# Poetic Food For Thought



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

I like to read poetry, and sometimes I even write bad poetry myself. A while ago I discovered a poet out of Nashville and I really liked his stuff. So much so that I actually purchased the first book of poetry I&#8217;ve bought in a long while. 

Many of the posts lately caused these two poems to stand out in my mind as I was reading last night, so I thought I would share them &#8211; maybe someone else will also find value in them. 

The poet is K. A. Brace, you can buy his book &#8220;To Travel Without A Map&#8221; from Amazon. His website is http://themirrorobscura.com/ All credits go to him for these two poems.

*Without a Net*

Tonight will be done without a net.
Tonight there will not even be a wire.
I am determined to walk on air.
No longer a trick of balance,
Leaning one way then the other;
A test of faith in the hearts
Caught in the throats
Of those below
Who have come only to see
A fall tonight
Or to say it was nothing special.

It&#8217;s true anyone can fall and eventually will.
It&#8217;s the fear of failure
That keeps one with a net, on a wire.
Now there is no fear of the ground below,
It has ceased to exist in what used to be
The confines of my mind
That made me shy of believing
Life is made in broader strokes to dare,
Thinner than any line we walk.
It takes great leaps
To circumvent
The &#8216;cannot&#8217; from the &#8216;done.&#8217;


*What You Get*

'You get what anybody gets,
He said, &#8216;you get a lifetime.&#8217;
God almighty I don&#8217;t k now
How many times I&#8217;ve had
To listen to him say it. Over
And over, again and again,
Like some fortune cookie mantra.
In all that time, apart from
The obvious, it never made
An ounce of sense to my way
Of thinking.

One day, a month ago.
As I was coming out of the deli,
I looked up and saw a crowd
Of people standing on a corner.
Suddenly from nowhere 
A man bolted like lightning
Into the walkway where a kid
Had wandered into against the light
It was dusk, the light was bad,
The truck slammed its brakes,
They were both gone that quick.

I still can&#8217;t have it make a difference
In my life, in how I live.
But, at least now when he says it,
I understand what he means.​

Happy Monday 
~ST


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## foxfiredidit (Apr 15, 2003)

Very good ST, and somewhat deeper than what I'd like to add if you don't mind. I read this one yesterday. Although its not my cup-o-tea as per usual, it is an okay verse or two. 


This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.​ ​ In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor&#8217;s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.​ ​ This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.​ The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.​ No lust, no slam of the door &#8211;
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.​ No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor &#8211;
just a twinge every now and then​ for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.​ ​ But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.​ After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,​ so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.​ _- Billy Collins _​


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## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

*Use to be lots of people share poetry here, guess they mostly have taken a break. I enjoyed these poems, thanks for sharing, this one is 189 years old ....jim
*



*Break, Break, Break*


By  Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Break, break, break, 
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

O, well for the fisherman's boy, 
That he shouts with his sister at play! 
O, well for the sailor lad, 
That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break 
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me.


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## homstdr74 (Jul 4, 2011)

The general tenor of the times has this poem recurring in my thought processes:

*THE SECOND COMING*

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity. 

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.


The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)


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## Ramblin Wreck (Jun 10, 2005)

Went to undergraduate school with the guy who wrote the poem below. He was always writing poetry, or at least it seemed so then, I think in preparation for graduate school. He was building a body of work for his theses and dissertation. 



*It was a fingernail moon that rose
Over the bank of the silent river
Where the boy watched from the gnarled tree.
He was captured by the crescent shape,
Caught by the point of the moon.

The moon glimmered over the darkened river.
The mud-green water was as firm as flesh
Where the boy sat in the mangled tree.
In his hand he held a twisted branch,
Wet with the sap where he broke it.

He struck the water with the branch,
Buried the moon in the mud-green sludge,
But the light reappeared as he pulled out the limb;
The mud fell from the stick in thick drops--
Back into the river, back into the moon.*​


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## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

"The falcon cannot hear the falconer", every line in this poem is incredible and perfect, one of the best ever written and definetely appropriate in our time. Was the inspiration behind the classic novel, "Things fall apart". My favorite Yeats is "The host of the air." bit dark but seems to me he was inspired to write it after seeing a friends funeral pass by. 
The second coming always reminds me of Audens poem "Musee Des Beaux Arts", "Icarus", still falling from the sky.


*The Host Of The Air*

O'DRISCOLL drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.
He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.
The dancers crowded about him
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.
The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.
He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.
He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.
O'Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay. 
William Butler Yeats
*

Musee des Beaux Arts * W. H. Auden 
About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Awesome thread, ST.  Obviously more than a few poetry lovers around here.

An old favorite of mine:

ANTICIPATION

I think he ought to practice,
but he won't; he ought to get used to things.
It's death, I say; get ready.
But he goes on talking about life.
He liked it here, he had a good time.
You would, too, he says, if you'd relax.
I can't, I tell him, this is too much for me.
For me, too, he says, but so what. He's not dead yet.
I've lived my life by pretending what's coming
is already here. I said my wife was gone
months before she left. Anticipation -- for me
that was the key. But he goes on eating peaches,
planning for spring, hooking the holes of his life
to the cleats of the future. It won't come,
everyone can see this. Death's
taking over the property. I look up,
for an estate about to be built,
and I don't know the first thing about hammers
or nails. I roll him to the window
so he can see, but to him the sky is delight,
and the clouds are just puffs and white china dogs.

-- Charlie Smith



And another that I fell in love with more recently:

THE BARS

After work I would go to the little bars
Along the bright-green river, Chloeâs Lounge,
Cloverleaf, Barleycorn, it was like dying
To sit at 5 P.M. with a Bud so cold
It had no taste, it stung my hand,
When I returned home I missed my keys
And rang until my wifeâs delicate head
Emerged in her high window and retreated
Like a snail tucked into a luminous shell â
I couldnât find my wallet, or my paycheck,
Though I drank nothing, only a few sips
That tasted like night air, a ginger ale,
Nevertheless a dozen years passed, a century,
Always I teetered on that high stool
While the Schlitz globe revolved so slowly,
Disclosing Africa, Asia, Antarctica,
Until I was a child, they would not serve me,
They handed me a red hissing balloon
But for spite I let it go, for the joy
Of watching it climb past Newton Tool & Dye,
For fear of cherishing it, for the pang
Of watching it vanish and knowing
Myself both cause and consequence.

-- D. Nurkse


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## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

I'm so glad to find kindred spirits here  Please continue to add things that speak to you.

I'm feeling ambitious today, so I'm including here a poem that I wrote after a road trip through the TN mountains at the end of last year. It's part of a compilation of my own (not for publishing or any such thing), but as a way to record feelings during a time period of transition in my life. Not comparable to the greats referenced here, but at least there is an audience of appreciative types around. 

Un Chance 

'Ignore them' she mouths silently...

Those little pains that settle around the heart, like arthritis in joints
Creaking a little when we try to stretch our heart towards something new
Something lighter and different than the past presented us

Ambivalence sets in like a sea fog, clearly we see for a moment
Then possibilities are obscured again by mists of former things
And we find ourselves straining for that clarity again

Voices of our own concoction whisper, oft positive for a fleeting moment
Swallowed up again by self-doubts and remembered pain
Off we skitter like tide-revealed fiddler crabs in retreat to our little holes

A soaring hawk captures our vision, Ah! to ride the currents with such grace and lack of fear
We ponder that freedom in the air beneath our feet
And stretch a bit more than comfortable in a brave moment

Always these choices remain ours, if we but embrace them
Soar or scurry away back to what is safe and sound and empty
Or trust in ourselves and others once again

'Reach out' she mouths silently...​
CopyrightÂ© S. M. King "Scraps Torn From A Diminutive Notebook" project 2013-2014


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## Jaclynne (May 14, 2002)

Something I wrote concerning depression.....

It happens silently.
You donât know and donât feel it creeping up
Until one day you wake to find yourself dead
 At the side of the road, not feeling anything.
How long have I lain here? 
 I wonder, but donât really care.
To care, Iâd have to feel
To ache, to hurt from pain inside and out.
To care, Iâd have to feel
The joy of the everyday moment
To care, Iâd have to feel
The gift of grace and mercy.
But I donât feel anything, so I choose
I choose to believe.
Believe in the everyday moment,
Believe in the gift of grace and mercy.
Though I cannot feel, I believe.
And believe, and believe, and believe
âTill one day, a sharp pain pierces my heart,
My eyes swell with tears and I laugh
Iâm alive again.


Jackie


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## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

Beautiful poem ST, sort of reminds of "the love songs of J Alfred Prufrock". You have talent and courage to share it. Lots of talented writers here but some choose to hide their light. Really enjoying everyone's poems, favorites and originals. 
Last time I put an original poem on here the post count reversed itself by thousands and time actually went back to before I wrote the poem, hard to believe. jim
Try some lord Byron. 


*So We'll Go No More a Roving*


By Lord Byron. 

So, we'll go no more a roving 
So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 
And the moon be still as bright. 

For the sword outwears its sheath, 
And the soul wears out the breast, 
And the heart must pause to breathe, 
And love itself have rest. 

Though the night was made for loving, 
And the day returns too soon, 
Yet we'll go no more a roving 
By the light of the moon.


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## Guest (Feb 24, 2014)

I sleep with a poet. ...

Arcticow is in the midst of having his poems published...what a man!!!:sing:


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## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

Thank you woodenfires, quite the compliment to remind one of Eliot. My favorite pairing in that is these two lines...

"...Streets that follow like a tedious argument	
Of insidious intent..."

Many of my others are a bit more personal and not probably best for here. Maybe some others later, after more brave souls post 

~ST


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

bostonlesley said:


> I sleep with a poet. ...
> 
> Arcticow is in the midst of having his poems published...what a man!!!:sing:


My goodness, congratulations to him! Hard enough to be published; poetry, doubly so. I'll look forward to hearing more -- how exciting!!


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## Ramblin Wreck (Jun 10, 2005)

bostonlesley said:


> I sleep with a poet. ..:sing:


 Thank God he's not a drummer.


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## roadless (Sep 9, 2006)

This classic is where my name came from.


The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost


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## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

Another, older one, when I was trying to get my cadence back after my husband's death. It is more rough I think - I had difficulties finding my way back, and have often suffered times I couldn't write a thing at all.


Erasure

Inside of my mind by swipes of my own hands I haul you out
Stroke by stroke, the fine memory of a straying hair
Upon your forehead

Out from the depths of past visions I force my thoughts
Iota by iota, the reminiscence of the freckles on your back
Nestled against my chest

Reflections behind my eyes dance out another memory to release
Inch by inch, the musculature of strong runner's thighs
Toes touching toes

Dawn breaks and with it memories of you scatter like pieces in a kaleidoscope
Tumbling faintly, jagged edge against jagged edge
You are not here - erasure complete​
CopyrightÂ© S. M. King "Scraps Torn From A Diminutive Notebook" project 2013-2014


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## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

Excerpt from Whitman's "Song of Myself"

3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail, learnâd and unlearnâd feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfiedâI see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread,
Leaving me baskets coverâd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead?


That whole poem just makes me smile 

~ST


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## po boy (Jul 12, 2010)

*Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night*

*By Dylan Thomas 1914&#8211;1953Dylan Thomas*



Do not go gentle into that good night, 
Old age should burn and rave at close of day; 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, 
Because their words had forked no lightning they 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright 
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, 
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight 
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

And you, my father, there on the sad height, 
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[ame]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6AcbTMyK7Y[/ame]


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## willow_girl (Dec 7, 2002)

"Musee des Beaux Arts" has always been one of my favorites. Thanks for sharing it!​


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## Darren (May 10, 2002)

_&#8216;Here we are, all of us: in a dream-caravan,
A caravan, but a dream &#8211; a dream, but a caravan.
And we know which are the dreams.
Therein lies the hope.&#8217;_


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## Guest (Feb 25, 2014)

This , along with other inspirational writings, helped me back to what I call "normal" years ago.................


INVICTUS

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul. 

William Ernest Henley


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

NIGHT THOUGHTS

Stars, you are unfortunate, I pity you, 
Beautiful as you are, shining in your glory, 
Who guide seafaring men through stress and peril 
And have no recompense from gods or mortals, 
Love you do not, nor do you know what love is. 
Hours that are aeons urgently conducting 
Your figures in a dance through the vast heaven, 
What journey have you ended in this moment, 
Since lingering in the arms of my beloved 
I lost all memory of you and midnight.


-- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


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## frogmammy (Dec 8, 2004)

bostonlesley said:


> I sleep with a poet. ...
> 
> Arcticow is in the midst of having his poems published...what a man!!!:sing:


FANTASTIC!!!

Mon


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## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

*The road less traveled has always been my favorite poem. I remember being at that fork in the road, looking back there was only one choice, all we can ever have. jim*



*The Circle Game*

by Joni Mitchell 

Yesterday a child came out to wonder
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar 
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder 
And tearful at the falling of a star 

Then the child moved ten times round the seasons
Skated over ten clear frozen streams 
Words like when you're older must appease him 
And promises of someday make his dreams

And the seasons they go round and round 
And the painted ponies go up and down 
We're captive on the carousel of time 
We can't return we can only look 
Behind from where we came 
And go round and round and round 
In the circle game * 

Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now 
Cartwheels turn to car wheels thru the town 
And they tell him take your time it won't be long now
Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down 

And the seasons they go round and round 
And the painted ponies go up and down 
We're captive on the carousel of time 
We can't return we can only look 
Behind from where we came 
And go round and round and round 
In the circle game

So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty 
Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
They'llbe new dreams maybe better dreams and plenty
Before the last revolving year is through

And the seasons they go round and round 
And the painted ponies go up and down 
We're captive on the carousel of time 
We can't return we can only look 
Behind from where we came 
And go round and round and round 
In the circle game


*O Captain! My Captain!*


O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.


O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; 
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.


My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead. 


Walt Whitman


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## arcticow (Oct 8, 2006)

Robert Frost... Dairy farmer, also poet... Just saying'.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

If you have a heart, you can't help but be a fan of Neruda:

UNTITLED SONNET

I donât love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, 
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: 
I love you as one loves certain obscure things, 
secretly, between the shadow and the soul. 

I love you as the plant that doesnât bloom but carries 
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself, 
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose 
from the earth lives dimly in my body. 

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, 
I love you directly without problems or pride: 
I love you like this because I donât know any other way to love, 
except in this form in which I am not nor are you, 
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, 
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

-- Pablo Neruda


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## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

Neruda and Rumi - always so passionate and expressive. I've always had a soft spot for a man that can communicate well...

Thanks so much for everyone continuing to post poems that inspire you 

~ST


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## foxfiredidit (Apr 15, 2003)

When Cars Had Fins

So, I've got this old car,
a Hot Rod...
a serious piece of iron
a duel exhaust Rumbler
a tire smoking
gear shifting
full bore screaming
hunk of Detroit
vintage technology
guzzling $3 a gallon gasoline
and polluting the environment and
speeding my heart
like a mainline shot
of adrenalin
every time I step on the gas....

You can't get that 
from no Japaneeze
hunk of tin...
No matter if it does have
more technology involved
than the Apollo Moon Lander...

There ain't no substitute for
vintage American iron
thumping
un-economially
matching
beat for beat
the rhythm of my
teen age heart....

Sometimes
I go out and I
get in her and I
thromp on the accelerator
a half dozen times 
to get a
good shot of gas down the
carburetor and into the intake 
and in range of the spark plug/pistons
so I can turn over the starter and
listen to her catch and lope and
stutter into life,
running on seven cylinders
till that broken ring
worn camshaft
piston wakes up and even then
she doesn't 
smooth out....
'cause she ain't smooth...

Ain't supposed to be smooth...

She is meant to run with that
wicked kabooka kabooka
kabooka rumble
just like Ed Iskenderian
intended her to do...

I ease her into gear and 
slowly release the clutch and
she lurches and catches and
vibrates
like a rocket
waiting on the lunching pad for the countdown
and when I do gas her
she sings
rhythm and harmony
out of twin pipes
barks rubber between the
gears and pins me back
in my seat..

As the speedometer climbs and
my awareness of the likelihood of
some rookie police officer
out there
somewhere
who never had a chance
to chase down a
vintage piece of Hot Rod
history,
waiting, like a kid
anxious to loose his
virginity
causes me to
back off
just shy of 100 miles
an hour
and let her drift down to a
nearly acceptable
speed
'cause I don't want to
give him the
satisfaction....

The old cops
who grew up
street racing
like me
don't care....

They look the other way
or wave and smile
appreciating someone
willing to make a commitment
to keep a little bit
of the old life
alive...
a little longer
even if the odds
insurance prices
pollution laws
rust
and the
high cost of gasoline
stands against it.....

For there is something good
in the heart of an old man like me
who can remember
what it was like
to be a kid
in America
when cars
had fins.....



_Richard Peek_


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Still thinking about that Vette, eh, Fox?  (I know, I know, they didn't have fins....)


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

ST, I hope this doesn't spoil your thread. If you think it does, let me know before morning and I'll edit the post to put in something more noble. But I've always had a soft spot for bad poetry, too. I've posted this before, but it's such a favorite, I'm going to post it again for any who missed it the first time.

Some background: The little coastal town of Pismo Beach was located in the county where I used to live. Every year, they threw a Bad Poetry contest. The only requirements were 1) The poem be really bad; and 2) The poem had to mention Pismo Beach. Entries poured in from the world over. This one was my all-time favorite:


ETERNAL LOVE

We met in '71.

She was cuter than a bug's ear.
Of course, who isn't?
Mamma Cass, maybe. Golda Meir.
Mimi on the Drew Carey Show.
But through the love beads
and the bell bottoms, I saw beauty,

and I loved her, would love her
for an eternity.

Then an economics professor explained how long eternity lasted.
Picture a bird, he said.
Picking up a grain of sand in the Sahara
and carrying it, in its beak,
across Africa, across the Atlantic.
Battling headwinds
until it flapped on weary wings into New York City
and placed the tiny grain of sand on the floor of the Empire
State Building.

And then it flew back.

And got another grain of sand
and returned to New York
and yada yada yada.

Picture how long it would take this bird,
one grain of sand at a time,
to fill the Empire State Building
until it was bursting with sand.

The time it would take to do this, he said,
would equal one-billionth of a second
in eternity.

That was a long time, I agreed,
to love someone.

But I looked at her, and my heart sang it out again:
For an eternity.
So I asked him,
What if the bird was flying in sand from Pismo Beach?

We divorced in '80.


-- Vince Devlin


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## Ramblin Wreck (Jun 10, 2005)

That's funny Raeven. But here's something on the nobler side, in case you feel it is needed to "re-balance" the thread:

[FONT=Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif][SIZE=+1]The Charge Of The Light Brigade[/SIZE][/FONT][FONT=Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif][SIZE=+2]
[/SIZE][/FONT] 

[FONT=Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif][SIZE=-1]by Alfred, Lord Tennyson[/SIZE][/FONT] 

[FONT=Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif][SIZE=-1]Memorializing Events in the Battle of Balaclava, October 25, 1854
Written 1854
[/SIZE][/FONT] 

[FONT=Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]

[SIZE=-1]Half a league half a league, 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred: 
'Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns' he said: 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

'Forward, the Light Brigade!' 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 
Some one had blunder'd: 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do & die, 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 
Volley'd & thunder'd; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 
Rode the six hundred. 

Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army while 
All the world wonder'd: 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke; 
Cossack & Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter'd & sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not 
Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 
Volley'd and thunder'd; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse & hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 
O the wild charge they made! 
All the world wonder'd. 
Honour the charge they made! 
Honour the Light Brigade, 
Noble six hundred![/SIZE][/FONT]


----------



## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

I use to read that one as a kid wreck, thanks for the reminder. 
One of my great teachers in life has been Kahlil Gibran, his words remind me to be wary of traps, and that giving is living.

On Houses (short version)

And tell me, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses? 
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host and then a master?


Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.



On Giving
_ Kahlil Gibran_
You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?
And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the over prudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?
And what is fear of need but need itself?
Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable?

There are those who give little of the much which they have--and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.
And there are those who have little and give it all.
These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.
There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.
And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.
And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;
They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.
Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding;
And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.
And is there aught you would withhold?
All you have shall some day be given;
Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors'.

You often say, "I would give, but only to the deserving."
The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you.
And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream.
And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?
And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?
See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.
For in truth it is life that gives unto life while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

And you receivers... and you are all receivers... assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings;
For to be over mindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the freehearted earth for mother, and God for father. Kahlil Gibran​


----------



## arcticow (Oct 8, 2006)

Always liked The Charge of The Light Brigade, but really like Kipling's poem about the last twenty or so survivors in their old age... Last of The Light Brigade.


----------



## Guest (Feb 27, 2014)

Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember&#8217;d.

Hamlet, act 3, scene 1. The last line in the "to be or not to be" soliloquy


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

Ah woodenfires, my E-mail tagline for a very long time was a quote from Kahlil:

"Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow. Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments." ~ Khalil Gibran âThe Prophetâ (Houses)

And another favorite of mine of his:

View attachment 23909​
That's actually my Pinterest front page  Nice to see another who appreciates his works.

I'm loving all of the submissions, even the 'bad' one, lol! I've written plenty of bad ones myself 


~ST


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

In truth, to write a really bad poem, you have to be pretty good.


----------



## foxfiredidit (Apr 15, 2003)

:sob:Who submitted a bad one? :grump:


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

I think she meant the one I submitted from the Bad Poetry Contest about Pismo Beach.


----------



## foxfiredidit (Apr 15, 2003)

You are too kind.


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Not many would say that.


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## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

Raeven called it bad first. I only confessed to writing bad poetry myself! 

And now for a real poet:

"To laugh often and much"

To laugh often and much
to win the respect of intelligent people 
and the affection of children;
to earn the appreciation of honest critics 
and endure the betrayal of false friends;
to appreciate beauty;
to find the best in others;
to leave the world a bit better,
whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch 
or a redeemed social condition;
to know even one life has breathed easier 
because you have lived.
This is to have succeeded.

Author: Ralph Waldo Emerson

~ST


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

ALONE AND DRINKING UNDER THE MOON

Amongst the flowers I
am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
to drink with me, its reflection
and mine in the wine cup, just
the three of us; then I sigh
for the moon cannot drink,
and my shadow goes emptily along
with me never saying a word;
with no other friends here, I can
but use these two for company;
in the time of happiness, I
too must be happy with all
around me; I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me; while
still not drunk, I am glad
to make the moon and my shadow
into friends, but then when
I have drunk too much, we
all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on
these who have no emotion
whatsoever; I hope that one day
we three will meet again,
deep in the Milky Way.

-- Li Po


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## Guest (Feb 27, 2014)

One of my own, but I took out the words that would offend some of our dear ST readers, and replaced them with "Um-uh"
So:

Um-uh are Um-uh
Um-uh are Um-uh
If I had a Um-uh
I'd Um-uh your Um-uh.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

ROFL!! You know... I'm really starting to like this forum again.


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## Ramblin Wreck (Jun 10, 2005)

Zong, I think the full meaning comes out, even with the editing.


----------



## JohnnyLee (Feb 13, 2011)

There is much poetry in prose, if you read it right. Thinking of the High temperature for this weekend, 32 with freezing rain, I read White Fang again today, a book I first read when just a kid of 10 years old.

" It is not the way of the Wild to like movement. Life is an offence to it, for life is movement; and the Wild aims always to destroy movement. It freezes the water to prevent it running to the sea; it drives the sap out of the trees till they are frozen to their mighty hearts; and most ferociously and terribly of all does the Wild harry and crush into submission man -- man, who is the most restless of life, ever in revolt against the dictum that all movement must in the end come to the cessation of movement."

Jack London, "White Fang" Chapter One.


"Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.&#8221; 

Max Ehrmann, "Desiderata".

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Desiderata


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## roadless (Sep 9, 2006)

Johnny Lee, I had this poster on my wall for years, it really speaks to me, wise words.


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## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

*I have always found the last lines of this poem haunting. jim
*

*Mr. Flood's Party*


By  Edwin Arlington Robinson Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night 
Over the hill between the town below 
And the forsaken upland hermitage 
That held as much as he should ever know 
On earth again of home, paused warily. 
The road was his with not a native near; 
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud, 
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear: 

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon 
Again, and we may not have many more; 
The bird is on the wing, the poet says, 
And you and I have said it here before. 
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light 
The jug that he had gone so far to fill, 
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood, 
Since you propose it, I believe I will." 

Alone, as if enduring to the end 
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn, 
He stood there in the middle of the road 
Like Roland's ghost winding a silent horn. 
Below him, in the town among the trees, 
Where friends of other days had honored him, 
A phantom salutation of the dead 
Rang thinly till old Eben's eyes were dim. 

Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child 
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake, 
He set the jug down slowly at his feet 
With trembling care, knowing that most things break; 
And only when assured that on firm earth 
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men 
Assuredly did not, he paced away, 
And with his hand extended paused again: 

"Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this 
In a long time; and many a change has come 
To both of us, I fear, since last it was 
We had a drop together. Welcome home!" 
Convivially returning with himself, 
Again he raised the jug up to the light; 
And with an acquiescent quaver said: 
"Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might. 

"Only a very little, Mr. Floodâ 
For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do." 
So, for the time, apparently it did, 
And Eben evidently thought so too; 
For soon amid the silver loneliness 
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang, 
Secure, with only two moons listening, 
Until the whole harmonious landscape rangâ 

"For auld lang syne." The weary throat gave out, 
The last word wavered; and the song being done, 
He raised again the jug regretfully 
And shook his head, and was again alone. 
There was not much that was ahead of him, 
And there was nothing in the town belowâ 
Where strangers would have shut the many doors 
That many friends had opened long ago.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

woodenfires... that is a very evocative poem and I agree, the last lines are haunting. The subject is much similar to the one I posted previously and I suspect it had something to do with your choice. 

I like the progression of yours, though, of a man who gradually allowed himself to become irrelevant to friends, then realizes the loneliness that arose from that lack of care. I really enjoyed it -- hope you've got more to post. I suspect you do.


----------



## Oxankle (Jun 20, 2003)

You guys are raising memories that go way back, though I did not discover Khalil Gibran until a couple of years ago. Barb was surprised at that. She said she'd given every college kid in her circle a copy of his work. 

A Part of THE SKELETON IN ARMOR
&#8220;She was a Prince&#8217;s child, 
I but a Viking wild, 
And though she blushed and smiled, 
I was discarded! 
Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew&#8217;s flight, 
Why did they leave that night 
Her nest unguarded? 

&#8220;Scarce had I put to sea, 
Bearing the maid with me, 
Fairest of all was she 
Among the Norsemen! 
When on the white sea-strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 
Saw we old Hildebrand, 
With twenty horsemen. 

&#8220;Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast, 
When the wind failed us; 
And with a sudden flaw 
Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 
Laugh as he hailed us. 

&#8220;And as to catch the gale 
Round veered the flapping sail, 
&#8216;Death!&#8217; was the helmsman&#8217;s hail, 
&#8216;Death without quarter!&#8217; 
Mid-ships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel; 
Down her black hulk did reel 
Through the black water! 

&#8220;As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 
With his prey laden, &#8212; 
So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 
Bore I the maiden. 

&#8220;Three weeks we westward bore, 
And when the storm was o&#8217;er, 
Cloud-like we saw the shore 
Stretching to leeward; 
There for my lady&#8217;s bower 
Built I the lofty tower, 
Which, to this very hour, 
Stands looking seaward. 

&#8220;There lived we many years; 
Time dried the maiden&#8217;s tears; 
She had forgot her fears, 
She was a mother; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes, 
Under that tower she lies; 
Ne&#8217;er shall the sun arise 
On such another!
 Longfellow


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## foxfiredidit (Apr 15, 2003)

I first read that book, "The Prophet" about 1972 and have always had a copy around here. I gave one to each of my kids before they were married. Pretty good stuff.


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

I Have Found What You Are Like (by e e cummings)

i have found what you are like
the rain,

(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned

newfragile yellows

lurch and.press

âin the woods
which
stutter
and

sing
And the coolness of your smile is

stirringofbirds between my arms;but

i should rather than anything

have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,

your kiss

~ST


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

I adore e.e. cummings, he speaks to me, always has. I almost posted one of his yesterday... here it is:

I CARRY YOUR HEART

I carry your heart
I carry your heart with me (I carry it in
my heart) I am never without it (anywhere
I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
I fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

-- e.e. cummings


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## homstdr74 (Jul 4, 2011)

*Love's Secret*

​ NEVER seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind doth move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.
Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly:
He took her with a sigh
​[SIZE=+1]William Blake.[/SIZE] 1757â1827


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## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

Heres a few for some weekend reading. So glad you enjoyed Mr Floods party ms raeven, yours definitely reminded me. Great poems here, enjoying them all. 
Gibran came to me by accident, was in a second hand book store and overheard a conversation about how a guy sold his copy of the prophet that his mom had got him for xmas only to discover the same book again years later on the book shelf of a girl he was dating. I thought any book that operates in such a way was likely a good one, so I gave it a try and have been a huge fan since, some of his short story ones are incredible such as the "Violet and the Rose". Happy March! jim
*Closed Path*

I thought that my voyage had come to its end 
at the last limit of my power,---that the path before me was closed, 
that provisions were exhausted 
and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity. 

But I find that thy will knows no end in me. 
And when old words die out on the tongue, 
new melodies break forth from the heart; 
and where the old tracks are lost, 
new country is revealed with its wonders. 


-Rabindranath Tagore


Paul McCartney did the next one on "wings over America" I think, rewrote it a bit but same meaning.

*Richard Cory*

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked; 
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; 
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head. 


Edwin Arlington Robinson


Fate
Two shall be born the whole wide world apart
And speak in different tongues and have no thought
Each of the others being, and no heed;
And these, o'er unknown seas to unknown lands
Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death;
And all unconsciously shape each act
And bend each wandering step to this one end -
That one day out of darkness they shall meet
And read life's meaning in each others eyes.

And two shall walk some narrow way of life
So nearly side by side that should one turn 
Ever so little space left or right
They needs must stand acknowledged, face to face,
And yet, with wistful eyes that never meet,
With groping hands that never clasp, and lips
Calling in vain to ears that never hear,
They seek each other all their weary days
And die unsatisfied - and this is Fate!
Susan Marr Spaulding


Life
I bargained with Life for a penny,
And Life would pay no more,
However I begged at evening
When I counted my scanty store; For Life is a just employer,
He gives you what you ask,
But once you have set the wages,
Why, you must bear the task.
I worked for a menial's hire,
Only to learn, dismayed,
That any wage I had asked of Life,
Life would have paid. Jesse Rittenhouse


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## Jaclynne (May 14, 2002)

Stopping By The Woods...

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 soundâ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


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## vicker (Jul 11, 2003)

THE AMOROUS CANNIBAL

By Chris Wallace-Crabbe


Suppose I were to eat you
I should probably begin
with the fingers, the cheeks and the breasts
yet all of you would tempt me,
so powerfully spicy
as to discompose my choice.

While I gobbled you up
delicacy by tidbit
I should lay the little bones
ever so gently round my plate
and caress the bigger bones
like ivory talismans.

When I had quite devoured the edible you
(your tongue informing my voice-box)
I would wake in the groin of night
to feel, ever so slowly,
your plangent, ravishing ghost
munching my fingers and toes.

Here, with an awkward, delicate gesture
someone slides out his heart
and offers it on a spoon,
garnished with adjectives.


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## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

THE OBITUARIES

I peruse the daily notices for people
who have died where I once lived, keeping track 
 of periodic deaths: Friends, co-workers, even those of some I 
didnât adore.

This morning, something stark:
Riley O, beloved 15-year-old son, sweet
boy, of leukemia, after a courageous fight (is there any other?), on Valentineâs Day,
2014.

I didnât know.

The son of a once-close friend, daily walking partner, frequent dinner guest with husband, we
shared her pregnancy â her first â those deepest joys and anxieties, imparted in unobtrusive, panting tones, our
sojourns through the silent 
neighborhood in earliest mornings. Gray fog and bleak skies, ragged Cypress pines, like yearning guardians of the careless streets. 
Every day, we shared her imaginings of Parenthood,
her belly growing despite our dedicated exertions. Lots of time
to be old friends, talking.

âArenât you afraid?â I asked her once, revealing then
One guilty reason I remained child-free, knowing
I myself could not withstand the premature death of a child
I had borne. âOh,â she said,
âI never think of it.â

Today I knew my words, if remembered, haunted and hurt 
my old friend beyond comprehension. I wasnât even sure
if the larger kindness was to reach out to share sorrowful condolences, or give the gift to
say nothing at all.

-- Rae


Â©2014


----------



## vicker (Jul 11, 2003)

SONG FOR BABY-O, UNBORN

By Diane di Prima


Sweetheart
when you break thru
youâll find
a poet here
not quite what one would choose.

I wonât promise
youâll never go hungry
or that you wonât be sad
on this gutted
breaking
globe

but I can show you
baby
enough to love
to break your heart
forever


----------



## roadless (Sep 9, 2006)

" She was so busy forgetting, she couldn't take a single step into the future."

This quote was in a book I was reading. I actually had a physical reaction when I read it. I have since made some positive changes. 

They say when the student is ready a teacher appears. 
I am ready.


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

A snippet from _Le Testament d'Orphee_ (The Testament of Orpheus); a movie made before I was born. Not sure if it truly qualifies as poetry, but I liked it 

&#8220;I have sea foam in my veins, 
for I understand
the language of waves.&#8221;
~ Le Testament d&#8217;Orphee

~ST


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

THE SAD SHEPHERD

There was a man whom Sorrow named his Friend,
And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming,
Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming
And humming Sands, where windy surges wend:
And he called loudly to the stars to bend
From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they
Among themselves laugh on and sing always:
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Cried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story!
The sea swept on and cried her old cry still,
Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill.
He fled the persecution of her glory
And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping,
Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening.
But naught they heard, for they are always listening,
The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping.
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Sought once again the shore, and found a shell,
And thought, I will my heavy story tell
Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send
Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart;
And my own talc again for me shall sing,
And my own whispering words be comforting,
And lo! my ancient burden may depart.
Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim;
But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone
Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan
Among her wildering whirls, forgetting him.

-- Yeats


----------



## arcticow (Oct 8, 2006)

roadless said:


> " She was so busy forgetting, she couldn't take a single step into the future."
> 
> This quote was in a book I was reading. I actually had a physical reaction when I read it. I have since made some positive changes.
> 
> ...


Concerning the teacher... I believe folks find, more often, that the teacher has been there a while. The student, when ready, is able to recognize and accept the teacher...


----------



## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

I lost myself

In early childhood, I thought to win the world
but I could not,
I lost my thought.
I thought to be a high reputed person
but I could not, I am just an engineer.
I thought to be a rich man
but I could not be.
I thought to have a perfect life partner
but I could not get.
At last I thought about my thoughts,
I changed the angle to see the things.
I found that I am more happy with wings.
Arun Kumar


----------



## Twp.Tom (Dec 29, 2010)

Onstancy

Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!

Samuel Fletcher,1576-1625


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

View attachment 24715​
~st


----------



## Twp.Tom (Dec 29, 2010)

The Meeting Of The Waters

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Thomas Moore


----------



## homstdr74 (Jul 4, 2011)

Twp.Tom said:


> The Meeting Of The Waters
> 
> There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
> As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
> ...


The inspiration for that piece is an actual place:

[URL]http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avoca,_County_Wicklow[/URL]

which, as Moore noted, is evocative of much inspiration. I have been there and think of it often. Just as often I recall reading that when Moore, who was a very famous poet, was scheduled to arrive at the White House, his expectation of being greeted in the grand fashion to which he was accustomed was dashed when then-President Thomas Jefferson met him at the door in his robe and slippers! Jefferson, ever the lover of democracy, had no pomp and ceremony whatsoever scheduled for the man. Moore, who was more or less the Crownâs emissary, was flabbergasted and complained bitterly that he was forced to dine âpell-mellâ with everyone else, who were expected to understand that it was all âfirst come, first servedâ and not seated in any formal arrangement.

How times have changed. Moore would have felt right at home were he to visit today.


----------



## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

When the sun rises, I go to work. 
When the sun goes down, I take my rest. 
I dig the well from which I drink. 
I farm the soil which yields my food. 
I share creation. 
Kings can do no more.


Chinese Proverb


----------



## Twp.Tom (Dec 29, 2010)

For all you Forest, and Country Girls*

Oh, Fairest Of The Rural Maids.

Oh, fairest of the rural maids!
Thy birth was in the forest shades;
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
Were all that met thy infant eye.
Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child
Were ever in the sylvan wild;
And all the beauty of the place
Is in thy heart and on thy face.

Wm. Cullen Bryant.


----------



## Twp.Tom (Dec 29, 2010)

This one goes up to my Late Wife Deb*

The Bridge Of Sighs.

One more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly unfortunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair. 

Thomas Hood.


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

A MAGIC MOMENT I REMEMBER

A magic moment I remember
I raised my eyes and you were there.
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare.

I pray to mute despair and anguish
To vain pursuits the world esteems,
Long did I near your soothing accents,
Long did your features haunt my dreams.

Time passed - A rebel storm-blast scattered
The reveries that once were mine
And I forgot your soothing accents,
Your features gracefully divine.

In dark days of enforced retirement
I gazed upon grey skies above
With no ideals to inspire me,
No one to cry for, live for, love.

Then came a moment of renaissance,
I looked up - you again are there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that`s beautiful and rare.

-- Alexander Pushkin


----------



## wyld thang (Nov 16, 2005)

HIKE ARIZONA
We bright hepcats and dirty longhairs,
Earth children of the desperate 
Drive for surprise, helm your canoes
Down the rapids of free wild
Ideas. No more starvation!

This sunny quickening
Remembrance of exquisite Joy blazes
In the firewind of Hope. Quest
The chalice of the world&#8217;s forbidden
Secret realm of everything, taste
The hybrid mettle of myth and love.

Stop! Remember the morning
Beat of the river. Thunderbird
Turns and asks, Look! Grasshopper
Announces, Trust! Raven
Backtalks, Become! Earth
Answers, Peace!

(I wrote that )


----------



## elkhound (May 30, 2006)

*
*

*
*

*The Men That Don't Fit In*

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in. 


Robert William Service


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Robert Service is, in my opinion, a much underappreciated poet. I'm glad you shared this one, Elk.


----------



## Twp.Tom (Dec 29, 2010)

The Light Of Love.

She is not fair to outward view,
As many maidens be:
Her loveliness I never knew,
Until she smiled on me;
Oh, then I saw her eye was bright-
A well of love, a spring of light.

Hartley Coleridge


----------



## Jaclynne (May 14, 2002)

* 
"It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade." 

~~Charles Dickens~~
*


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

As I listen to the coyotes tonight from my tent, this poem seemed apt:

Coyotes

by Wally Swist Â© 2003

Coyotes Two a.m., howling begins 
on the edge of one of the farms left 

in this valley, near the wetland 
a developer has mown. 

Such pure sound pierces the night, 
this bloodletting beneath Orion, 

this ghostly choir of thin cries 
that tremble like Shawmut and Massasoit 

come back to haunt us. 
Then the baying of one hound 

sets another hound baying 
from the far rim of the opposite ridge. 

Porch lights flicker 
on the water of this delirious music, 

and the wild pack in each of us 
rises into song. 

This poem is in the book, "The New Life," 
available from Small Press Distribution 
in Berkeley, CA / paperback / $12.00. 
Wally Swist, Copyright 1998, 2001, 2003

~ST (from amongst the woods on her birthday quest)


----------



## rkintn (Dec 12, 2002)

[ame]http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vnKZ4pdSU-sw[/ame]


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

I COME HOME WANTING TO TOUCH EVERYONE

The dogs greet me, I descend
into their world of fur and tongues
and then my wife and I embrace
as if we'd just closed the door
in a motel, our two girls slip in
between us and we're all saying
each other's names and the dogs
Buster and Sundown are on their hind legs,
people-style, seeking more love.
I've come home wanting to touch
everyone, everything; usually I turn
the key and they're all lost
in food or homework, even the dogs
are preoccupied with themselves,
I desire only to ease
back in, the mail, a drink,
but tonight the body-hungers have sent out
their long-range signals
or love itself has risen
from its squalor of neglect.
Every time the kids turn their backs
I touch my wife's breasts
and when she checks the dinner
the unfriendly cat on the dishwasher
wants to rub heads, starts to speak
with his little motor and violin--
everything, everyone is intelligible
in the language of touch,
and we sit down to dinner inarticulate
as blood, all difficulties postponed
because the weather is so good.

-- Stephen Dunn


----------



## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

_*Last Night 
*_by Faiz Ahmed Faiz


Last night, your memory stole into my heart
as spring sweeps uninvited into barren gardens,
as morning breezes reinvigorate dormant deserts,
as a patient suddenly feels well, for no apparent reason ...

_*

Tonight 
*_by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

Do not strike the melancholy chord tonight!
Days smoldering with pain end up in ashes
and who the hell knows what the future may bring?
Last nightâs long lost, tomorrow's horizonâs a wavering mirage,
and how can we know if weâll see another dawn?
Life is nothing, unless together we make it ring!
Tonight we are gods! _Sing!_

Do not strike the melancholy chord tonight!
Donât harp constantly on human suffering!
Stop complaining; let Fate conduct her song! 
Give no thought to the future, seize _now_, this precious thing! 
Shed no more tears for temperate seasons long vanished! 
All sighs and cries soon weakly dissipate ... stop dithering!
Oh, do not strike the same flat chord again!


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

woodenfires... I really like both of those.


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

woodenfires said:


> Tonight
> [/B][/I]by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
> 
> Do not strike the melancholy chord tonight!
> ...


This one, is amazing. Love it 

~ST


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

To sum up my week...and highlight one of my favorite authors:

Nature

O Nature! I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy choir, -
To be a meteor in thy sky,
Or comet that may range on high;
Only a zephyr that may blow
Among the reeds by the river low;
Give me thy most privy place
Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead
Let me sigh upon a reed,
Or in the woods, with leafy din,
Whisper the still evening in:
Some still work give me to do, -
Only - be it near to you!

For I'd rather be thy child
And pupil, in the forest wild,
Than be the king of men elsewhere,
And most sovereign slave of care;
To have one moment of thy dawn,
Than share the city's year forlorn. 

Henry David Thoreau


----------



## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

From The Power That Preserves 

In Morrinmoss Forest the former Unfettered healer sings to build her courage enough to heal Thomas Covenant 

When last comes to last, 
I have little power: 
I am merely an urn. 
I hold the bone-sap of myself, 
and watch the marrow burn. 

When last comes to last 
I have little strength: 
I am only a tool. 
I work its work; and in it hands 
I am the fool. 

When last comes to last, 
I have little life. 
I am simply a deed: 
an action done while courage holds: 
a seed.


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

Waiting

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it hath sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder height;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me. 

John Burroughs

~ST (from one of the books I took with me on my trip)


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

rkintn said:


> http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vnKZ4pdSU-sw


I can't see this 

~ST


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

More Rumi, just cuz...

Be With Those Who Help Your Being

Be with those who help your being.
Don't sit with indifferent people, whose breath
comes cold out of their mouths.
Not these visible forms, your work is deeper. 

A chunk of dirt thrown in the air breaks to pieces.
If you don't try to fly,
and so break yourself apart,
you will be broken open by death,
when it's too late for all you could become. 

Leaves get yellow. The tree puts out fresh roots
and makes them green.
Why are you so content with a love that turns you yellow? 

Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

~ST


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Here's one that touched me recently:


WIND AND WINDOW FLOWER

Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.

When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,

He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by
To come again at dark.

He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.

But he sighed upon the sill, 
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.

Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.

But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.


-- Robert Frost


----------



## Twp.Tom (Dec 29, 2010)

I know this is not a Poem, But I really Like the words*
Neil Young-'Cowgirl In The Sand'


Hello cowgirl in the sand
Is this place
at your command
Can I stay here
for a while
Can I see your
sweet sweet smile
Old enough now
to change your name
When so many love you
is it the same?
It's the woman in you
that makes you want
to play this game.

Hello ruby in the dust
Has your band
begun to rust
After all
the sin we've had
I was hopin' that
we'd turn bad
Old enough now
to change your name
When so many love you
is it the same
It's the woman in you
that makes you want
to play this game.

Hello woman of my dreams
This is not
the way it seems
Purple words
on a grey background
To be a woman
and to be turned down
Old enough now
to change your name
When so many love you
is it the same
It's the woman in you
that makes you want
to play this game.


----------



## Twp.Tom (Dec 29, 2010)

The Rose

I will not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turn'd by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly queen,
Whom therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun;-
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one.

Thomas Hood


----------



## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

*Tending Two Shops*

Donât run around this world
looking for a hole to hide in.
There are wild beasts in every cave!
If you live with mice,
the cat claws will find you.
The only real rest comes
when youâre alone with God.
Live in the nowhere that you came from,
even though you have an address here.
Thatâs why you see things in two ways.
Sometimes you look at a person
and see a cynical snake.
Someone else sees a joyful lover,
and youâre both right!
Everyone is half and half,
like the black and white ox.
Joseph looked ugly to his brothers,
and most handsome to his father.
You have eyes that see from that nowhere,
and eyes that judges distances,
how high and how low.
You own two shops,
and you run back and forth.
Try to close the one thatâs a fearful trap,
getting always smaller. Checkmate,
this way. Checkmate that.
Keep open the shop
where youâre not selling fishhooks anymore.
You are the free-swimming fish.
Rumi

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, alwaysâ
A condition of complete simplicity
Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

Exerp from the poem "little Gidding"
TS Eliot


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

Sunrise on the Hills

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch
Was glorious with the sun's returning march,
And woods were brightened, and soft gales
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.
The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,
They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,
And, in their fading glory, shone
Like hosts in battle overthrown.
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance.
Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,
And rocking on the cliff was left
The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft.
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow
Was darkened by the forest's shade,
Or glistened in the white cascade;
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

I heard the distant waters dash,
I saw the current whirl and flash,
And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach,
The woods were bending with a silent reach.
Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell,
The music of the village bell
Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills;
And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills,
Was ringing to the merry shout,
That faint and far the glen sent out,
Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke,
Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle broke.

If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget,
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills! No tears
Dim the sweet look that nature wears.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

~ST


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

An old favorite, ST. Thanks for posting it and reminding me.


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

My all time favorite poem (other than those I write, lol!)

For Women Who Are Difficult to Love" - written and performed by Warsan Shire

You are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didnât you?

closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you canât make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.

~ST


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

Making Love in the Kitchen

We do it with knives in hand,
blue tongues licking the bottoms of pots,
steam fogging the windows from hearts
of artichokes being strained.

Hearts are made to be carved
out, cooked soft, slathered with butter,
fork-stabbed and lifted to another's
open mouth. We say we are starved,

as though we were doing this alone,
lonely as an onion in its skin,
say we are starving when what we mean
is that we want to postpone

the inevitable, which is inedible,
however we dice
it, and so we make -- as it consumes us -- 
this love we call a meal.

-- Gary J. Whitehead


----------



## sidepasser (May 10, 2002)

I have always loved poetry - this is one of my favorite poems from Rod McKuen.

I love with such a passion now
that death is imminent,
for what I love is easily
so true to me
that God would hardly
let me know the pleasure of it,
even one more day.

No man could have such happiness
and still be left to walk this good green earth.

I so dedicate what life I have
to you I love
and pray you spend it generously
on what you love and what you&#8217;ll come to love.

Fields of wonder
are the places God goes walking,
I found them by mistake and I&#8217;ve trespassed.

A mystic I am not
and yet I meditate again
amid the London morning
hoping that my thoughts
go back to California.
and to you.

I cannot cable love
nor would I.
You must assume
you must believe
that seven thousand miles
and more than seven hours&#8217; reach away
I am reaching out just now.

To the far fields I have gone,
down along the sea
above the hills and back again
thinking I was running
new ground all the time -
learning only now
that all those wondrous fields
are meadows that a new lifetime
would not last long enough
to take me through.

Never mind.

I&#8217;ve will enough to make
as many journeys as I can
in the name of love and longing,
and years to pay for time I&#8217;ve wasted.

I am not sure
what waits beyond the block
but I&#8217;ll travel down the street
to have a look
if need be.

Amen to what I knew before,
I thought that I was living.
No doors have opened up for me
and no new windows on the world
only life itself.

I am being led through life
willingly and wide awake.
Your tongue has given birth to me
as surely as my mother thought she did.- from "Fields of Wonder", 1971​


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

sidepasser... I hadn't thought about Rod McKuen for years. Thanks for the reminder!


----------



## sidepasser (May 10, 2002)

I adore Rod McKuen, I have most of his books, and some of his unreleased poetry,

Stanyon Street and other Sorrows is one of my all time favorites, but likely to be too depressing for those who are looking for love.


----------



## Raeven (Oct 11, 2011)

I'm positive I've got Stanyon Street stashed around here somewhere... he was one of my first favorite poets.


----------



## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

When You Are Old 

WHEN you are old and gray 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

~ST


----------



## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

* How well I remember those days when brooks were rivers, hills were mountains, hollow trees a good place to keep things and summer days that lasted much longer than they do today.
I'm not sure anything in life can compare to being ten years old and barefoot. If there are no mirrors around I can still get away with it. Have a great summer everyone. jim
*



*Remembrance*



by Ray Bradbury (1920-2012)
 And this is where we went, I thought,
Now here, now there, upon the grass
Some forty years ago.
I had returned and walked along the streets
And saw the house where I was born
And grown and had my endless days.
The days being short now, simply I had come
To gaze and look and stare upon
The thought of that once endless maze of afternoons.
But most of all I wished to find the places where I ran
As dogs do run before or after boys,
The paths put down by Indians or brothers wise and swift
Pretending at a tribe.
I came to the ravine.
I half slid down the path
A man with graying hair but seeming supple thoughts
And saw the place was empty.
Fools! I thought. O, boys of this new year,
Why donât you know the Abyss waits you here?
Ravines are special fine and lovely green
And secretive and wandering with apes and thugs
And bandit bees that steal from flowers to give to trees.
Caves echo here and creeks for wading after loot:
A water-strider, crayfish, precious stone
Or long-lost rubber boot --
It is a natural treasure-house, so why the silent place?
Whatâs happened to our boys that they no longer race
And stand them still to contemplate Christâs handiwork:
His clear blood bled in syrups from the lovely wounded trees?
Why only bees and blackbird winds and bending grass?
No matter. Walk. Walk, look, and sweet recall.
I came upon an oak where once when I was twelve
I had climbed up and screamed for Skip to get me down.
It was a thousand miles to earth. I shut my eyes and yelled.
My brother, richly compelled to mirth, gave shouts of laughter
And scaled up to rescue me.
"What were you doing there?" he said.
I did not tell. Rather drop me dead.
But I was there to place a note within a squirrel nest
On which Iâd written some old secret thing now long forgot.
Now in the green ravine of middle years I stood
Beneath that tree. Why, why, I thought, my God,
Itâs not so high. Why did I shriek?
It canât be more than fifteen feet above. Iâll climb it handily.
And did.
And squatted like an aging ape alone and thanking God
That no one saw this ancient man at antics
Clutched grotesquely to the bole.
But then, ah God, what awe.
The squirrelâs hole and long-lost nest were there.
I lay upon the limb a long while, thinking.
I drank in all the leaves and clouds and weathers
Going by as mindless
As the days.
What, what, what if? I thought. But no. Some forty years beyond!
The note Iâd put? Itâs surely stolen off by now.
A boy or screech-owlâs pilfered, read, and tattered it.
Itâs scattered to the lake like pollen, chestnut leaf
Or smoke of dandelion that breaks along the wind of time...
No. No.
I put my hand into the nest. I dug my fingers deep.
Nothing. And still more nothing. Yet digging further
I brought forth:
The note.
Like mothwings neatly powdered on themselves, and folded close
It had survived. No rains had touched, no sunlight bleached
Its stuff. It lay upon my palm. I knew its look:
Ruled paper from an old Sioux Indian Head scribble writing book.
What, what, oh, what had I put there in words
So many years ago?
I opened it. For now I had to know.
I opened it, and wept. I clung then to the tree
And let the tears flow out and down my chin.
Dear boy, strange child, who must have known the years
And reckoned time and smelled sweet death from flowers
In the far churchyard.
It was a message to the future, to myself.
Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?
I remember you.
I _remember_ you.


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## Jaclynne (May 14, 2002)

Powerful stuff woodenfires.


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## vicker (Jul 11, 2003)

Gone from my sight- Henry Van ****


I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,
spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts
for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck
of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says, âThere, she is goneâ

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,
hull and spar as she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me â not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, âThere, she is gone,â
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout, âHere she comes!â

And that is dying


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## vicker (Jul 11, 2003)

I'm just realizing how beautiful that poem would be in ASL, especially that part where the sky, the ship and sea meet in the distance.


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## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

The Moment Collector by K.A. Brace

It is the time a heart is broken
Or, when a person breaks anotherâs.
An instance of hope forsaken
A dream forgotten by the weight of day.
A presence of expressed tenderness
Years later mislaid among words grown uncaring.
Those days filled with freedomâs youth
Left behind in a face grown old.
The thrill of seeing a person, knowing
It is the one theyâve waited for
Only to have them disappear in a crowd.

The thought that will solve a great question
But vanishes into thin air.
The perfect thing to say at a moment
But gets caught on the tip of a tongue.
These are moments you think are lost
Forever, but it isnât true. I have them.
I am the collector of moments unlived
To their conclusions. Their time
Will come around again,
When someone will be in need
Of what I have saved.

Then there will be usefulness
In what it is I do.

Original found at: http://themirrorobscura.wordpress.com/2014/05/25/the-moment-collector/

~ST


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## SimplerTimez (Jan 20, 2008)

In the vein of classic literature...so to speak. Taught in high schools everywhere.

may i feel said he

by e e cummings

may i feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she
(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she
(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)
may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she
may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she
but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she
(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she
(cccome?said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you are Mine said she)

~ST


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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

Nice to see you posting ST.
Thought you moved on past HT.
I really enjoyed your photography.
OK, I'm done. That's all, said he.


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## woodenfires (Dec 2, 2003)

I read a lot about what may come after we leave here, after many years I am convinced we don't die, just continue our journey with different circumstances that provide lessons in what our soul needs to learn. I was born 9 months after my great grandfather died, he lingered for ten days in the hospital, I was ten days late, we have the same birthday. He use to sit under a big maple tree on an old steel tractor seat, strange, its thick steel but very comfortable, familiar maybe? I do love that old seat and have spent many hours on it. 
This belief is not new, many have come to the same conclusion, Emerson said it best I think but others have said it in different ways. Yeats thought of it in this way .....

*Many times man lives and dies Between his two eternities,*
*That of race and that of soul,*
*And ancient Ireland knew it all.*
*Whether man die in his bed*
*Or the rifle knock him dead,*
*A brief parting from those dear*
*Is the worst man has to fear.*
*Though grave-diggersâ toil is long,*
*Sharp their spades, their muscles strong,*
*They but thrust their buried men*
*Back in the human mind again.*
Yeats




*Emerson said*
It is the secret of the world that all things subsist and do not die, but only retire a little from site and afterwords return again. Nothing is dead: men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals and mournful obituaries, and there they stand looking out of the window, sound and well, in some new and strange disguise. 



Life and death are one thread,
the same line viewed from different sides.
- Lao Tzu


For we have come by different ways to this place. I have no feeling that we met before. No deja vu. I don't think it was you in the lavender by the sea as I rode by in AD 1206 or beside me in the border wars. Or there in the Gallatins, a hundred years ago, lying with me in the silver-green grass above some mountain town. I can tell by the natural ease with which you wear fine clothes and the way your mouth moves when you speak to waiters in good restaurants. You have come the way of castles and cathedrals, of elegance and empire. Robert James Waller


I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell;
I knew the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights along the shore.
You have been mine before-
How long ago I may not know;
But just when at that swallow"s soar
Your neck turned so,
Some veil did fall - I knew it all of yore.
Rosetti

I hold that when a person dies
His soul returns again to earth;
Arrayed in some new flesh disguise,
Another mother gives him birth.
With sturdier limbs and brighter brain
The old soul takes the road again. John Masefield.



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## sustainabilly (Jun 20, 2012)

*The Year He Waited* by K. A. Brace

The year he waited doubt was a dust
Settled on every surface, suspicion,
Shadows even with no light to cast them,
Hurt and pain were forks and knives
âHe found it better to eat with his hands.

The year he waited emptiness filled
Every window with an impenetrable fog,
Loneliness slept on his side of the bed,
Second guessing himself was conversation
âHe found it best to sleep when he could.

The year he waited confusion was time
Waiting for seconds to pass after hours
And days lost their names, weeks
Their meanings and past years his memory
âHe found it helped to stay in one room.

The year he waited was only a year
Lived out in a lifetime, uncovered his fears,
There appeared things he had hidden
In small tiny places, put them together
Found the life he had lost before it had ended.

I am glad I had the year I waited.


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