posted December 10, 2012 09:49 PM            

Far Rockaway Night till Morning

WHAT can we say of the night?
The fog night, the moon night, the fog moon night last night?

There swept out of the sea a song.
There swept out of the sea—torn white plungers.
There came on the coast wind drive
In the spit of a driven spray,
On the boom of foam and rollers,
The cry of midnight to morning:
Hoi-a-loa.
Hoi-a-loa.
Hoi-a-loa.

Who has loved the night more than I have?
Who has loved the fog moon night last night more than I have?

Out of the sea that song
—can I ever forget it?
Out of the sea those plungers
—can I remember anything else?
Out of the midnight morning cry: Hoi-a-loa:
—how can I hunt any other songs now?

~ Carl Sandburg

posted December 11, 2012 06:05 AM            

I think mine has to be "He wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven" by William Butler Yeats. I love all of his poems but this one is my favourite.

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven
by William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

posted December 11, 2012 03:28 PM            

Being her friend, I do not care, not I,
How gods or men may wrong me, beat me down;
Her word's sufficient star to travel by,
I count her quiet praise sufficient crown.

Being her friend, I do not covet gold,
Save for a royal gift to give her pleasure;
To sit with her, and have her hand to hold,
Is wealth, I think, surpassing minted treasure.

Being her friend, I only covet art,
A white pure flame to search me as I trace
In crooked letters from a throbbing heart
The hymn to beauty written on her face.

posted December 12, 2012 09:31 AM            

And when I dream a dream of loneliness
I see a shadow on the wall
Looking back at me like
I'm nothing at all

But those dreams a quickly chased away
When I wake up to a sunny day
And I see your pretty face right by my side

When I dream a dream of smiling
The room is full of you
And if I dream a dream of candy land
The sweetest thing is you

And if the nightmare comes along
To say its fond goodbyes
The thought of you will stop it
before those dreams arise

Because with you sharing my bed at night
My dream will always come out right
And tomorrow will always be another day

If I dream a dream while I'm awake
That dream will be of you
If I dream a dream of wedding cakes
I'll dream a dream of you

And when I dream a dream of a loving wife
That dream will be of you
And if I dream a dream of growing old
I'll be growing old with you

And if my dream were ever to come true
I know it will be because of you
And that's the reason that I love you so.

By Tim David Cook

Probably not famous, but it is my favourite poem.

posted December 13, 2012 02:42 PM            

Sonnet IX: THERE WHERE THE WAVES SHATTER
by Pablo Neruda

There where the waves shatter on the restless rocks
the clear light bursts and enacts its rose,
and the sea-circle shrinks to a cluster of buds,
to one drop of blue salt, falling.
O bright magnolia bursting in the foam,
magnetic transient whose death blooms
and vanishes--being, nothingness--forever:
broken salt, dazzling lurch of the sea.
You & I, Love, together we ratify the silence,
while the sea destroys its perpetual statues,
collapses its towers of wild speed and whiteness:
because in the weavings of those invisible fabrics,
galloping water, incessant sand,
we make the only permanent tenderness.

BE MELTING SNOW
by Rumi

posted December 14, 2012 04:36 PM            

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

posted December 15, 2012 07:49 AM            

Thanks for posting!

posted December 20, 2012 06:42 AM            

Life Is fine

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.

But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!

I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.

But it was High up there! It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.

Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!

this poem always makes me smile, so uplifting

posted December 20, 2012 04:25 PM            

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
By T.S. Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

posted December 21, 2012 01:50 PM            

I can't say how .. or why .. or when
but since you and I turned into Us
I know our Now .. was also Then

how many times
have we felt this need ?

the Present is but a memory
we're moving through
at a different rate of speed

the beautiful simplicity
of Einstein's relativity is clear

Yesterday will soon return
and Tomorrow has already been here

now I shall not ever fear to draw
my final Earthbound breath

for there is no Life
until you love
and then there is no death

posted December 21, 2012 04:59 PM            

The Guest House
RUMI

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a gift from beyond.
***********
Three Galaxies - Three

Most people love with restraint
as if they were someday to hate

We hate gently, carefully
as if we were someday to love

And now that you're gone
I'm free to cry at last
and to know
that I will be lonely for you
and you for me
through all the eternities before us

but how much more so
down here below
standing on the street where you left me

------------------
Check out my poetry! <3

posted December 23, 2012 02:25 PM            

The Angels of the Seven Planets

BETHLEHEM

THE ANGELS.

The Angels of the Planets Seven,
Across the shining fields of heaven
The natal star we bring!
Dropping our sevenfold virtues down
As priceless jewels in the crown
Of Christ, our new-born King.

RAPHAEL.
I am the Angel of the Sun,
Whose flaming wheels began to run
When God Almighty's breath
Said to the darkness and the Night,
Let there he light! and there was light!
I bring the gift of Faith.

ONAFIEL.
I am the Angel of the Moon,
Darkened to be rekindled soon
Beneath the azure cope!
Nearest to earth, it is my ray
That best illumes the midnight way;
I bring the gift of Hope!

ANAEL.
The Angel of the Star of Love,
The Evening Star, that shines above
The place where lovers be,
Above all happy hearths and homes,
On roofs of thatch, or golden domes,
I give him Charity!

ZOBIACHEL.
The Planet Jupiter is mine!
The mightiest star of all that shine,
Except the sun alone!
He is the High Priest of the Dove,
And sends, from his great throne above,
Justice, that shall atone!

MICHAEL.
The Planet Mercury, whose place
Is nearest to the sun in space,
Is my allotted sphere!
And with celestial ardor swift
I hear upon my hands the gift
Of heavenly Prudence here!

URIEL.
I am the Minister of Mars,
The strongest star among the stars!
My songs of power prelude
The march and battle of man's life,
And for the suffering and the strife,
I give him Fortitude!

ORIFEL.
The Angel of the uttermost
Of all the shining, heavenly host,
From the far-off expanse
Of the Saturnian, endless space
I bring the last, the crowning grace,
The gift of Temperance!
A sudden light shines from the windows of the stable in the
village below.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Content of PART II - THE GOLDEN LEGEND: Introitus: III. The Angels of the Seven Planets [Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem collection: Christus: A Mystery]

posted December 23, 2012 02:49 PM            

when you drove away that grey and ominous day
without a single backward glance
or even a Howard Hughes rain check for tomorrow

you left behind

your size eleven hiking boots
your shadow, exactly six foot two
your Peter Pan clock
your old grey Christmas sock
your Tarzan yell
your red and yellow candles
hanging on chains from the ceiling
of your monk's meditation cell
we used to call the Hopi Indian room
your blue cashmere sweater from Saks
the forms for your income tax
your stuffed jungle-pride beast
with the mane of long, curly hair
your winter coats
your toy dolphin that floats
your fleet of bathtub sailing boats
some forget-me-nots in the back yard
your library card .. good till the end of '73
your electric saw, your vitamin E
a few shattered dreams
an unspoken fear .. your Ivory soap
one unshed tear
the torn shred of rainbow
you wore behind your left ear
your autographed book
.. and our last, long look

though you remembered to take your serpent ring
and my own gold band .. and the front door key

darling, please come back
you forgot something ..... me

posted January 03, 2013 02:36 AM            

Sing Not For Others But For Me

Sing not for others but for me,
In ev'ry thought, in ev'ry strain,
Though I perchance am far from thee,
And we may never meet again:
Though I may only weep for thee,
Sing not for others but for me.

In starry night, or soft moon-beam,
In mossy bank, or rippling stream,
In balmy breeze or fragrant flower,
Though dearer hands may deck the bower,
In all that's sweet or fair to thee,
Sing not for others but for me.

If e'er thou sing'st thy native lay,
As thou wert wont in happier day,
That lay which breath'd of love and truth,
And all the joys of early youth:
Though all those joys are past for thee,
Sing not for others, but for me.

~Lady Caroline Lamb

posted January 03, 2013 12:49 PM            

to amuse myself and hang in there, baby
clutching a frazzled piece of rope called hope

to kill time - which I'm beginning to believe
deserves nothing short of murder

...memories have nine lives
and are not so easily killed...

to fill the yawning abyss
you left inside

to still the song of nesting birds
outside my window

I've been playing puzzles with words

did you know that by reversing two letters
you can turn "untied" into "united"?

and - if the Holy Ghost is an "essence" of spirit

when you remove the "c" for Christ
you're left with the word
"Essene"

what does that mean?

I've been thinking a lot about poetry too
these eons since you left me alone
beside a treacherous, monitored telephone

like, why should gladness rhyme with sadness?

does it follow, then, that Far Away
somehow rhymes with Home to Stay?

and if tomb rhymes with womb
then does death rhyme with birth?

what freaky creatures we are
to speak a language
in which rats spelled backwards is star.

posted January 03, 2013 01:02 PM            

When I think of you

I don't need the crutch of cigarettes or coffee to face the morning

When I remember you

I scold the dogs more gently if they climb upon my bed against the rules

Because of you

I buy a bunch of violets every Tuesday
when they're in season
and bring them home, and keep them till they wither
for no particular reason
except that once I saw them sleeping
near a bristlecone pine in Cripple Creek, Colorado

Since knowing you

I haven't felt it necessary
to win each game of chess I play
I notice lonely people more
on holidays - like Christmas
place fewer ornaments upon the tree
I like things naked
even me
I'm more compassionate and patient with fools who bore me
even with the ones who ignore me

I take long walks
and yesterday I bought some colored chalks
to try to make a picture of a child

Yet I can't find any mention of this magic
in the songs of Solomon
the sonnets of Shakespeare

Montaigne's essays
or Walter Benton's poems

They wrote of friends
or lovers
who came together now and then
We haven't said hello since August
or was it June?
that rainy evening--
or was it late afternoon?

We cannot call this love
How could it be
when we've never touched each other
and perhaps we never will
when we have only come as close
as resting elbows on a sill
and looking through the windows of an empty house
listening to the droning buzz of bees
kissing tangled clouds of baby's breath
and blue forget-me-nots
growing near a broken picket fence

as children do, in enchanted gardens
they half believe are haunted

Nor can we call this friendship
Friends share tragedies and joy by telephone or letter
Our last communication was a postcard in July
Why, one of us could even die
without the other knowing
in time to send some flowers to the church
or light a candle at a distance

It's like you told me once
if we never saw each other again
it wouldn't make any difference

you didn't say it wouldn't matter
You said it wouldn't make any difference

and did you know I understood the nuance?
It was so long ago
but, did you know?

posted January 03, 2013 01:10 PM            

How old am I?
I'll be 92 next Christmas
tough I won't admit to one day over 20

Even after all the birthday cards
are cut and shuffled
it's hard to figure

I've aged at least 500 years
since I stumbled into you
Yet I still believe in fairy tales
like "The Princess and the Frog"
perhaps I'm really only 3 or so?

You'll never know how old I am
but I'll tell you anyway
I was born the hour we met
and died today

posted January 03, 2013 01:47 PM            

Once down on my knees to growing plants
I prodded the earth with a lazy tool
In time with a medley of sotto chants.
But becoming aware of some boys from school
Who had stopped outside the fence to spy
I stopped my song and almost heart,
For any eye is an evil eye
That looks in onto a mood apart.

posted January 03, 2013 02:03 PM            

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

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

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