lifetime of hours before we welcome the long


    Mavis Wentworth.

    April 7, 2005 - 09:44 pm
    Well the above isn't as well type set as I had hoped ! Trevor

    April 8, 2005 - 08:19 am

    Upon arising from the night, I cross the threshold into sunlight, Filled with the essence of you, Yearning to make dreams become true.

    I ache to feel the touch of your skin, Feeling this desire pulsating within, I anxiously wait for that day, When passion becomes more, than a mere play,

    When touch becomes more, than words said, While hearts that are waiting, can then be fed, The thought showering me, from the heat felt within, From this fire you composed, to burn without end,

    Opening loves gate, once you allowed me to see, I then tasted your love, you released into me, Baring the seed of your deliverance, The breath of my rose you then fragranced.


    April 8, 2005 - 10:03 am
    What an interesting poetry form... I'll have to give that a try! I've done many that spell words with the first letters of each line, but not anything that uses a phrase to make the first words of each line. Thank you!

    April 8, 2005 - 10:04 am









    April 8, 2005 - 10:11 am
    I have just discovered a marvelous book with translations of lovely Japanese poetry, Manyoshu, also known as "The Collection of Myriad Leaves."

    Prince Atsumi

    Mirrored in the waters of the Kumanabi River, Where the song-frogs call, Do they bloom now—those flowers of the yellow rose?

    Prince Odai

    I saw this house Standing on the river-bank Where shone the setting sun I came hither, powerless indeed To resist the charm of its shape.

    If you want to know more, here is a good link to learn about the form and history of Manyoshu:


    Here are some quotes from that site:

    "Written down somewhere in the first half of the eighth century, the Manyoshu represent a form of literature as close as we can get to a native Japanese literary tradition."

    "Within this work, they discovered what they felt were the essential characteristics of both Japanese literature as a whole and the Japanese mind. Chief among these characteristics was mono no aware , or a sense of the sadness of things. What does this mean? For the kokugakushu , the poems of the Manyoshu are distinguished by their perception of how all objects, no matter how inconspicuous, betray the ultimate sadness or tragedy of life on earth."

    April 8, 2005 - 02:40 pm
    on my palm

    a lifeline wrinkled

    with future deadlines

    ~Zinovy Vayman

    April 9, 2005 - 09:26 am
    Old lilac takes over

    white flowers of

    blooming cherry tree

    ~Prote Maeje

    April 10, 2005 - 11:04 am
    I have been busier than a swarm of bees and while I havent been here I confess you all have been in my thoughts. Thanks for all the wonderful poems.. each one makes you think and feel as poetry should . I have had company and expect more and am not ready since my renovation has been delayed ..I am in hopes to be able to get enough of my sunroom furniture back in place before Tues. and my youngest daugther asked and I agreed to care for her 121 lb Golden Retriever until she sells her house , relocates and has her 3rd child,. he is the sweetest dog, a 4 year old baby!!!I am asking you a favor I havent been here as I should but PLEASE keep posting and I will come by as often as possible . By the end of the month my company will have left, I look forward to the visit and will save up lots of special memories and I know will be inspired to write a few poems as well. PLEASE keep poetry going ,,everytime I read a new poem or an old friend I am soothed ..regardless of the subject poetry speaks in a universal voice, and plucks at our heart and souls and asks to come in ..as much as I love all literature , poetry is the one I could not live without.

    I am sharing a small poem I wrote because right now I miss reading poetry and so I need to write something,.

    God LOVE you all , anna

    I know it  is spring 

    Not because the light sifting through the new born leaves is softer Not because my daffodils bloomed last week and now are gone Not because my plum tree in its lacy gown dropped its buds like snow upon the greening lawn Not because the lilacs await their turn and the iris green swards heralds the coming of the Empress in her royal gown Not because the birds are searching for just the place to build their nests Always it seems in some tree I had Hoped to remove or vines that need tearing down Not because the world looks cleaner washed by warmer rains instead of snow Not because the earth smells new and robins pull worms from newly turned sod No all these things tell me it is here BUT still … it is the sound this Saturday morning Of my neighbors gasoline mower Being pushed in precision across his lawn The first of many Saturday forays Until once again Autumn sings her song.

    anna Alexander 4/9/05©

    Malryn (Mal)
    April 11, 2005 - 08:35 pm

    ANNA, I sent you an email at your Hotmail address. I hope you received it.


    April 12, 2005 - 06:53 am
    Sometimes when you search the net you find strange things ..what I found was a link to poems from OLD Canadien newspaper. This one is about April and the poet is thought to be a person named Goldsmith ..hope you like it ..anna

    April 26, 1781. No. 816. 


    “SOFT as the dew from heaven descends,” Has dropt the nightly shower, With ductile earth it kindly blends, And wakes the sleeping flower. The tree, the plant, the herb conspire, Their gratitude to show, And proudly lift their branches higher, Exulting as they grow. The doubting sun, behind the cloud, Emits a fainter ray; Till if his native radiance proud, He bursts at once to day. Now vegetative life is warm, And springs at every pore; While Nature wonders at the charm That Winter had before: Wonders that northern winds should bind While western breezes warm; But triumphs now—for heaven is kind, And past the wintry storm. Then let the vegetable tribe, With force emphatic preach; While mortals chearfully imbibe The doctrines that they teach. For all that's great, and good, and wise, Successive seasons prove: —Then with each season, let us rise In gratitude and love.


    April 14, 2005 - 08:59 am
    waxing moon

    we take turns cranking

    the ice cream maker

    ~ W.F. Owen

    April 14, 2005 - 10:13 am
    Well that resonates with me ..we has a hand cranked ice cream maker when I was a child and I have many fond memories of those summer evenings when I could help..of course I couldnt help long as it took my father's strength to turn it when the ice cream began to harden ..mother would cover the whole thing with a bit of carpet kept just for the purpose..and we would have to wait for two hours for it too mellow. IT WAS WORTH THE WAIT ..later I was happy to purchase and electric one and the ice cream is just at good but there was something special about the handcranked one I think ..anna

    April 21, 2005 - 09:51 am
    I found this ice cream poem; there was no author.

    I love ice cream, o' yes I do!  
    I love ice cream, and so should you! 

    And remember the kiddy ditty: I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream

    April 21, 2005 - 12:47 pm
    Grafton in Spring

    The winds pasture in the clouds; 
    The earth breathes: 
    Spring earth soft with water,  
    Dense with leaf, 
    And a duck puddles in the water 
    In the ditch by the motorway, 
    And the broad bank is vivid with flowers, 
    Gloss buttercup and the dandilion flare; 
    The young oak flourishes leaf 
    And the beercan rusts at its roots. 
    Cars scythe past and echo in the stone: 
    Square buildings where the night survives, 
    Where winter lingers. 
    Sun bakes the clay; 
    Stone postures in the sky: 
    The great bridge arcs the gully 
    Across the tar and dust 
    Where engines churn and iron moves 
    To satisfy the lust 
    Of oil dreams and senile hands, 
    Grey plans of steel and power.  
    The grass cradles my body: 
    I lie in the shade of the cloud, 
    In the cirrus hours,  
    And listen to the earth inhale the sun. 

    Isn't that last line something!!!     

    Publication details: "Grafton in Spring" was published 
     in "City News", a giveaway newspaper in Auckland,  
    New Zealand. Publication date: 1975 October 29. 
     It was posted on the Internet by Hugh Cook on 2003  
    February 16 Sunday. Copyright © 1975, 2003 Hugh Cook. All rights reserved. 

    April 21, 2005 - 01:14 pm
    "The grass cradles my body." That line gives me goose pimples. Thanks, MarjV.

    I love ice cream! Yummy!

    April 21, 2005 - 04:19 pm
    That line is sure a beauty, Hats. Do you still lay in the grass sometimes?

    April 21, 2005 - 07:40 pm
    How long has it been since I lay on the grass and looked at the sky? Problem is, I'd never get up.

    April 22, 2005 - 04:47 am
    JoanK, you've hit the nail on the head. Getting up is the problem!

    MarjV, Lying in the grass and looking up at the sky is my goal for the summer. I think it's a great goal. Maybe I should do it under the cover of darkness. So, maybe I should lie in the grass and look at the stars(smile).

    Jan Sand
    April 22, 2005 - 06:49 am


    Sailing through summer
    On a film of sweat,
    On a sheet of shaking heat.
    Trees applaud the faintest breeze.
    Small birds drill whistle holes in thick air,
    Letting lassitude drip out the atmosphere.
    Deep in the grass
    I watch haytips seek the angry eye of summer
    In cybernetic arcs.
    Alto-cumulus steams off the land,
    Mutters with small lighting spits
    To build a final hissing piss of rain
    And a goodbye garish yellow glare
    Before the day destructs into a night
    Of galactic blurs and planetary disks

    April 22, 2005 - 08:22 am
    I love that last line too and on a day like today if I laid on the grass I'd never get up either. Instead I'll just lounge in my lounge chair and hope some passing good-Samarian drops by to help me up after awhile or at least roll me over!

    April 22, 2005 - 01:51 pm
    Great idea, Hats. I used to do that on summer nights with my kids on the beach. What a memory. Course we laid in the grass also in the day.

    These two are neat! "Trees applaud the faintest breeze." "Small birds drill whistle holes in thick air. " Can't you just imagine the birds drilling or the trees applauding! "Hot July" has some great lines..........

    April 22, 2005 - 10:11 pm
    I love "Hot July" too. "Trees applaud the faintest breeze" sticks in my mind. Beautiful imagery! Thank you Jan Sand.

    April 23, 2005 - 10:19 am
    waiting in silence

    the blue heron and I

    the stream between us

    ~ Ion Cordrescu

    This poem reminded of me watching the other day, "a lost crane" sitting on the chimney of the apartment across the road from me except he was not SILENT instead he kept squawking until his friends came and got him. I was afraid if he stayed there to long he'd end up with a hot foot.

    April 23, 2005 - 12:09 pm
    "So, maybe I should lie in the grass and look at the stars(smile)"

    Ok, I can't resist telling this joke (which has nothing to do with poetry).

    Sherlock Holmes and Watson were camping. At night, Holmes said " Watson, look at the sky and tell me what you deduce"

    Watson said"I see millions and millions of pinpricks of light. Each pinprick is a galaxy, just like ours.

    In each galaxy, are millions and millions of stars, just like ours.

    Around each star are tens and tens of planets, just like ours.

    And some of these planets have air and water just like ours.

    So somewhere, there may be a civilization. just like ours.

    That's what the sky tells me".

    Holmes said "No, Watson, you idiot. It tells you that someone has stolen out tent"

    Jan Sand
    April 23, 2005 - 10:21 pm


    There is something visceral
    In the sound of distant thunder
    From the roiling underbelly
    Of a pregnant summer sky.

    At first, a gentle knocking,
    A cautious testing, tapping
    On the roof and on the windows
    As the trees begin to sigh.

    Suddenly there's silence,
    A still anticipation,
    A waiting and a watching
    With an apprehensive eye.

    Now flash! A whip of lightning
    With its bang-snap-crack of thunder
    Stampedes the herds across the roof.
    The streets all start to fry.

    The trees are writhing now
    In waves of throbbing rain
    That mist and bend the twisting shapes.
    All solids liquify.

    The sky is firing salvoes
    Of stroboscopic glare
    While an avalanche of monsters
    Reverberates the sky.

    The cavalcade of noise and blaze
    Subsides to glows and grumbles.
    Downpour inundates the streets.
    It's Venice in July.

    Barefoot kids race gutter boats
    To seas of clogged up drains.
    Their matchstick ships do flops and flips
    And spin and sink awry.

    The thick damp smell of hot concrete
    Yields its wet in steam
    Which rises up like streaming ghosts
    Who flee back to the sky.

    April 24, 2005 - 09:07 am
    loved your poems.

    April 24, 2005 - 11:02 am
    Joan!! that is too funny!!!!

    April 24, 2005 - 06:10 pm
    Today in Australia and New Zealand is ANZAC DAY, when we remember those of our men and women who have died in the service of their country. The poem commemorates the landing of NZ and AUST. troops at Gallipoli on April 25th 1915. It was a badly planned landing and was doomed to failure, which happened after 8 months of great sacrifice, by both sides. ANZAC, by the way stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps.

    And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda

    When I was a young man I carried my pack And I lived the free life of the rover. From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback I waltzed my Matilda all over. Then in nineteen fifteen the country said, "Son, It's time to stop rambling, there's work to be done." And they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun, And they marched me away to the war. And the band played Waltzing Matilda As our ship pulled away from the quay, And amidst all the cheers, flag-waving and tears We sailed off to Gallipoli.

    And how well I remember that terrible day, How our blood stained the sand and the water. And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter. Johnny Turk he was waiting, he primed himself well, He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell, And in five minutes flat he'd blown us all to hell, Nearly blew us right back to Australia. But the band played Waltzing Matilda, As we stopped to bury our slain. We buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs, Then we started all over again.

    Now those that were left, well, we tried to survive In that mad world of blood, death and fire. And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive, But around me, the corpses piled higher. Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head, And when I woke up in me hospital bed And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead. Never knew there was worse things than dying. For I'll go no more Waltzing Matilda All around the green bush far and free, To hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs, No more Waltzing Matilda for me.

    So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed, And they shipped us back home to Australia. The armless, the legless, the blind and insane, Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla. And as our ship pulled into Circular Quay I looked at the place where me legs used to be, And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me, To grieve and to mourn and to pity. But the band played Waltzing Matilda As they carried us down the gangway. But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared, Then they turned all their faces away.

    And so now every April I sit on my porch And I watch the parade pass before me. And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march, Reviving old dreams of past glory. And the old men marched slowly, all bones stiff and sore, They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war, And the young people ask,"What are they marching for?", And I ask meself the same question. But the band plays Waltzing Matilda, And the old men still answer the call. But as year follows year, more old men disappear, Someday no one will march there at all.

    Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me ? And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong, Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me ?

    Eric Bogle


    April 24, 2005 - 10:21 pm
    They will be marching forever, because war follows war, and engagement follow engagement. So many young soldiers to fill the ranks. It was astounding to see the crowds at the Marches and the young people at the Dawn Services. Teenagers wouldn't have dreamt of getting up at Dawn, when I was young! There was only a small number at the day Commemorations then. How things have changed!

    April 25, 2005 - 04:53 am
    Thank you JoanK for my morning laugh!

    Jan Sand, I loved your poem "It's Venice in July" is the line that sticks in my mind.

    Thank you Scrawler. I enjoy all the Haikus, some more than others.

    April 25, 2005 - 08:23 am
    Thanks for those wonderful lyrics, was kind of hard being away from home on Anzac day, made me feel part of itall.


    April 25, 2005 - 09:55 am
    Despite fences,

    golden poppies spread across

    the rolling hills.

    ~ Adelaide B. Shaw

    When I was a little girl living in San Francisco, CA the WWI veterans used to hand out poppies to passersby on Veterns Day. The spreading poppies of the haiku reminds me of the many more we will have to give out today "despite [the] fences" we try and put up. How very sad that as I grow older our soldiers grow younger and die.

    April 25, 2005 - 03:02 pm
    That haiku reminds me of the poppies that grew as they will to inspire that Flanders Field poem.

    Veterans Day they still do poppies here in the DEtroit area.

    April 25, 2005 - 05:13 pm
    Poppies. I was interested to learn a while ago, that the wearing of a red poppy in remembrance, was an idea started by an American woman in 1920. She hand made them, and sold them for a few cents, the proceeds going to help the veterans. It has since spread through the English speaking world.

    An excellent idea, I think. ++ Trevor

    April 26, 2005 - 05:52 am
    Thanks, Scrawler for the Haiku.

    Thanks Trevor for the information about the lady who made Poppies to help the Veterans.

    April 26, 2005 - 02:25 pm
    Jan's poem about the cockroach is so funny.

    Jan Sand's Menu

    April 27, 2005 - 10:11 am
    Ouch. That brings back some of my student experiences only too vividly.

    Those people who think of evolution as "The Survival of the Fittest" should ponder that the most evolutionarily successful creature ever has been the cockroach.

    April 27, 2005 - 07:20 pm
    What does it mean to say the cockroach is the most evolutionary successful creature that has so far existed?

    Perhaps, because it has undergone no evolutionary change for hundreds of millions of years, we should really speak of it as the most evolutionary backward creature. In short, evolution has passed it by. It is a dead end branch, an evolutionary fossil, that has never achieved its potential. ( Poor thing )

    In such a vein, we should think of the human race as the most evolutionary successful creature. In our short tenure here on Earth, we have evolved faster than any other creature. We are in the forefront of evolution, and racing at breakneck speed towards our future..... Sorry, what has this post of mine got to do with poetry?!? I'll get off the soap box....... +++ Trevor

    Jan Sand
    April 27, 2005 - 08:13 pm
    When a creature can survive the trials and conflicts in the various successive environments presented by time and proliferate it can be termed exceedingly successful. If it must further evolve to remain extant then its changed progeny may succeed but the original design must be considered a failure although, in a sense, that it could produce evolved successors may be considered a success.

    April 28, 2005 - 03:32 am

    "Courage !' he said, and pointed toward the land,
    'This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.'
    In the afternoon they came unto a land,
    In which it seemed always afternoon.
    All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
    Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
    Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
    and like a downward smoke, the slender stream
    along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

    A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke,
    Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
    And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,
    Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
    They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
    From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
    Three silent pinacles of aged snow,
    Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops,
    Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

    The charmed sunset linger'd low adown
    In the red West: thro' the mountain clefts the dale
    Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
    Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale
    And meadow, set with slender galingale;
    A land where all things always seem'd the same !
    And round about the keel with faces pale,
    Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
    The mild-eyed melancholy Lotus-eaters came.

    There is sweet music here that softer falls
    than petals from blown roses on the grass,
    Or night dews on still waters between walls
    of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
    Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
    Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
    Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
    Here are cool mosses deep,
    And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
    And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
    And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.


    ++ Trevor

    April 28, 2005 - 08:19 am
    And you complied .>while anneo and I spent two weeks in getting to know each other, in trying to sight see with so much to see and sore feet to say You have seen enough. The best were the quiet times and the knowing she was here..I know when she leaves California and flies home to Austalia she will say I WONT LEAVE IT AGAIN but it is my hope she will ...thanks one and all for your posting while I was away... Marj I loved Grafton in the spring,,and wonder when did I stop laying in the grass and watch clouds float by? Perhaps when the children went on to other things and we sold our camper since we no longer used it..my grandchilren I fear dont lay in the grass and watch clouds ..a sad thing to me...

    Jan as usual your poems speak of things we all know about but often forget ...thanks and here in Virginia July is HOT and Muggy and makes me long for autumn,

    The Sherlock Holmes joke made me laugh out loud..and also made me think of convoluted thoughts and we miss the simple truths.

    Trevor your poem hurts my heart and I despair that as Jan reminds us war will never cease.Peace is a dream and I am glad that for a little while when I was young I knew its face,For age has brought repeated wars ..I am running out of fingers to count them on...

    Jan Cockroaches ..wow when we lived in Texas many years ago we rented a few rooms in a very old house. Of course we had to go grocery shopping and I put everything away but left some bags with non perishables on the floor to put away later, It was dusk and time to fix dinner when I heard this sound in the kitchen ..I turned the light on and saw the sound was coming from the bags on the floor and the paper was shaking ,..I called for my husband and said I think we have mice,,,but when he arrived out of the bags huge , at least 4inches long, cockroaches appeared and climbed up the walls and disappeared. We were only going to be at the base there for a few months while my husband finished that part of his flight training so we didnt even move but for the rest of the time there I put EVERYTHING into glass jars, washed each dish and utensil etc before using it ..the cockroachs never fully went away but I sure tried to discourage them! And last Trevor your offering of Tennyson's The Lotus Eaters reminds me that poetry is special,

    I say that since someone sent me a book of poems the other day and I have to say ..I found very little of poetry in the book, The poems did not move me ,..they were like writings and had nothing to offer ..some you could not even call worthy of conversation ..dull ..

    I did look up a poem to post today and while the lilacs call me and the birds are sucking up bird seed faster than I can put it out, and the azaleas are in bloom , the red ones like a fire in my backyard and I have a need to be out there digging in the earth and planting some tomatos ,the only vegetable I now plant I will be here with some of the poems that speak to me..and of course look for those that speak to you ..Thanks to each ..anna


    The roofs are shining from the rain. The sparrows tritter as they fly, And with a windy April grace The little clouds go by.

    Yet the back-yards are bare and brown With only one unchanging tree-- I could not be so sure of Spring Save that it sings in me.

    Sara Teasdale

    April 28, 2005 - 08:45 am
    When my husband and I visited Texas many years ago - everything was really big! Texas cockroaches are bigger than I've ever seen them anywhere else and I'm convinced that they carry tiny little pistols to blow off your toes.

    Who's to say that the cockroaches have evolved or not. Scientist is always messing around with bugs so maybe there are cockroaches on the horizon that will act more like humans and humans who will act more like cockroaches.

    April 29, 2005 - 07:29 am
    Methinks there are already humans who act like cockroaches and if cockroaches are really smart they will stay the way they are...and in that vein I searched Wordsworth this am for a poem and found one that spoke to me in a dozen ways...sometimes when I think I have an orginal thought I am brought back to earth when I read a thinker of years ago express it as well and better too. anna


    I HEARD a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

    To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

    Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

    The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:-- But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

    The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasurethere.

    If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

    Wordsworth 1798.

    April 29, 2005 - 04:52 pm
    ANNA When I read your pieces, I am sometimes struck by a line therein that to me has as interesting a meaning as I find in Wordsworth. That is the art that attracts me to poetry, and you have a measure of it. ++ Trevor

    April 29, 2005 - 05:18 pm
    For once I dont know what to say but thanks for your kind words ,..they lift my spirits and have made my day..anna

    April 30, 2005 - 09:41 am
    Annafair speechless, Trevor, she is rarely lost for words.


    April 30, 2005 - 05:23 pm
    Nay not I but still a compliment is special and there is nothing but to say ..thank you Trevor...

    This morning when I left the house my yard was full of petals, My apple tree had shed its flowers over night and left me with promises of apples and a blossomed blanket on the ground. The sun was shining but not with a clear bright light but through a haze of gray left over from the night. And a wind from out the South promised rain and storms and held them in its mouth to wash away the pollen that the trees left when they swayed... now that is a poem written this minute as I tried to describe my day..and I found a poem by Sara Teasdale to share with you today ..and though it is day too early tomorrow night it will be true and I will pick some lilacs in tomorrows early dew....anna
    May Night 

    The spring is fresh and fearless And every leaf is new, The world is brimmed with moonlight, The lilac brimmed with dew.

    Here in the moving shadows I catch my breath and sing-- My heart is fresh and fearless And over-brimmed with spring.

    Sara Teasdale

    May 1, 2005 - 08:48 am
    In your neighborhood, it's apple blossoms. In mine, it's the cherry blossoms. Everything is covered in pink. It sent me to my old friends, the Japanese haiku poets:

    Stillness: The sound of the petals Sifting down together -- Chora

    The wild duck swims, Parting with her breast The cherry petals -- Roka

    Evening cherry blossoms: Today also now belongs To the past -- Issa

    May 1, 2005 - 01:17 pm
    Have come and gone ...all the fruit trees have been divested of thier lacy gowns...and I can see minature knobs of green promising me some plums and apples as the season progresses ..I dont have a real cherry tree any more but the Japanese Cherry trees planted ten years ago when Canon built a computer chip factory here give us a show come spring ..there must be at least two miles planted on either side of a road that leads to the main plant..it is awesome come spring..I have tried pears, cherries, apricots and peaches but the apple tree and plum have survived and given me first thier blossoms and then thier fruit ..what a wonderful thing a fruit tree is!! anna

    May 1, 2005 - 06:17 pm
    I grew up in the middle of the country.. St Louis area and never learned how to swim and really cant say I like water ,.but as long as I can remember I have been drawn to sea stories , to sea poems and years ago I sailed with my then two year old daugther to Europe to join my husband there.. I loved every minute, loved sailing the Mediterraen and the sailing to England later on a trip and all the way to Oslo. I love living near the Atlantic and cant get enough of just sitting and watching it but I hate getting water on my face ,...of course I do LOL but dont like to stand under a shower that hits my face ..so I am not sure why I love sea poems but I do and Johm Masefield seems to do them best for me..anna

    A Wanderer's Song

    A WIND'S in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels, I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-wheels; I hunger for the sea's edge, the limit of the land, Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.

    Oh I'll be going, leaving the noises of the street, To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet; To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches ride, Oh I'l be going, going, until I meet the tide.

    And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls, The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls, The songs at the capstan at the hooker warping out, And then the heart of me'll know I'm there or thereabout.

    Oh I am sick of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick, For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick; And I'll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels, For a wind's in the heart of me, a fire's in my heels.

    John Masefield

    May 1, 2005 - 08:29 pm
    While i was posting the cherry blossom haiku, my husband was out running errands. When he came back I was lying on the couch, reading. I wondered why he wasn't carrying packages, and had one hand behind his back.

    He came up to me, opened his hand,and showered me with cherry blossoms!!

    I lay for an hour with a big pile of cherry blossoms on my stomach, running them through my hands. I don't think I've ever felt them before. They are cool and soft, like silk, but with an "aliveness" to them. Wonderful!

    Jan Sand
    May 1, 2005 - 11:12 pm


    Let me ride the tail
    Of the blue-eyed whale,
    Use the ocean for a pillow,
    While the cobalt sea
    Tosses me
    On waves that hiss and billow.

    Oh, the world heaves up
    And the world falls down
    While the waves rise up so high -
    From their knife edged tip
    Green teeth flip
    Diamonds into the sky.

    The sapphire wind
    Herds ragged clouds
    To the line at the end of it all,
    While the pale moon floats
    O'er the wind's wild goats
    With a bounce like a ghostly ball.

    Deep down below
    Where shadows go
    With thick snaky arms and teeth.
    Great black things
    On leathery wings
    Move in waters as deadly as Lethe.

    But the top of the sea
    Makes me see, makes me free
    Where the air stings my throat like a blade.
    All the gulls tumble by
    Through the eye of the sky
    In a circus cavalcade.

    May 2, 2005 - 01:59 am
    Joan I love your hushand ..a handful of cherry blossoms ..what a wonderful gift...and I have never felt them either ..like silk ..oh when day awakes and I am dressed I am going out and feel the apple blossoms laying in my yard...never thought to do that..and I can tell you I would rather have a gift of cherry blossoms than a string of pearls...lovely ...anna

    May 2, 2005 - 02:19 am
    You may just be my new favorite poet of the sea ..But the top of the sea Makes me see, makes me free Where the air stings my throat like a blade. All the gulls tumble by Through the eye of the sky In a circus cavalcade.

    I love the whole thing but the last verse makes me wish I could be sailing again ..or at least sitting somewhere so I could watch the waves marching in ...and the air in the morning while out on the sea is so different than the air over land..you made me see and feel how it has been , I am once again sailing on the Mediterraen and the sun is shining and turning each spray into diamonds ..When we lived up island on Okinawa I would take the back road to Kadena , through the plumes of the sugar cane and come out and look down on the Pacific and just sit and marvel at the ocean, the colors , the sky , it was a gift and your poem gave it back to me..anna

    May 2, 2005 - 05:31 am
    Joan- that man, your husband, is truly a gem!!

    Love all the writings about blossoms. And the sea.

    May 2, 2005 - 07:49 am
    With all this talk of cherry blossoms I had to find a poem about them and also wonder why I havent written one myself ..I think I am so enamoured of their beauty I just drink it in and know no poem of mine could ever do justice to thier beauty or the way I feel when I see them in full bloom..anna

    . E. Housman (1859–1936).  A Shropshire Lad.  1896.  
     Loveliest of trees, the cherry now 

    LOVELIEST of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide.

    Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more.

    And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

    May 2, 2005 - 08:21 am
    autumn sea

    a little girl's love

    of small brown shells

    ~ Peggy Willis Lyles

    This little gem brings back a lot of memories of collecting sea shells in San Francisco, CA

    Jan Sand
    May 2, 2005 - 09:14 pm


    The sea in its seasons
    Need not supply reasons
    For flipping and slopping,
    For wetness and swish,
    For frothing and chopping,
    And swirling its fish,
    For rising and falling
    And endlessly calling
    In tones most appealing
    Or groans quite appalling
    Which scatter its gulls
    And shatter ship hulls
    Dispensing despair
    Through wild windy air.
    For, whatever might be,
    The sea is the sea
    Which gives not a damn
    About beauty or fear,
    About life, about death,
    About wonder or fizz.
    The sea merely is.

    May 3, 2005 - 08:04 am
    Oh, Jan, I love that poem. Such imagery!

    physics class

    even the speed of light

    moves slowly

    ~Steven Bleich

    Jan Sand
    May 5, 2005 - 12:32 am


    The patterns of the world wash in
    Across the sands of mind
    And ripple through the thoughts which drift
    And scatter unaligned
    'Til gently rocking back and forth
    Their edges catch and bind.

    They bind and mat in patterns that
    Echo those outside
    To map the weavings of the world
    That glisten, slip and slide
    And change in forms extremely strange
    Which shatter and collide.

    We construct ourselves upon
    These waves of sight and sound
    Collecting from these drifting thoughts
    An entity that's bound
    To shifting inside structures
    And whatever runs aground

    May 5, 2005 - 03:33 am
    Well you have done it again ..posted some poems about the sea...captured in words that wonderful feeling the sea gives ....and the last line of Sea Note was such a surprise it made me laugh .thanks for sharing ...anna .

    May 5, 2005 - 03:42 am
    I hope wherever you live it is a merry month ..here where I live in Virginia it doesnt seem like May..or at least it hasnt lived up to my expectations. The temperature has varied and for the most part it feels like March ..or like a cold April for while I yearn to be outdoors the temperature doesnt encourage me. When we moved here 34 years ago another resident and I would host a May Day tea every year. ( It is a small developement and in the country 34 years ago) We would tie the invitation on the doors of our neighbors along with a ribbon and a flower. It was such a lovely time and we knew everyone well. That time has sadly passed as we have aged. So today I looked for a poem about May and chose one by a favorite poet of mine ( I even wrote a poem about one of his poems) Robert Herrick ...I hope you enjoy it ..and oh I would like to go a-maying ..anna
    Corinna's Going A-Maying

    Get up, get up for shame, the blooming Morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air; Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree. Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since; yet you not drest, Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the birds have matins said, And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, Whenas a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

    Rise; and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green; And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown, or hair; Fear not, the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you; Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; Come and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night; And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying; Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

    Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimm'd with trees; see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch; each porch, each door ere this An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey The proclamation made for May, And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

    There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden, home. Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream; And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth; Many a green-gown has been given; Many a kiss, both odd and even; Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament; Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying.

    Come, let us go, while we are in our prime; And take the harmless folly of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun; And as a vapour, or a drop of rain, Once lost, can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drown'd with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

    Robert Herrick :

    May 5, 2005 - 12:03 pm
    There are a lot I can think of but this one seemed so right ..anna

    A Life Well Lived

    It's a blessin' and a curse to always be the restless one Never knowin' where to bed down with the setting of the sun. A tumbleweed keeps rollin', and a cowboy does the same, 'Cause a drifter don't take roots just by the changin' of his name.

    And the long days stretch to longer nights, with just the lonesome breeze That stirs the dust in faded tracks and ripples through the trees Where the line shack stands a beacon and the distant memories roam, And a cowhand's restless slumber takes him back again to home,

    Where his mama waits with patient smile to greet her wayward boy. And though her heart is aching, still she claims her greatest joy Is the knowing that her ramblin' son is running strong and free. And this, my friends, is what my gentle mother gave to me.

    The strength and pluck to face the trials that make a boy a man, The pride I've known from never quittin' any race I ran. The grit and gravel in my craw when luck is hard to find, And grace and heart and charity towards all humankind.

    In the ovens of the tropics where the Devil bakes his prey, I've stood the test and took his best and never backed away. Tied hard to the bad ones, and I've rode the hurricane On pitchin' beasts no man would ride if he had half a brain.

    I've stood upon the bowsprit, and I've braved the Arctic gales, And tripped the long-eared outlaw bull on rocky canyon trails, Where a stumble is a lifetime flashing swift before your eyes, And the brave men and the foolish know the truth and tell their lies.

    I've trod this whole world over, and I've sailed the bounding main, Broke my bread with strong and true, in desert sun and rain. And every grand adventure, born of Bible or of sword, Is a tribute to my mother, who lies sleeping with the Lord.

    A tomboy who was more at home in jeans than in a skirt, And she worked beside her daddy in that red West Texas dirt. A true born native daughter of a hardy Texas line That helped to build this rugged state; I'm proud to call them mine.

    But, oh, I've heard the stories of my mother's sassy ways, For it's said she was a beauty in her young and fancy days. And she tantalized the schoolboys with her crinolines and lace, But she remained a lady, walking hand-in-arm with grace.

    When country called, she never shirked; she served this nation well. She was proud to wear the uniform, and I am proud to tell Anyone who'd care to listen that my mother did her duty, And placed all others first. My friends, that was her greatest beauty.

    She raised four sons and raised them well, and sacrificed her dreams, Her hopes of grand adventure giving way to common themes, Of home and church and school and toil with every breaking dawn, And a husband who was always there, but just as quickly gone.

    But never did she break her stride; she ran the worthy race Through years of work and worry, and she kept a steady pace And sweat and prayed and cried to keep her precious family fed, Then pawned the heirloom silverware to buy our milk and bread.

    She paid the fiddler when he played, and gave me every chance, And when her heart had sung its tune, too quickly left the dance. She left no strife or enemy upon this mortal sod. And I am sure she's resting in the tender arms of God.

    A cowhand is a lonesome critter, born and bred to roam, Though a cowboy with a loving mother always has a home. But it's a long trail and a hard one; it's a sweet and bitter story, When a cowboy keeps on ridin' . . . and his mother's gone to glory.

    Dedicated with love to the memory of my mother, Betty Lou Caton Gaines, a true daughter of West Texas

    used with permission from the author You can check his bio by using the link.

    May 6, 2005 - 08:01 am
    the toddler's reach

    for my wiggling fingers

    gentle wind

    ~Francis W. Alexander

    Happy Mother's Day!

    Jan Sand
    May 8, 2005 - 12:34 am
    Here is a celebration of one persistent Spring flower.


    Their tousled blond heads explode into existence
    In rowdy mobs on bland green lawns
    Evoking fury at their persistence,
    Violating urban strictures, evenings and dawn
    And in the blast of noonday light
    Where their glowing yellow swarm
    Is condemned as hoodlum blight
    To the serenity, the tame verdant norm
    So treasured in the mindless blank conformity
    That paves the outer reaches of the metropol.
    The inhabitants, enraged at the enormity
    Of this yellow peril produce the spinning knives that roll
    To hum and whirl and sever, to guillotine
    The festive heads, flick them in a golden shower
    In fierce dispatch from the scene.
    But the yellow crowd will have its hour.
    Stealthily it creeps in again,
    Blooms to produce its ghostly spheres
    To dissipate in fertility, when
    A mobile misty fog appears,
    Aeronauts in multiforce
    To invade new territory
    A lawn perhaps, a golf course,
    Distributing new golden glory
    Launched to live and fight again
    The sterility of men.

    May 10, 2005 - 12:03 pm
    Does everyone know about the Passager web site?


    The mission of Passager is to assemble a range of voices and subjects that bring to light the collective imagination of those who are over 50 and writing.

    May 10, 2005 - 07:15 pm
    Jan my thoughts on dandelions
    The dandelion  
    Doesnt know it is a weed  
    It just breeds. 


    May 10, 2005 - 07:22 pm
    Yes The Poetry Society of Virginia ( I am a member) alerted us to this and I have submitted some of my poems for this years contest. Thanks for thinking of giving everyone that link. anna

    Winter kept returning here and now that May brings me working outside weather that is what I have been doing. Planting, digging, hoeing, cleaning , raking etc these are tasks I usually do in April but they have had to wait until I could do them in comfortable clothes and not bundled up a heavy jacket, So I have been busy outdoors instead of here but do have a poem to share.. I thought this poem gave me something to think about anna

    A Noon Song

    THERE are songs for the morning and songs for the night, For sunrise and sunset, the stars and the moon; But who will give praise to the fulness of light, And sing us a song of the glory of noon? Oh, the high noon, the clear noon, The noon with golden crest; When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns With his face to the way of the west!

    How swiftly he rose in the dawn of his strength; How slowly he crept as the morning wore by; Ah, steep was the climbing that led him at length To the height of his throne in the wide summer sky. Oh, the long toil, the slow toil, The toil that may not rest, Till the sun looks down from his journey's crown, To the wonderful way of the west!

    Then a quietness falls over meadow and hill, The wings of the wind in the forest are furled, The river runs softly, the birds are all still, The workers are resting all over the world. Oh, the good hour, the kind hour, The hour that calms the breast! Little inn half-way on the road of the day, Where it follows the turn to the west!

    There's a plentiful feast in the maple-tree shade, The lilt of a song to an old-fashioned tune, The talk of a friend, or the kiss of a maid, To sweeten the cup that we drink to the noon. Oh, the deep noon, the full noon, Of all the day the best! When the blue sky burns, and the great sun turns To his home by the way of the west.

    Henry Van Dyke

    May 11, 2005 - 06:16 am

    I enjoyed "The Noon Song" by Henry Van Dyke. I think the pleasures of noontime are overlooked. I think about the wonder of morning and peacefulness of night, but never noontime. Gives me more to think about.

    Thank you for the website, MarjV.

    May 11, 2005 - 06:36 am

    Whilst daydreaming, About you and me, Though far away, Feeling you close-by, Loves potion felt, As fingers slide, In and out of fantasies, Knowing what’s now, To what someday may be, The whole of me, I give easily, Capturing a feeling, I have yet to describe, Loves breath baring the life, Freely given to me, Without limitations, I speak the words felt, In a description of love, I want to share with you.

    It’s every moon I look to, It’s every star I wish on, That brings the sun rising, To kiss a smile on your face. To be held within, The divine power of love, With the gift of emotion, Felt so deep inside.

    Celestial spirit I keep chasing, Throughout an endless journey, Awakened to believe, I beckon thee, Come hither in the light, Away from the darkness, That I might see your face, Acknowledging love, Your heart can’t deny, Felt deeply inside and out, Giving rise to what I always knew, When you spake the first time, Sharing with me the words saying, I love you.

    May 11, 2005 - 06:45 am
    SeptemberRose, I love that one, A Description of Love.

    May 11, 2005 - 07:05 am
    That is a wonderful poem thanks so much for sharing it..sometimes when life moves on we forget what we cherished but we should just remember..anna

    May 11, 2005 - 07:43 am
    Indeed, noon is the best [time] to eat a quiet lunch, relax for a moment before we continue a busy day, or to just enjoy for awhile the natural wonders that surround us in the full light of day!

    May 11, 2005 - 10:38 am
    Wondered after reading your poem Septemberrose how many poems have been wrtten about love..It is the most universal I would think.

    Edmund Spenser 

    [One day I wrote her name upon the strand]

    One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay A mortal thing so to immortalize! For I myself shall like to this decay, And eek my name be wiped out likewise. Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name; Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.

    May 12, 2005 - 07:27 am
    The swells of her breast

    against the watered silk -

    summer moon

    ~ Charles Trumbull

    May 13, 2005 - 09:48 am
    Sometimes I like to just read things that for the most part are lovely and kind and special. Love is special so will post a few love poems Anyone have a favorite poet and love poem to share? anna
    Sidney Lanier  

    Evening Song

    Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea; How long they kiss in sight of all the lands, Ah! longer, longer we.

    Now, in the sea's red vintage melts the sun As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done, Love, lay thine hand in mine.

    Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart, Glimmer, ye waves, 'round else unlighted sands; Oh night! divorce our sun and sky apart Never our lips, our hands.

    Jim in Jeff
    May 13, 2005 - 04:19 pm
    This might be old news here. March/April 2005 issue of Auto-Club AAA's magazine "AAA World" (mid-Atlantic version) names winners of their 2004 photo contest. An April springtime in rural VA photo won 4th prize! http://www.aaaworld.com/pages/articles.asp?id=360

    Once there, scroll down to 4th prize winner. And then, if you wish, click on face of the pic to enlarge it on your PC screen.

    Rural Virginia is indeed a beautiful place to be...in springtime. Visual poetry...in my humble opinion.

    May 13, 2005 - 08:07 pm
    Lovely!! Thank you.

    May 14, 2005 - 06:48 am
    I second Joan's comment!!!

    May 14, 2005 - 11:30 am
    Wild nights! Wild nights! Were I with thee, Wild nights should be Our luxury!

    Futile the winds To a heart in port, - Done with the compass, Done with the chart.

    Rowing in Eden! Ah! the sea! Might I but moor To-night in thee!

    ~ Emily Dickinson

    May 15, 2005 - 07:38 am
    It's all I have to bring to-day

    This, and my heart beside,

    This, and my heart, and all the fields,

    And all the meadows wide,

    Be sure you count, should I forget, -

    Some one the sun could tell, -

    This, and my heart, and all the bees

    Which in the clover dwell.

    ~ Emily Dickinson

    Jim in Jeff
    May 15, 2005 - 05:09 pm
    Thanks, JoanK and MarjV, for viewing my link to a pic of Virginia in springtime. And for taking time to comment here; APPRECIATED!

    Thanks also, Scrawler, for your Emily posts; she's my fave of all poets, bar none. However, I know her so well already, that today I'll instead applaud two other "LOVE POEMS." Most here already know and revere these two "oldies," I think:

    How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
    I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
    My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
    For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

    I love thee to the level of everyday's
    Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
    I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
    I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

    I love thee with the passion put to use
    In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

    I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
    With my lost saints, -- I love thee with the breath,
    Smiles, tears, of all my life! -- And, if God choose,
    I shall but love thee better after death.

    -- Elizabeth (Barrrett) Browning.

    I ought to stop now. A wonderous "love poem"! However, here's Ruth's address to Naomi 30 centuries ago:

    Entreat me not to leave thee,
    Or to return from following after thee:
    For whither thou goest
    I will go;
    And where thou lodgest,
    I will lodge.
    Thy people shall be my people,
    And thy God my God.
    Where thou diest, will I die,
    And there will I be buried.

    The Lord do so to me, and more also,
    If ought but death part thee and me.

    Forum friends, IMHO, "love poetry" don't get much better than these two "oldies"!

    May 16, 2005 - 07:39 am
    Yes, that first poem has be a favorite: "how do you love a person?"

    Mine by the right of the white election!

    Mine by the royal sea!

    Mine by the sign in the scarlet prison

    Bars cannot conceal!

    Mine, here in vision and in veto!

    Mine, by the grave's repeal

    Titled, confirmed, - delirious character!

    Mine, while the ages steal!

    ~Emily Dickinson

    Jan Sand
    May 16, 2005 - 08:36 am

    My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
    2. Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
    3. If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
    4. If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
    5. I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
    6. But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
    7. And in some perfumes is there more delight
    8. Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
    9. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
    10. That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
    11. I grant I never saw a goddess go,
    12. My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
    13. And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
    14. As any she belied with false compare.

    May 16, 2005 - 10:31 am
    Thanks to all To Jim who posted a picture of a state I have come to call home. I have lived in many states for many reasons, and each had its charm, my memories of them are still clear and sweet and I value what they offered, BUT when we made the decision to stay in Virginia I felt I was home. I knew that in the years (34 now) we had sojourned here it had captured my soul. Each season has its special quality and each area its special charm. In a day I can journey from the Atlantic shores to the Blue Ridge Mountains meantime enjoying all the wonderful rural land in between. Thanks Jim. for the love poems posted I say Thanks again. You have shared some of my favorites and reading them once again reminds me of how blessed I have been to know LOVE.

    The poem I share today is a love poem in its own way,another face of love, remembered, laid aside , moved on but still something you cant let go. As I continue to sort through papers, and boxes of old photos and clippings I am like the speaker in this poem. anna

     The Sunday News

    Looking for something in the Sunday paper, I flipped by accident through Local Weddings, Yet missed the photograph until I saw your name among the headings.

    And there you were, looking almost unchanged, Your hair still long, though now long out of style, And you still wore that stiff and serious look You called a smile.

    I felt as though we sat there face to face. My stomach tightened. I read the item through. It said too much about both families, Too little about you.

    Finished at last, I threw the paper down, Stung by jealousy, my mind aflame, Hating this man, this stranger whom you loved, This printed name.

    And yet I clipped it out to put away Inside a book like something I might use, A scrap I knew I wouldn't read again But couldn't bear to lose.

    Dana Gioia

    Jim in Jeff
    May 16, 2005 - 07:01 pm
    I'm today thankful for several recent events:

    1. Thanks to Annafair for gently alerting me to this folder. SN has so many folders that we don't often enough "look around us."

    2. Thanks to who-ever is responsible for NOT archiving this folder after it reached 1000 posts (like most other SN folders do). This has allowed some wonderful poetry-posts to stay front-and-visible for my and other newcomers' browsing enjoyments.

    3. I'm thankful for the great original "Haiku" being shared time-to-time here. It's not a form I can yet do. But I'm a professional "fan."

    4. Relatedly, I'm thankful I didn't rush in to cry, "Hey you guys; doesn't Haiku have to be 3 lines of precisely 5, 7, and 5 syllables?" WRONG, JIM! Instead, I "googled" a bit and found a webpage with a decent definition of haiku. It's what you guys are doing...every time!

    5. I'm thankful there's other Shakespeare fans here. I never took time to grow to love most of his sonnets; but I got into his plays...many of which are also poetry (in part or in whole). However, that sonnet Jan quoted was nice...got my attention.

    May 16, 2005 - 08:24 pm
    What a great question and what a wonderful way you answered it ...Let me thank you Jim for the link to haiku ..it is a lovely form and I enjoy reading it but find it a form that for me is very difficult to do ,. I just dont think in such terse verse .. and that is meant in such a small , compact way.. When I was a child my favorite book was the dictionary and still is.. there is a part of me that feels a need to use as many of the words I can ..I am thankful that I had a husband who talked to me and when he died what I missed most were our conversations.

    I am thankful for those who come in here and share their own works and the works of those poets they have enjoyed and appreciated. I am thankful that as my hearing has diminished in the "real" world SN and computers have kept me from being isolated and alone.

    And to all the poets who have put words to feelings and helped us to open our souls to beauty ..you have my everlasting gratitude .. anna

    May 17, 2005 - 06:21 am
    When I read his poems I wish I could read them in the original ..but I must rely on a translator to know what he has written..I only know when I read his poems I find bits and pieces that touch me. hope you all enjoy him as well, anna
    Sonnet LXXXI

    And now you're mine. Rest with your dream in my dream. Love and pain and work should all sleep, now. The night turns on its invisible wheels, and you are pure beside me as a sleeping amber.

    No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go, we will go together, over the waters of time. No one else will travel through the shadows with me, only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

    Your hands have already opened their delicate fists and let their soft drifting signs drop away; your eyes closed like two gray wings, and I move

    after, following the folding water you carry, that carries me away. The night, the world, the wind spin out their destiny. Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all.

    Pablo Neruda

    May 17, 2005 - 06:31 am
    What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why (Sonnet XLIII) 
    Edna St. Vincent Millay 

    What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,  
    I have forgotten, and what arms have lain  
    Under my head till morning; but the rain  
    Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh  
    Upon the glass and listen for reply,  
    And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain  
    For unremembered lads that not again  
    Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.  
    Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,  
    Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,  
    Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:  
    I cannot say what loves have come and gone,  
    I only know that summer sang in me  
    A little while, that in me sings no more.  

    Thought I'd throw this one in the love pot!

    May 17, 2005 - 06:33 am
    Sure enjoyed reading all these last 10 posts! ~Marj

    May 17, 2005 - 07:15 am
    You left me, sweet, two legacies -

    A legacy of love

    A Heavenly Father would content,

    Hat He the offer of;

    You left me boundaries of pain

    Capacious as the sea,

    Between eternity and time,

    Your consciousness and me.

    ~Emily Dickinson

    Alas, love can sometimes be painful "capacious as the sea".

    May 17, 2005 - 03:00 pm
    MarjV That's a beautiful poem of Edna St. Vincent Millay you have chosen, Marjorie. ( is it Marjorie ? )

    It reminds me of that Kristofferson song

    "Listen to the rain drops flow soft against the window,
    And make believe you love me, one more time;
    For the good times....."

    I thank you. ++ Trevor

    Jim in Jeff
    May 17, 2005 - 03:02 pm
    My last post praising The Bard bothers me. I didn't mean to imply that his sonnets aren't the ultimate in great poetry. I'm just much more familiar with his plays...which also have great poetry. Here's one example (there's hundreds more): From "As You Like It":

    All the world's a stage

    And all the men and women merely players:
    They have their exits and their entrances;
    And one man in his time plays many parts,
    His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
    Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
    And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
    And shining morning face, creeping like snail
    Unwilling to school. And then the lover,
    Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
    Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
    Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
    Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
    Seeking the bubble reputation
    Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
    In fair round belly with good capon line,
    With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
    Full of wise saws and modern instances;
    And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
    Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
    With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
    His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
    For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
    Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
    And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
    That ends this strange eventful history,
    Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
    Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.

    - William Shakespeare.

    May 17, 2005 - 04:28 pm
    3 Kings: my whole name is Marjorie, however I am not the SeniorNet Marjorie who uses the whole name. Gets confusing.

    I always hope I am more than a "player" on a stage. Tho some days I do wonder.

    May 18, 2005 - 07:30 am
    Alter? When the hills do.

    Falter? When the sun

    Question if his glory

    Be the perfect one.

    Surfeit? When the daffodil

    Doth of the dew:

    Even as herself, O friend!

    I will of you!

    Jim in Jeff
    May 18, 2005 - 05:14 pm
    Majorie, you're for sure no "player on a stage." You're flesh and blood, alive, aware, and a unique human being. But Shakespeare's words often inspire us to re-examine our lives. In this case, are we living primarily a facade? I trow not! But his warnings are well-taken.

    Scrawler, your "Love Poem" posts are wonderful thoughts. Did you write the last one (beginning: "Alter? When the hills do")? That's a poignant thought, whether yours or another's. Thanks for sharing.

    My "Love Poem" addition here today is this short verse by Leigh Hunt, 1784-1859, a longtime fave of mine:
    JENNY kiss'd me when we met,    
      Jumping from the chair she sat in;    
    Time, you thief, who love to get    
      Sweets into your list, put that in!    
    Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,  
      Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,    
    Say I'm growing old, but add,    
          Jenny kiss'd me.

    May 19, 2005 - 07:13 am
    I have enjoyed all the "love" poems so much. Thank you. I especially enjoyed Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem. These poems make my heart beat a little faster.

    May 19, 2005 - 07:37 am
    Elysium is as far as to

    The very nearest room,

    If in that room a friend await

    Felicity or doom.

    What fortitude the soul contains,

    That it can so endure

    The accent of a coming foot,

    The opening of a door!

    ~ Emily Dickinson

    The "alter" poem is also by Emily Dickinson

    May 19, 2005 - 08:44 am
    b> Jim posted: But Shakespeare's words often inspire us to re-examine our lives. In this case, are we living primarily a facade? I trow not! But his warnings are well-taken

    I like that. Would you say most people in the older generation "examine" their lives? Or not until they are critically ill? What about the younger ones you know? Unless they verbalize it we can't tell about others.


    May 19, 2005 - 10:22 am
    Well while I have been trying to plant and hoe and feed the green things growing in my yard you all have been busy ..and what a selection and again I am often amazed to find the poems I have loved and read and cherished over the years are poems others share ..thanks for everyone of them..today I chose a poem by another of my favorite poets..and I cant say why but sometimes I will read a dozen or more poems to post one here. and all of a sudden one will cause me to go back and read again and whisper to me "I AM THE ONE" so here is my choice for today..anna

    When You Are Old

    WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

    William Butler Yeats

    Jim in Jeff
    May 19, 2005 - 03:14 pm
    annafair, what a wonderful thought to share with us today(your Yeats' "When you are old" gem). And I think it accidentally partly responds to MarjV's provoking query, "What type of folks today "examine their lives?".

    Yeats' poem suggests it's mainly the "old and grey." But I think today's YOUNG also wrestle with what the meaning of life" is for them.

    Douglas Adams' "Life, the Universe, and Everything" phrase in his "Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy" sci-fi books addresses this issue. And so have those many 1960s-movement singer-songwriters: Bob Dylan; Joan Collins; Joni Mitchell: Hank Williams; Stevie Wonder; Kris Kristofferson; Roy Orbison; Harry Chapin; Joan Baez; Gordon Lightfoot; Jim Croce; Anne Murray; and other 60s singer/songwriters.

    Good poets, all. Each strove to articulate a "meaning of life." I suspect that same movements exist in today's young poets too.

    So: No, I don't see "reflecting on meaning of life" being solely an endeavor of the "old and grey." And that for me is...encouraging.

    May 19, 2005 - 03:59 pm
    AnnaFair, I agree. I think young people also examine their lives. I believe the Hippie generation began the idea of questioning and looking into the inner souls and asking why instead of just taking actions because of traditions. .

    With older people, I think, the mind automatically begins to examine self and question why.

    Jim in Jeff
    May 19, 2005 - 04:17 pm
    Hats, I agree with your agreement with Annafair's poem. I also second your thought that the Hippie generation began a major movement of younger folks' reflections on the "meaning-of-life."

    To ALL: My earlier naming 1960s singer/songwriters has stirred my memory of a former fave song/poem, Anne Murray's: You Needed Me":

    I cried a tear
    You wiped it dry
    I was confused
    You cleared my mind
    I sold my soul
    You bought it back for me
    And held me up and gave me dignity
    Somehow you needed me.

    You gave me strength
    To stand alone again
    To face the world
    Out on my own again
    You put me high upon a pedestal
    So high that I could almost see eternity
    You needed me
    You needed me.

    And I can't believe it's you
    I can't believe it's true
    I needed you and you were there
    And I'll never leave,
    Why should I leave.
    I'd be a fool
    'Cause I've finally found
    Someone who really cares.

    (Repeat Chorus)

    You held my hand
    When it was cold
    When I was lost
    You took me home
    You gave me hope
    When I was at the end
    And turned my lies
    Back into truth again
    You even called me friend.

    (Repeat Chorus); then:

    You needed me
    You needed me.

    Scrawler, thanks for taking time to info us that the "Alter" poem was Emily. No wonder, I'd earlier liked it!

    May 20, 2005 - 04:33 am
    Gives way to thoughts of life from all of us..Jeff you are right young people do question life and they should because if they dont they will miss so much..I know while I question life now as a senior I did so when I was young as well and Jeff thanks so much for giving the song poem of Anne Murray ...I have many of her records and love her voice and that particular song but since my hearing is not what it was I dont always understand the words

    One reason I recall so many words from songs of years past there was a small magazine that came out monthly (?) or more often and it had all the lyrics from all the popular songs. I would read them in good weather sitting in the swing on our front porch..encased in the moon vines my mother planted to give us a "green room" and sing to my hearts content..so you gave me a double gift the lyrics You needed me and a memory almost forgotten,,anna

    May 20, 2005 - 04:41 am
    There was no sun this morning , just grey skies and rain,..the sound of rain on the skylight over my bed woke me very early and I went to the window and stared into a grey world,The ground was wet and there came a rabbit hopping about , chewing small clumps of grass and a flock of starling flew down to see what they could find in the freshly tilled garden my oldest son turned up for me yesterday..So of course I looked for a poem about rain and found this one..which also gives me pause ..anna
    There Will Come Soft Rains 
    Sara Teasdale

    There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

    And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum-trees in tremulous white.

    Robins will wear their feathery fire Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

    And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.

    Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly;

    And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone.

    May 20, 2005 - 07:18 am
    I lost a world the other day.

    Has anybody found?

    You'll know it by the row of stars

    Around its forehead bound.

    A rich man might not notice it;

    Yet to my frugal eye

    Of more esteem than ducts.

    Oh, find it, sir, for me!

    If anyone has watched a tiny babe lying in their crib examining their toes and fingers, you know that we are curious about the world around us from the moment we are born until the time we pass away.

    Jim in Jeff
    May 20, 2005 - 08:52 am
    Annafair, parts of your rainy-day Teasdale poem caused me to recall one by Stephen Crane (another American poet I liked):

    A man said to the universe:
    "Sir I exist!"
    "However," replied the universe,
    "The fact has not created in me
    A sense of obligation."

    -- Stephen Crane

    Scrawler, your "Time and Eternity" post is, almost surely, sweet Emily again...!

    Jan Sand
    May 20, 2005 - 10:34 am



    The world is old, is old, is old,

    Of broken stones

    And splintered bones

    And shattered shells

    And dust.


    The rivers clog with silted hopes

    And fractured dreams

    And stunted thoughts

    And dated gods

    And rust.


    The fragments churn and drift to sea,

    The trilobites

    And dinosaurs

    And Balshazaar

    And you

    And me.


    Jan Sand
    May 20, 2005 - 11:29 am

    If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
      That you were gone, not to return again --
    Read from the back-page of a paper, say,
      Held by a neighbor in a subway train,
    How at the corner of this avenue
      And such a street (so are the papers filled)
    A hurrying man -- who happened to be you --
      At noon to-day had happened to be killed,
    I should not cry aloud -- I could not cry
      Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place --
    I should but watch the station lights rush by
      With a more careful interest on my face,
    Or raise my eyes and read with greater care
    Where to store furs and how to treat the hair

    Jim in Jeff
    May 20, 2005 - 05:46 pm
    WOW, Jan Sand! Your Millay's rather morbid post wasn't much like her voice in many of her other poems...a bit of a shocker, to me. It's hers, tho. Thanks much, Jan, for sharing this with us forum folks here.

    You didn't "credit" your other post, "OLD." Is this one yours? A well-expressed thought, this word-picture, whoever its Creator.

    Jan Sand
    May 20, 2005 - 08:21 pm
    Yes, mine.

    Jan Sand
    May 20, 2005 - 09:36 pm


    This I do, being mad:
    Gather baubles about me,
    Sit in a circle of toys, and all the time
    Death beating the door in.

    White jade and an orange pitcher,
           Hindu idol, Chinese god, —
    Maybe next year, when I’m richer—
           Carved beads and a lotus pod. . . .

    And all this time
    Death beating the door in.


    May 21, 2005 - 04:49 am
    To say I love your poem OLD doesnt really tell you how much it moved me...simple and direct it moved me..thanks for sharing it.

    And if we are to think of Millay I will share the first poem of hers that I memorized in High School ..If you had all the credits required for graduation in your senior year you could take all these half year fun classes. One I chose was Drama with a Mr Bacon ( perfect name for a drama class) as teacher..He had a recording machine and we made small 6" records of "readings" and I chose Millay's poem "God's World" a couple of years ago in book discussions I helped lead the discussion of biography THE SAVAGE BEAUTY and of course we discussed many of her poems that were not included in the book..here is the poem I memorized so many years ago. anna


    O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

    Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this: Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart. --Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me, --let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.


    May 21, 2005 - 08:01 am
    I love the 'Old' poem! It's what I'm feeling on a dark, damp, dreary, day. Did I miss summer all together? It seems we went from a taste of summer in January and February directly to winter in March, April and now May. Go figure!

    Here's another Emily Dickinson poem:

    After a hundred years Nobody knows the place, - Agony, that enacted there, Motionless as peace.

    Weeds triumphant ranged, Strangers strolled and spelled At the lone orthography Of the elder dead.

    Winds of summer fields Recollect the way, - Instinct picking up the key Dropped by memory.

    ~ Emily Dickinson.

    May 21, 2005 - 09:51 am
    "Siege" is a very loud poem. It reminds me of how people frantically gather paraphenalia of material goods in the hope/s of happiness. And the hurry-upness of it all.

    "God's World" reminds of how there are so few words that make sense when you really see something beautiful in nature. "My soul is all but out of me". .

    Jim in Jeff
    May 21, 2005 - 04:43 pm
    Seeing ESVM's "Seige" and "God's World" closely juxtaposed here reminds me that MANY of our good poets could express different emotions in different poems. Millay's...and sweet Emily's too, IMHO.

    OTOH, others of our good poets were more "one-dimensional." Room for both types, should we find time to get to know them better.

    I too find Jan's "Old" a most-moving poem. Perfect "rhythm" too. Thanks!

    Scrawler, your "Did I miss summer altogether..." makes me wonder if you post from "down under" (or elsewhere in southern hemisphere). At any rate, your latest Emily poem was for me, "spot on" (as they put it, down under). I've recently moved back to my roots, and am revisiting the old farmhouse, and some now-unattended graveyards...revisits of LOVE.

    Annafair, you've set a nice place here. Nice houseguests to help make it so, too.

    May 23, 2005 - 05:51 am
    Jim I am glad you arrived and enjoying this quiet place. There are many who tell me while they dont post they visit here, calling it a quiet place. That pleases me because while poetry can cause you to question much about the world and isnt always "sweet" there is special quality to poetry that allows us to look at the world through different eyes.

    For some reason every once in awhile sleep eludes me and last night was one of those times. When I finally fell asleep it was time to arise and let my dog out and feed him.In the corridors of my mind are dozens of poems , memorized over the years and this is one whose last verse I recited when I my dog let me know it was time for me to get up..Perhaps some of you know it too..anna


    Hymn To The Night

    I Heard the trailing garments of the Night

    Sweep through her marble halls!

    I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light

    From the celestial walls!

    I felt her presence, by its spell of might,

    Stoop o'er me from above;

    The calm, majestic presence of the Night,

    As of the one I Love.

    I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,

    The manifold, soft chimes,

    That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,

    Like some old poet's rhymes.

    From the cool cisterns of the midnight air

    My spirit drank repose;

    The fountains of perpetual peace flows there, --

    From those deep cisterns flows.

    O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear

    What man has borne before!

    Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,

    And they complain no more.

    Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!

    Descend with broad-winged flight,

    The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,

    The best-loved Night!

    May 23, 2005 - 06:06 am
    Thank you Annafair, While reading 'Hymn to the Night,' I felt a sense of peace. Not all my night have been so peaceful. The nights when I rest peacefully and get a full night's sleep are memorable the next morning. I wish all nights were "most fair." We wish it for all those we love. I guess that's why we say "Sweet dreams."

    Jan Sand
    May 23, 2005 - 07:10 am



    I do not sleep the long smooth sleeps of childhood now

    Tight filled with wispy lights and gentle joys,

    With black teeth dripping icy frights,

    With colored flapping flying toys

    And fields of copper glinting dragons

    Lolling beneath purple suns

    On downs of golden chest high grass

    Which hang above a clear green sea

    That foams at cliffs of tinted glass.

    Still, some nights I launch myself from rooftops

    Flying in a swift and silent glide

    Above the tiny streets to land again and launch again

    And feel the freedom and delight

    Of soaring, floating through the night.

    Mostly now I taste my sleeps in smaller bites.

    I slide in short swift skirmishes

    Between the long and lonely memories

    And the desperations crystalized

    On the velvet matrix of the night

    And think the things

    That could have been

    And should have been

    And might have been

    Had my life gone glittering

    Like my jewels of the night.


    May 23, 2005 - 09:03 am
    Jim in Jeff you asked where I live. I live in Portland, Oregon and today it is 70 degrees and fair.

    I just read the news about Pat Tillman and how the army and administration botched things last year. I knew this young man when I lived in San Jose,California, so it saddens me to here this. This poem is for him although I originally wrote it for my own son who passed away:

    The Raging Storm

    Outside a storm raged
    Lightning streaked through the sky
    Thunderbolts rattled the windows

    He was silhouetted against the dark sky
    Tossing and turning his hospital bed
    His voice sank to an exhausted moan

    The smell of antisptic
    The smell of fear
    The smell of death was in the air

    His skin a pasty white
    An intense young man
    His eyes still sparkled with intelligence

    A mere three months ago
    He had been full of humor
    So full of life

    The night so black closed around
    Lightning streaked and thunder rattled
    As my son's spirit raged with the outside storm

    May 23, 2005 - 10:06 am
    Thank you for sharing that Scrawler. It touched me deeply.

    The site is scrolling again -- too wide for the screen. You can stop it on your computer, if you go to OUTLINE, scroll to the bottom, hit RECENT, go down and click on #1285 (Hats' post).

    May 23, 2005 - 10:25 am

    Your words moved me too. Your loss comes through in all the words.

    May 23, 2005 - 01:26 pm
    I echo Joan and Hats, Scrawler.\ I admire your talent that gives you the room to express like that.

    Jan, your night poem sure had some lines that ring true with me.

    Anna, are you keeping that doggie now as yur own?


    Jim in Jeff
    May 23, 2005 - 04:41 pm
    Glad to hear it's not just MY problem. There's MANY individual causes/solutions for senior's sleep problems though, I think.

    Here's a "poetry/music" combination that has helped me lately. It's an NPR radio station that weekly airs "The Romantic Hours." It purports to "tie evocative music with thoughtful writings (letters, poetry, prose)." (Their words, but I agree that that is what they do.)

    I enjoy trying to fall asleep to it whenever I'm abed when it airs here (10-11PM, Mondays). On other nights their weekly program can be heard on I-net at: http://www.classicaliscool.com/romantichours.html

    There, click on "Listen to the Romantic Hours now" button, then play it in background while browsing other I-net sites...like I'm doing here now.

    I'm not sure if I'm listening to last week's or next week's "Romantic Hours" airing. Doesn't matter; all are good mixes of poetry and music.

    May 23, 2005 - 08:00 pm
    feelings on reading your poem Scrawler ..I could feel the tears start in my heart and work themselves past the lump in my throat before they touched my eyes ..All of my lossed have been timely deaths, appearing late in life and in some cases after terrible illnesses ..they were hard enough to bear but to lose a child that would be my greatest nightmare..thank you so much for sharing ..I am sure it wasnt easy to do ...Hugs across the miles..anna

    May 23, 2005 - 08:20 pm
    Your poetry is so special and I thank you for sharing them..I guess each of us find our sleep patterns different than when we were a child. And the dreams of my childhood are so different than the dreams of my aging soul.. I still dream and in color but somehow they are not the dreams of the young but the dreams of someone who has lived a lot, loved a lot and now has lost a lot..

    And Jim oh if I could hear again as I did once. We had a radio program here years ago and when my husband was away I went to sleep with the radio on..the music was mixed but was always good and the program host had the most wonderful voice and he would read poetry ..and sometimes they would make me weep but always they would soothe me and let me sleep ...I am glad you have a program you can enjoy and hope those that would enjoy and benefit can find them too.

    Marj well I am the keeper of the dog at least until my daughter has her baby and perhaps even after. She had her first two when she was 27 and 28 and now at 37 it will be a bit different I know I have been there ..and done that. But he is a dear , sweet Golden and he is like family ..so I am not sure how long he will be mine but in the meantime I am enjoying him although he is a funny dog..I keep buying him doggie toys and he keeps hiding them and cant remember where they are..I refuse to allow him to take them outdoors as we are missing some now ..and he tries to sneak them out which I find funny..But he is good about waiting for me to let him out still I know the time comes when he cant wait and so I HAVE to let him out. And this am believe me I was reciting the last verse of that poem..and just wanted to go back to bed..hope everyone has a good night's rest and SWEET DREAMS TO ALL. anna

    May 23, 2005 - 10:01 pm
    Thank you, Jim and Jeff for that link. I listened to the program about Lizt and his lover, it was very touching.

    Jan Sand
    May 23, 2005 - 10:19 pm



    The sharp cold corners of the day

    Deny the soft foundries where the I

    Undoes all regulation. Not location

    Nor chopping minutes disciplines

    Can marshal marching corps from liquid instances

    That infiltrate the secret places of the psyche.


    Here an eyelash curl can twirl a galaxy.

    Here the warm flesh of sex and ecstasy

    Erects municipalities of rushing blood,

    Of thick fluid smells and salty flavors

    Which dissolve known pathways into broken chasms.

    Landscapes out of continuities erupt, slide, and slump.

    Sounds bark or tinkle into coruscating creatures

    That dance or threaten, invite or pursue

    Bedecked in pointed talons, needle teeth,

    Enrobed in smoking clouds that twist and hiss.

    The waking mind cannot confront quotidian cascades

    From all the senses, pure and direct.

    It must shunt the horrific flow to holding pits

    Where trap doors creak wide only in the dark

    Wherein the exploring eye may adventure

    Safely cloaked in the insanity of sleep.


    May 24, 2005 - 04:37 am
    Jim in Jeff, thank you for the links. I will enjoy and have some fun.

    Jan Sand, thank you for another poignant poem.

    May 24, 2005 - 08:40 am
    A SEPAL, petal, and a thorn
    Upon a common summer's morn
    A flash of dew, a bee or two,
    A breeze
    A caper in the trees, -
    And I'm a rose!
    ~Emily Dickinson

    Thank you for your kind words.

    May 24, 2005 - 09:06 am
    Scrawler, I like that one. Thanks.

    Jim in Jeff
    May 24, 2005 - 04:42 pm
    Someone I'd sometimes imitate when non-close friends up and ask me in polite conversation: "How are you?" Or "How've you been?" I'd often say: "Grrrreeeeat! Tony the Tiger great!" With friends, I'd be honored for their sincere concern, and reply honestly (or less flippantly anyway).

    Voice of Tony (with many other well-known credits) died at age 91 today. Click here for Tony the Tiger's obit.

    This might not be word-poetry related. But it's (a bit of a stretch maybe) performance-related poetry to some of us Tiger fans.

    Jan Sand
    May 24, 2005 - 07:24 pm




    I see the tiger in the zoo

    With days and months and years

    Of nothing to do.

    His yellow eyes are filled

    With infinities of tragedies.

    This box of iron has willed

    He must carry to and fro

    His heavy yellow yearnings

    Whose wish is just to go.


    Some delinquent night I could try

    To slip back here, when the moon,

    Blindfolded by a cloud, its eye

    Undiscerning to permit

    The mice and me

    A modicum of



    I would find the tiger’s cage unlocked.

    “Come!”, I would beckon with my finger

    And, in delight and surprise,

    He would arise.

    At first, in haste, we would not linger.

    A quiet thunder in his throat

    Would reveal an urgent note

    And we would quickly pace

    To make ourselves remote. 


    Through the murky alleyways

    And ill-lit streets we would flee.

    I would scout ahead

    And he would follow me

    Until we reached the sanctuary of my place

    Where the doorman, ever discrete,

    Would let us in

    And gaze politely at his feet.


    Up the elevator we would ride,

    My finger on the button to my floor

    With the tiger, yawning, at my side.

    And then to bed

    Where I would snooze

    With the tiger stretched upon the rug

    Which he would choose.


    Next morning, in the bright of day,

    We would make our plans.

    I would figure out a way,

    While making scrambled eggs

    In several frying pans,

    How we would spend our day.

    But first, I must teach him

    To perambulate on two legs.


    That done, he’d don a derby hat,

    A cut down pair of jeans

    And, above that,

    A sweater, turtle neck

    And running shoes.

    And then, we’d hit the deck.


    On our morning’s stroll

    He’d twitch his ears

    At the taxi hoots, the buses’ growl

    And suppress his disconcerting thought

    About the city traffic clatter.

    He will wonder why I brought

    Him from his sterile sanctum

    Into the nerve-wracking panic.

    But it really wouldn’t matter.


    Offhandedly he’d gobble down

    A dog or two,

    Perhaps, a pigeon and a sparrow.

    This would cause distress.

    I cautioned his ability

    To violate finesse

    He must maintain civility,

    Or we’d end up in a mess.


    Back at home, we’d discourse on

    Basic metaphysics.

    I’d do the dishes while he’d dry

    And juggle them for kicks.

    Nietzsche was his man, of course,

    While I inclined to Kant.

    He’d speak incessantly with force

    With a tendency to rant.


    In the end, he’d do well.

    His personality was strong.

    Wall Street was his first aim

    But he’d ended in Hong Kong.

    He’d be successful, as things go,

    Being so relentless,

    Becoming a rich CEO

    Totally repentless.

    May 25, 2005 - 05:23 am
    Hi Jim in Jeff,

    I am very sorry to hear about the death of Mr. Ravenscroft. His voice roaring "Grreeeat!" lives in my memory. Tony the Tiger's voice is another wonderful childhood memory. Thanks for the link.

    Jan Sand, I loved your "Tiger" poem. I am so glad the tiger was set free and allowed to enjoy his fill of scrambled eggs. I like this poem a lot. You must have a soft heart for animals/pets.

    May 25, 2005 - 08:51 am
    Tony the tiger dead! No!How sad.

    Who has not found the heaven below
    Will fail of it above
    God's residence is next to mine
    His furniture is love.

    ~Emily Dickinson

    May 25, 2005 - 03:14 pm
    My Everything

    When it comes to words said that I do not hear, You hear them for me. When it comes to people that try to hurt me, Your shield protects me. When it comes to words needing to be spoken, You say them for me. When I feel I am drowning in a pool of misery, Your love saves me. When I feel smothered in a world full of deception, You show me reality. When I feel I no longer can breathe, You breathe life into me. When I feel I am lost and alone, You remind me you are there for me. You are my world I live and believe in, You are my everything.

    May 25, 2005 - 04:07 pm
    I echo the thanks for the music link!

    The tiger poem is just great. I don't go to zoos because I don't like to see animals caged. These natural habitats at least are a step up from cages. ANd think of the circus animals. There must be poem there also.

    Jim in Jeff
    May 25, 2005 - 04:44 pm
    Septemberrose, what a beautiful "love poem"! Can you recall its source? Was it YOURS, or anothers? I'm moved, so is a sincere wish.

    Jan: Trust you to have an original poem about...nearly any of many things. Your "Tiger" odyssey is one of your best, IMHO. Here's another (older) famous poem about tigers. I'll just cite the 1st of its 6 verses here. English poet William Blake's late 1700s title was "The Tyger," written about the time we were parting from England:

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    Blake goes on for another five verses...but his 1st verse kinda reflects his poem in a nutshell, I think.

    Marjv, your concern for animals caged is mine too. I'm even a sometimes member of "Animal Welfare Institute," a USA lobbying group for animal rights.

    But today, our planet is becoming so humanity-populated that some animal species have no natural habitats anymore. And it'll only get worse in future. So we try to preserve our current animal species in zoos and in zoological parks/zones. For some of these species, it's already the only way for them to survive extinction.

    It's our faults, so it's on our shoulders to work to somehow keep the remaining animal species as intact as we can.

    Sad to add, that now requires our keeping certain species in zoos or larger zoological parks. A losing battle, but we have to keep trying.

    Jim in Jeff
    May 25, 2005 - 05:38 pm
    Scrawler, your lates