Poet's Corner

[ShahdagMountains]

-J.R.R. Tolkien penned this beautiful piece of poetry…

I sit beside the fire and think
Of all that I have seen
Of meadow flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair
I sit beside the fire and think
Of how the world will be
When winter comes without a spring
That I shall ever see
For still there are so many things
That I have never seen
In every wood in every spring
There is a different green
I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago
And people that will see a world
That I shall never know
But all the while I sit and think
Of times there were before
I listen for returning feet
And voices at the door.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

 

[ShahdagMountains]

An English Winter's Day​

© Paul L. Kennedy.

Published by Family Friend Poems January 2020 with permission of the Author.

On those cold and frosty winter's mornings when the grass crunches beneath your feet,
and you're wrapped up in layers, hats and scarves, as is everyone else you meet

When each time you exhale a breath of steam quickly disappears into the chilled air,
and any part of you that is open or exposed is numbed and quickly covered, or beware

Often every outside surface is dusted with winter's cold makeup white,
and Jack Frost at your nose your ears and fingertips tries to take a bite.

Icicles form to look just like the teeth of some long since past prehistoric beast.
Winter's grip in some places on this our Earth holds on; we hope never ever to cease.

The winter sun is low in the sky and its weak rays have little warmth, if any.
God's creatures brave the cold in search of food, but really not that many.

Snug in their winter's long sleep, others see neither day nor night.
The world outside of which they knew now blanketed cold and white.

Eventually when the night draws in and there are no clouds and the sky is clear,
and the only light is from the moon, its silvery glow throughout the heavens appear.

The temperature drops until the very air you breathe chills your lungs with every gasp,
and even the tiniest sound seems to be magnified and its echo all around is cast.

And when the morning light again returns as the sun is again risen from its slumber,
the beauty of our treasured land we once more behold, with eyes of awe and wonder


Paul L. Kennedy. "An English Winter's Day." Family Friend Poems, January 21, 2020. Morning Walk In Winter, An English Winter's Day, Winter Poem

 

[ShahdagMountains]

 

[lg325]

 

[lg325]

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night​

By Dylan 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.

Copyright Credit: Dylan Thomas, “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night” from The Poems of Dylan Thomas. Copyright 1939, 1946 by New Directions Publishing Corporation. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.
Source: The Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1957)
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[ShahdagMountains]

 

[ShahdagMountains]

14 March at 19:06 ·


“Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows the war is over
Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
That's how it goes
Everybody knows
Everybody knows that the boat is leaking
Everybody knows that the captain lied
Everybody got this broken feeling
Like their father or their dog just died
Everybody talking to their pockets
Everybody wants a box of chocolates
And a long-stem rose
Everybody knows…”

~ Leonard Cohen, “Everybody Knows”

 

[lg325]

The Green Little Shamrock of Ireland​

by Andrew Cherry
T HERE'S a dear little plant that grows in our isle,
— 'Twas Saint Patrick himself sure that set it;
And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile,
— — And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It thrives through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland;
And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland —
— The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
— The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland!

This dear little plant still grows in our land,
— Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin,
Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command,
— In each climate that they may appear in;
And shine through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland,
Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland.
— The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
— The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland!

This dear little plant that springs from our soil,
— When its three little leaves are extended,
Denotes on one stalk we together should toil,
— And ourselves by ourselves be befriended;
And still through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland,
From one root should branch, like the shamrock of Ireland,
— The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,
— The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland!
Translation:

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[ShahdagMountains]

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
sailed off in a wooden shoe —
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
the old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
that live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!"
said Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
as they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
that lived in that beautiful sea —
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish —
never afraid are we";
So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
to the stars in the twinkling foam —
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
bringing the fishermen home;
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
as if it could not be,
And some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
of sailing that beautiful sea —
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
and Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
is a wee one's trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
as you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.

~ Wynken, Blynken, and Nod" is a poem for children written by American writer and poet Eugene Field and published on March 9, 1889.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

Life is strange. We come with nothing and fight for everything, and in the end, we leave everything and go with nothing."
Life is a fleeting journey, a cycle of gaining and letting go. We arrive with empty hands, yet we spend our days chasing, building, and holding on, as if we can outrun time itself.
We grasp at love, success, meaning, desperate to make something of the brief moments we are given.
And yet, no matter how much we gather, there comes a day when we must release it all. But perhaps the beauty of life is not in what we keep, but in what we give, in the love we share, the kindness we leave behind, the lives we touch along the way ..

 

[lg325]

Winner of the 2024 poetry award.

The Unknown Soldier​

David Reilly​

---

The Unknown Soldier

I am the Unknown Soldier and you’re standing on my grave
but please don't confuse me with one considered brave.
I was eighteen years old when I answered the call,
went over the top and one of the first to fall.
I didn't die a hero, indeed an inglorious death.
Calling out for my mother took my dying breath.
The bravest thing that I have ever done
is to tell my story in the shadow of the gun.

They took me from that foreign field where I met my doom
Scraped me into a box and brought me to this tomb
I have been on parade for a hundred years
Politicians and puppets and crocodile tears
The self-same people who determined my fate
blending ceremoniously with the good and the great
Their faces overcome by unmeasurable grief
I grin and bare it as I listen underneath

They say we are heroes for our lives we gave
but there is no hero laying within this grave
and I must confess it's through gritted teeth
I watch them come forward to lay their wreath.
The humble poppy from those fields of green,
a symbolic emblem turned money machine.
To our fallen soldiers for whom we cried for
contradicting the values they thought they died for.

I watched proudly as the parades went by,
my old comrades with their heads held high.
Alas, they are no longer that brave band of brothers.
Continually replaced by a brave band of others
I am sorry my comrades I have no wish to offend
but is it time for this charade to end.
Caught up in the euphoria of eternal grief.
I shake my head in disbelief.

And what about our one time foe,
our despised enemy from long ago.
With a tormented past she would rather forget.
Salting her wounds every opportunity we get.
With dignity and compassion she has led the way
In this troubled world we have today
The time has come to bury the past
And seek a peace designed to last

Please don’t imagine that I lack respect
if I am not the hero you have grown to expect.
We will never forget those who gave their lives
and never forget those grieving wives.
Those fatherless children and broken hearted mothers.
Devastated comrades, a broken band of brothers
If the drums of war would only cease
Then this Unknown Soldier and many others
would finally rest in peace.

About this poem​

This is an anti war poem and conveys my feelings regarding all the remembrance ceremonies that takes place all over the world. I believe they glorify war and nothing more than a recruitment tool.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

 

[hondo 50]

There once was a usmb user....

 

[Zebra]

Crystalline Heaven, Gustave Dore, 19th cent

Gaudeamus Igitur

How is it to be whole? Either oh-so-high,
Above the fray, poised and self-possessed,
Or in the cellar of unacknowledged despair,
a precinct below, too hollow to scare,
Where petty appetite and sorrow score their
Mark, feigning grandeur, while trivial
Souls roil pitifully with quotidian sighs.
How be whole? Why, learn that to die
Is part of our poem, sung unto the
Crystalline sphere with its kaleidoscope
Of Seraphim and rippling cascades of hope:
Our storied empryean blazoned gold.
Trust the holy Singer, then, preparing our place,
His tale of longing, His advent of grace.

juvenes dum sumus

 

[gtopa1]

Ten Little Steps and Stairs​

THERE were ten little Steps and Stairs.
Round through the old bush home all day
Romping about in the old bush way.
They were ten little wild March hares,
Storming the kitchen in hungry lines,
With their naked feet, doing mud designs,
“All over the place like punkin vines.”
There were ten little Steps and Stairs.

There were ten little Steps and Stairs.
In their home-made frocks and their Sunday suits,
Up through the church with their squeaky boots,
While the folk went astray in their prayers,
They hustled along, all dressed and neat-
Oh, they bustled a bit as they filled the seat;
From the first to the last, the lot complete,
There were ten little Steps and Stairs.

There were ten little Steps and Stairs.
But the years have shuffled them all about,
Have worn them thin, and straightened them out
With the tramp of a hundred cares;
Ay, and each grim scar has a tale to tell
Of a knock and a blow, and a hand that fell,
And a break in the line, and a gap. Ah, well-
There WERE ten little Steps and Stairs.

John O'Brien (J.P. Hartigan)

 

[gtopa1]

The birds will sing again...............

She saw The Helper standing near
When grief and, care oppressed;
"A Great, Big God," Who wiped the tear,
And soothed the aching breast.
So, in the stress of sorrows piled,
The gloom was lifted when
She pointed up and sweetly smiled
"A Great, Big God; be brave, my child,
The birds will sing again."

When dark misfortune, hovering o'er,
Brought woes on every hand;
And care was camping by the door,
And drought was on the land;
When lingering hope in rags was clad,
Her faith shone brightest then -
"A Great, Big God; so cheer up, Dad.
Don't mope about and take it bad,
The birds will sing again."

And always some soft silver ray
Athwart the gloom would burst
To chase the heavy clouds away,
When things were at their worst.
Her "Great, Big God" would justify
The trembling trust of men;
For, when the cheerless night passed by,
The sun would wink his golden eye,
And birds would sing again.

JPH

Greg

 

[lg325]

In Summer​

Paul Laurence Dunbar
1872 –
1906
Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another's ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art;
'T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.
From The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar (1913)

Paul Laurence Dunbar, born in 1872 and the author of numerous collections of poetry and prose, was one of the first African American poets to gain national recognition.
About Paul Laurence Dunbar
Occasion
Summer
Themes
Jealousy

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[ShahdagMountains]

A poem by Wisława Szymborska. Her birthday was yesterday! 2 July 1923 – 1 February 2012. This is from Miracle Fair, 2001; translation: Joanna Trzeciak:

The End and the Beginning

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.
Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.
Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.
Photogenic it’s not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.
We’ll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.
From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.
Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.
In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.

 

[lg325]

The Divine Source of Liberty​

by Samuel Adams
All temporal power is of God,
And the magistratal, His institution, laud,
To but advance creaturely happiness aubaud:
Let us then affirm the Source of Liberty.

Ever agreeable to the nature and will,
Of the Supreme and Guardian of all yet still
Employed for our rights and freedom's thrill:
Thus proves the only Source of Liberty.

Though our civil joy is surely expressed
Through hearth, and home, and church manifest,
Yet this too shall be a nation's true test:
To acknowledge the divine Source of Liberty.