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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