A poem to start for April poetry month.

[MoseySusan]

“On belief in the physical resurrection of Jesus” 

It is for all
‘literalists of the imagination,’
poets or not,
that miracle
is possible,
possible and essential.
Are some intricate minds
nourished
on concept,
as epiphytes flourish
high in the canopy?
Can they
subsist on the light,
on the half
of metaphor that’s not
grounded in dust, grit,
heavy
carnal clay?
Do signs contain and utter,
for them
all the reality
that they need? Resurrection, for them,
an internal power, but not
a matter of flesh?
For the others,
of whom I am one,
miracles (ultimate need, bread
of life) are miracles just because
people so tuned
to the humdrum laws:
gravity, mortality —
can’t open
to symbol’s power
unless convinced of its ground,
its roots
in bone and blood.
We must feel
the pulse in the wound
to believe
that ‘with God
all things
are possible,’
taste
bread at Emmaus
that warm hands
broke and blessed.

+ Denise Levertov

 

[Zealot]

Do you ever compose your own, Susan?

[MoseySusan]

10 minutes ago, Zealot said:

Do you ever compose your own, Susan?

Yes. But it’s been awhile, and I’m not sure where the drafts are anymore. 

[MoseySusan]

On 4/14/2024 at 9:51 AM, Zealot said:

Do you ever compose your own, Susan?

My friend, I've been cooking this one up in silence for awhile.

Heritage

You get the body you need, he says.

But, I do not need this lump,

This fold, spot, bump, or this old

Sagging breast that used to feed.

This sliver of silver parting my forehead.

For what purpose these noises creaking

From my knees and shoulders? No,

I do not need this body.

 

It was those women who needed this.

 

The big-boned mother of my father

And his stout grandmother. Large arms 

Crossed over large bosoms in dark dresses.

They watch me from beneath 

Thick glass protecting treasured DNA. Lovely

Forebears who birthed bigger-boned babies meet

For farming. Their rugged lived bone-deep

Daily exertions. And then they baked a lot of pies, Dad said.

Starving people would love to have that.

 

 

 

[MoseySusan]

And who doesn’t love a poem about a dog? Especially this one by Jimmy Stewart. 

"Beau" by Jimmy Stewart

He never came to me when I would call Unless I had a tennis ball, Or he felt like it, But mostly he didn't come at all.    When he was young He never learned to heel Or sit or stay, He did things his way.  Discipline was not his bag But when you were with him things sure didn't drag. He'd dig up a rosebush just to spite me, And when I'd grab him, he'd turn and bite me. He bit lots of folks from day to day, The delivery boy was his favorite prey. The gas man wouldn't read our meter, He said we owned a real man-eater. He set the house on fire But the story's long to tell. Suffice it to say that he survived And the house survived as well. On the evening walks, and Gloria took him, He was always first out the door. The Old One and I brought up the rear Because our bones were sore. He would charge up the street with Mom hanging on, What a beautiful pair they were! And if it was still light and the tourists were out, They created a bit of a stir. But every once in a while, he would stop in his tracks And with a frown on his face look around. It was just to make sure that the Old One was there And would follow him where he was bound. We are early-to-bedders at our house-- I guess I'm the first to retire. And as I'd leave the room he'd look at me And get up from his place by the fire. He knew where the tennis balls were upstairs, And I'd give him one for a while. He would push it under the bed with his nose And I'd fish it out with a smile. And before very long  He'd tire of the ball And be asleep in his corner In no time at all. And there were nights when I'd feel him Climb upon our bed And lie between us, And I'd pat his head. And there were nights when I'd feel this stare And I'd wake up and he'd be sitting there And I reach out my hand and stroke his hair. And sometimes I'd feel him sigh         and I think I know the reason why. He would wake up at night And he would have this fear Of the dark, of life, of lots of things, And he'd be glad to have me near. And now he's dead. And there are nights when I think I feel him Climb upon our bed and lie between us, And I pat his head. And there are nights when I think I feel that stare And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair, But he's not there. Oh, how I wish that wasn't so, I'll always love a dog named Beau

 

[MoseySusan]

A moment of tension shifts with the introduction of a fly. Nature to the rescue. 
 

Peach

by Jennifer Tonge

Come here’s
a peach he said
and held it out just far
enough to reach beyond his lap
and off-

ered me
a room the one
room left he said in all
of Thessaloniki that night
packed with

traders
The peach was lush
I hadn’t slept for days
it was like velvet lips a lamp
he smiled

patted
the bed for me
I knew it was in fact
the only room the only bed
The peach

trembled
and he said Come
nodding to make me
agree I wanted the peach and
the bed

he said
to take it see
how nice it was and I
thought how I could take it ginger-
ly my

finger-
tips only touch-
ing only it Not in
or out I stayed in the doorway
watching

a fly
He stroked the peach
and asked where I was from
I said the States he smiled and asked
how long

I’d stay
The fly had found
the peach I said I’d leave
for Turkey in the morning I
wanted

so much
to sleep and on
a bed I thought of all
the ways to say that word
and that

they must
have gradient
meanings He asked me did
I want the peach and I said sure
and took

it from
his hand He asked
then if I’d take the room
It costs too much I said and turned
to go

He said
to stay a while
and we could talk The sun
was going down I said no thanks
I’d head

out on
the late train but
could I still have the peach
and what else could he say to that
but yes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[MoseySusan]

The commentary says this author uses nature imagery to write about a married couple. But I’m ok with a gentle reading. Sometimes a fence is just a fence. 

The Metal and the Flower

By P. K. Page

Intractable between them grows
a garden of barbed wire and roses.
Burning briars like flames devour
their too innocent attire.
Dare they meet, the blackened wire
tears the intervening air.

Trespassers have wandered through
texture of flesh and petals.
Dogs like arrows moved along
pathways that their noses knew.
While the two who laid it out
find the metal and the flower
fatal underfoot.

Black and white at midnight glows
this garden of barbed wire and roses.
Doused with darkness roses burn
coolly as a rainy moon:
beneath a rainy moon or none
silver the sheath on barb and thorn.

Change the garden, scale and plan;
wall it, make it annual.
There the briary flower grew.
There the brambled wire ran.
While they sleep the garden grows,
deepest wish annuls the will:
perfect still the wire and rose

 

[Zealot]

 

Sappho 1 (“Prayer to Aphrodite”)

	1	You with pattern-woven flowers, immortal Aphrodite,
	2	child of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I implore you,
	3	do not devastate with aches and sorrows,
	4	Mistress, my heart!
	5	But come here [tuide], if ever at any other time
	6	hearing my voice from afar,
	7	you heeded me, and leaving the palace of your father,
	8	golden, you came,
	9	having harnessed the chariot; and you were carried along by beautiful
	10	swift sparrows over the dark earth,
	11	swirling with their dense plumage from the sky through the
	12	midst of the aether,
	13	and straightaway they arrived. But you, O holy one,
	14	smiling with your immortal looks,
	15	kept asking what is it once again this time [dē’ute] that has happened to me and for what reason
	16	once again this time [dē’ute] do I invoke you,
	17	and what is it that I want more than anything to happen
	18	to my frenzied [mainolās] heart [thūmos]? “Whom am I once again this time [dē’ute] to persuade,
	19	setting out to bring her to your love? Who is doing you,
	20	Sappho, wrong?
	21	For if she is fleeing now, soon she will give chase.
	22	If she is not taking gifts, soon she will be giving them.
	23	If she does not love, soon she will love
	24	even against her will.”
	25	Come to me even now, and free me from harsh
	26	anxieties, and however many things
	27	my heart [thūmos] yearns to get done, you do for me. You
	28	become my ally in war.

 

[MoseySusan]

mr and I had this conversation last night after watching a Twilight Zone episode in which the Earth had shifted orbit and was turning into frozen wasteland, but the protagonist had a feverish nightmare it was actually too comes to the sun and was burning up. 

Fire and Ice 

BY ROBERT FROST

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

 

[Longjohn ★]

There once was a man from Nantucket.

[MoseySusan]

33 minutes ago, Longjohn said:

There once was a man from Nantucket.

Fekkin’ Ray beat you to it. 
 

[Zealot]

 

I Dwell in Possibility 

 

BY EMILY DICKINSON

 

I dwell in Possibility –

A fairer House than Prose –

More numerous of Windows –

Superior – for Doors –

 

Of Chambers as the Cedars –

Impregnable of eye –

And for an everlasting Roof

The Gambrels of the Sky –

 

Of Visitors – the fairest –

For Occupation – This –

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise –

 

[shootingstar]

@MoseySusan   Long time since I read Canadian author P.K. Page.

I loved that poem, some strong imagery there.

Mine today is more tame Nature:

[MoseySusan]

16 minutes ago, Zealot said:

I Dwell in Possibility 

BY EMILY DICKINSON

I dwell in Possibility –

A fairer House than Prose –

More numerous of Windows –

Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –

Impregnable of eye –

And for an everlasting Roof

The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –

For Occupation – This –

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise –

One of my favorites! 💞

[MoseySusan]

10 minutes ago, shootingstar said:

Mine today is more tame Nature:

Personification, though. And your beautiful photography! 

[MoseySusan]

Eros Turannos

By Edwin Arlington Robinson

She fears him, and will always ask 
   What fated her to choose him; 
She meets in his engaging mask                  
   All reasons to refuse him; 
But what she meets and what she fears 
Are less than are the downward years, 
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs 
   Of age, were she to lose him. 

 

Between a blurred sagacity 
   That once had power to sound him, 
And Love, that will not let him be 
   The Judas that she found him, 
Her pride assuages her almost, 
As if it were alone the cost.— 
He sees that he will not be lost, 
   And waits and looks around him. 

 

A sense of ocean and old trees 
   Envelops and allures him; 
Tradition, touching all he sees 
   Beguiles and reassures him; 
And all her doubts of what he says 
Are dimmed with what she knows of days-
Till even prejudice delays 
   And fades, and she secures him. 

 

The falling leaf inaugurates 
   The reign of her confusion; 
The pounding wave reverberates 
   The dirge of her illusion; 
And home, where passion lived and died, 
Becomes a place where she can hide, 
While all the town and harbor side 
   Vibrate with her seclusion. 

 

We tell you, tapping on our brows, 
   The story as it should be,— 
As if the story of a house 
   Were told, or ever could be; 
We’ll have no kindly veil between 
Her visions and those we have seen,— 
As if we guessed what hers have been, 
   Or what they are or would be. 

 

Meanwhile we do no harm; for they 
   That with a god have striven, 
Not hearing much of what we say, 
   Take what the god has given; 
Though like waves breaking it may be, 
Or like a changed familiar tree, 
Or like a stairway to the sea 
   Where down the blind are driven.

Originally published in Poetry, March 1914.

I love this poem for no other reason than how painful it is to see the wife and husband so miserable, by the sea. What is love, anyway? 🥺

[Zealot]

26 minutes ago, MoseySusan said:

I love this poem for no other reason than how painful it is to see the wife and husband so miserable, by the sea. What is love, anyway? 🥺

And I’ve seen this poem played out so many time through my life. 

[MoseySusan]

It’s not a sweater, but meaningful nonetheless. One of my favorites by Pablo Neruda. 
 

Ode to My Socks

Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as soft
as rabbits.
I slipped my feet
into them
as though into
two
cases
knitted
with threads of
twilight
and goatskin.
Violent socks,
my feet were
two fish made
of wool,
two long sharks
sea-blue, shot
through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons:
my feet
were honored
in this way
by
these
heavenly
socks.
They were
so handsome
for the first time
my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two decrepit
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that woven
fire,
of those glowing
socks.

Nevertheless
I resisted
the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere
as schoolboys
keep
fireflies,
as learned men
collect
sacred texts,
I resisted
the mad impulse
to put them
into a golden
cage
and each day give them
birdseed
and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers
in the jungle who hand
over the very rare
green deer
to the spit
and eat it
with remorse,
I stretched out
my feet
and pulled on
the magnificent
socks
and then my shoes.

The moral
of my ode is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool
in winter.

 

[MoseySusan]

For @Dottleshead, on thinking about retiring to a tropical climate. 

After the Winter

By Claude McKay

Some day, when trees have shed their leaves
     And against the morning’s white
The shivering birds beneath the eaves
     Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,
     Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire the shafted grove
     And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

 

And we will seek the quiet hill
     Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
     And works the droning bee.
And we will build a cottage there
     Beside an open glade,
With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,
     And ferns that never fade.

 

[Zealot]

White Fang (opening paragraph)

- Jack London

 

Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness - a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen- hearted Northland Wild.

 

 

[Zealot]

Eclipse

 

Touched with fire

"As the sun and moon
aligned in the sky,
they illuminated each other's shine.
And the closer to each other they moved,
the brighter they shined,
and the higher the fire
inside of us grew.

As we raced through the days
on that fling,
each footprint we laid
blazed away that piece
of the earth's entire lifetime of beauty
in the brief second it touched our feet,
leaving nothing but ashes beneath us.

Until we had no ground left to stand on
and nowhere left to flee. 
And now that we've turned away
from our fire
to face the days that remained
unburned by the flames,
and learn to gaze at them
through sane eyes
one day at a time.

We can look back at our book
with clear sight
and give it the ending
that we never got the chance to write.
And while I know it's too late
to pick up the ripped-up pages,
I will admit,
I still think of our little prince.

And sometimes I go outside
and look up at the sky
and think about what planet
he might've gone back to after he died.
Then I imagine the three of us
living up there as a family
in another lifetime.

But for now, you have your own life,
and I have mine.

And we have to live them
the way we would have
if we could go back to the day
we conceived our child
and were able to see what
our manic eyes were blind to at the time.

When the sun and moon finally came
as close as they could be
and the fire inside us rose
to its highest peak,
it leaped past
the fading ashes of our flesh
to burn our love into eternity,
through our baby.

That eternal flame
that could blaze brighter
than our manic one ever could
on its brightest mania days,
but that would also sustain. "

 

[shootingstar]

Planning 

-by Ursula Le Guin

 

I set out on the everyday

with a watchful heart,

sunset

my only harbor.

 

I’ve lost my ship,

the command I led

and all her cargo.

I have this instead.

 

[MoseySusan]

27 minutes ago, Zealot said:

Eclipse

Touched with fire

"As the sun and moon
aligned in the sky,
they illuminated each other's shine.
And the closer to each other they moved,
the brighter they shined,
and the higher the fire
inside of us grew.

As we raced through the days
on that fling,
each footprint we laid
blazed away that piece
of the earth's entire lifetime of beauty
in the brief second it touched our feet,
leaving nothing but ashes beneath us.

Until we had no ground left to stand on
and nowhere left to flee. 
And now that we've turned away
from our fire
to face the days that remained
unburned by the flames,
and learn to gaze at them
through sane eyes
one day at a time.

We can look back at our book
with clear sight
and give it the ending
that we never got the chance to write.
And while I know it's too late
to pick up the ripped-up pages,
I will admit,
I still think of our little prince.

And sometimes I go outside
and look up at the sky
and think about what planet
he might've gone back to after he died.
Then I imagine the three of us
living up there as a family
in another lifetime.

But for now, you have your own life,
and I have mine.

And we have to live them
the way we would have
if we could go back to the day
we conceived our child
and were able to see what
our manic eyes were blind to at the time.

When the sun and moon finally came
as close as they could be
and the fire inside us rose
to its highest peak,
it leaped past
the fading ashes of our flesh
to burn our love into eternity,
through our baby.

That eternal flame
that could blaze brighter
than our manic one ever could
on its brightest mania days,
but that would also sustain. "

What a story! 

[Zealot]

58 minutes ago, MoseySusan said:

What a story! 

The movie is powerful. 

[MoseySusan]

1 hour ago, Zealot said:

The movie is powerful. 

Movie?

[Zealot]

5 hours ago, MoseySusan said:

Movie?

Yes, Touched with Fire is a movie based on a book of the same name, starring Katie Holmes. The poem Eclipse comes at the end… 

[MoseySusan]

Playthings

By Rabindranath Tagore

Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!"
Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.
With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game

 

[Zealot]

 

When We Two Parted

George Gordon Byron

When we two parted
   In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
   To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
   Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold 
   Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning 
   Sunk chill on my brow— 
It felt like the warning
   Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
   And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
   And share in its shame.

They name thee before me, 
   A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
   Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee, 
   Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
   Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
   In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
   Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
   After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
   With silence and tears.

 

[MoseySusan]

Aww, Byron! So tricky a thing, the heart. 💞

[Kirby]

I saw this one posted online and thought it was touching  The author is Sarah Ziman

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/GL1XBknXMAAd4Us?format=jpg&name=medium

[MoseySusan]

28 minutes ago, Kirby said:

thought it was touching

Very! 

[shootingstar]

 

Your Kingdom 

Launch Audio in a New Window

BY ELENI SIKELIANOS

if you like let the body feel

all its own evolution

inside, opening flagella

& feathers & fingers

door by door, a ragged

 

neuron dangling like

a participle to

hear a bare sound

 

on the path, find

a red-eye-hole rabbit, fat

of the bulbous stalk pecked out

to the core so you can

 

bore back to the salamander you

once were straggling under the skin

grope toward the protozoa

snagging on the rise toward placental knowing

 

who developed eyes for you agape in open waters

 

the worm that made a kidney-like chamber burrows in

directing your heart leftward in nodal cascade, slow at your

hagfish spine who

 

will bury your bones

investigate a redwood rain or tap

the garnet of your heartwood, bark, put

your flat needles on dry ice to inquire

after your tree family, father or mother in the fairy-ring

next to you, find you

are most closely related to grass

your hexaploid breathing pores gently closing at night, when

did you begin your coexistence with flowering

plants from which arose the bee before the

African honey badger but after the dark

protoplanetary disk of dust grains

surrounding the sun become

the earth you

had no nouns, did you

 

[MoseySusan]

That’s like a biology lesson. lol… 

[maddmaxx ★]

One for today.

Twenty-four is still in preparation,
Waiting for the future to begin.
Each moment is an infinite regress,
Neither more sustainable nor less,
Transforming what will be to what has been.
Yet the heart is fierce with speculation.

For now, so much depends on each sensation,
Opening a vista to the west
Upon which one might choose which route is best,
Reckoning which wagers one might win.

 

[Ralphie ★]

Spoiler for Quordle:

Spoiler

Poesy is another word for poetry.  I did not know that!

 

[Zealot]

2 hours ago, maddmaxx said:

For now, so much depends on each sensation,

I can’t tell you how much this resonates with me.

[Zealot]

4 hours ago, maddmaxx said:

Sooner or later though, you always have to wake up.

Why?

[MoseySusan]

6 hours ago, maddmaxx said:

One for today.

Who is the writer? 

[maddmaxx ★]

1 hour ago, Zealot said:

Why?

The quote is from the original Avatar movie.  It carries a strong message about reality.

[maddmaxx ★]

4 minutes ago, MoseySusan said:

Who is the writer? 

Nicholas Gordon,  https://www.poemsforfree.com/me.html

[MoseySusan]

And the people speak their amen. 

What did you learn here? (Old Man House)

By Cedar Sigo

For Joy Harjo

How to fall asleep easily on the beach, to dig clams, to dream a net made of nettles, a medicine of marsh tea boiled out to the open air, a memory of cedar bark coiled, resting for months in cold water to be fashioned into our so-called lifestyle, clothes for ceremony as well as our dailiness, canoe bailers, diapers, we used the wood for our half-mile longhouse and totems, dried fish, a hard smoke, wooden oval plates that hooked together filled with clear oil of salmon, to wet our palates and smooth our bodies. A shawl of woolly dog (now extinct) they were bred on tiny islands we can still identify, Tatoosh Island off of Cape Flattery, where there were whaling tribes too, the Makah, one of whose villages collapsed, preserved in silt (later unearthed) and how else? Which other ceremonies or necessary edges of objects? Our ivory needles, otter pelts, mat creasers, our dances. What else do you remember dreaming of?A kind of rake to skim the waves, to catch tiny fish on rows of twisted nails.

 

[Zealot]

I woke last night to the sound of thunder
How far off I sat and wondered
Started humming a song from nineteen sixty-two
Ain't it funny how the night moves
When you just don't seem to have as much to lose
Strange how the night moves
With autumn closing in

[Zealot]

 

“We of the craft are all crazy. Some are affected by gaiety, others by melancholy, but all are more or less touched.”

— Lord Byron

 

[MoseySusan]

Not yet, Death.  

Mezzo Cammin

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Half of my life is gone, and I have let 
   The years slip from me and have not fulfilled 
   The aspiration of my youth, to build 
   Some tower of song with lofty parapet. 
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret 
   Of restless passions that would not be stilled, 
   But sorrow, and a care that almost killed, 
   Kept me from what I may accomplish yet; 
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past 
   Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,— 
   A city in the twilight dim and vast, 
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights,— 
   And hear above me on the autumnal blast 
   The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.

 

[MoseySusan]

16 hours ago, Zealot said:

“We of the craft are all crazy. Some are affected by gaiety, others by melancholy, but all are more or less touched.”

— Lord Byron

“We must know, as much as possible, in our beautiful art... what we are talking about — and the only way to know is to have lived and loved and cursed and floundered and enjoyed and suffered. I think I don't regret a single "excess" of my responsive youth — I only regret, in my chilled age, certain occasions and possibilities I didn't embrace.” Henry James
 

I kept this quote on my classroom wall so that I could remind students that an f- bomb once in a while is just embracing the possibilities. 

[Zealot]

 

Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!

- William Butler Yeats

 

[MoseySusan]

I’ve been avoiding the Modernist poets with their commentary about strained relationships and faulty communication. Their missing words. But, it is Springtime. And whether it’s the whistle of a goat-footed satyr with balloons or birdsong, I’ll come play in the puddles.

[in Just-]

BY E. E. CUMMINGS

in Just- 

spring          when the world is mud- 

luscious the little 

lame balloonman 

 

whistles          far          and wee 

 

and eddieandbill come 

running from marbles and 

piracies and it's 

spring 

 

when the world is puddle-wonderful 

 

the queer 

old balloonman whistles 

far          and             wee 

and bettyandisbel come dancing 

 

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and 

 

it's 

spring 

and 

 

         the 

 

                  goat-footed 

 

balloonMan          whistles 

far 

and 

wee

 

[Zealot]

A Light exists in Spring

- Emily Dickinson

 

"A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period –
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay –

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament."

 

[Zealot]

 

The Poet

 

No land so fair, where beauty treads with voices calm and sweet

Can match the realm where poets dwell and wondrous hearts do beat

 

Where Selene provides her silver sheen on Diana's hallowed bow

And virgin heart doth take the hunt beneath the moonlit glow

 

And men do yearn; beseech the form of one so swift and true

But only catch a crescent glimpse; a gilded slivered hue

 

And steadily they gaze upon that gift of beauty fair

And contented be to sigh beneath the argent midnight air.

 

Then morning breaks, the sun awakes (Apollo's golden chair)

Aretmis' twin dawns brilliant then and warms the morning air

 

With lyre high he recounts the dreams of men that pine the night

And sets to song romantic verse of effulgent, silent night...

 

A poet's dream, a muse's heart, these things he plays with mirth

Content to know Selene must glow; an emanation of his birth.

 

-August 29, 2005

 

[Kirby]

Here's one for English teachers'

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/GMEsJzgXwAA13W_?format=jpg&name=medium