Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

It be Talk Like a Pirate Day, matey. Arr, it also be Poetry Friday. So unless you be wanting to walk the plank to Davey Jones’ locker, ye best be reading some pirate poetry.

Pirate Captain Jim
~Shel Silverstein

“Walk the plank,” says Pirate Jim.
“But Captain Jim, I cannot swim.”
“Then you must steer us through the gale.”
“But Captain Jim, I cannot sail.”
“Then down with the galley slaves you go.”
“But Captain Jim, I cannot row.”
“Then you must be a pirate’s clerk.”
“But Captain Jim, I cannot work.”
“Then a pirate captain you must be.”
“Thank you, Jim,” says Captain Me.

Shiver me timbers, me thinks there should be another.

The Pirate
~Shel Silverstein

Oh, the blithery, blathery pirate
(His name, I believe, is Claude),
His manner is sullen and irate,
And his humor is vulgar and broad.

He has often been known to imprison
His friends in the hold dark and dank,
Or lash them up high on the mizzen,
Or force them to stroll down a plank.

He will selfishly ask you to dig up
Some barrels of ill-gotten gold,
And if you so much as just higgup,
He’ll leave you to fill up the hole.

He may cast you adrift in a rowboat
(He has no reaction to tears)
Or put you ashore without NO boat
On an island and leave you for years.

He’s a rotter, a wretch and a sinner,
He’s foul as a fellow can be,
But if you invite him to dinner,
Oh, please sit him next to me!

If ye have a poem ye’d like to submit, let me know. Arr… I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something ye wrote, it can be yer favorite poem.

wRitErsbLock

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It’s been a long, long time, eh? Sweet Polly Purebred reminded me that I have not posted a poem in far too long. Since she also made a suggestion, I have no excuse not to post a poem.

Faces
~Sara Teasdale

People that I meet and pass
In the city’s broken roar,
Faces that I lose so soon
And have never found before,

Do you know how much you tell
In the meeting of our eyes,
How ashamed I am, and sad
To have pierced your poor disguise?

Secrets rushing without sound
Crying from your hiding places –
Let me go, I cannot bear
The sorrow of the passing faces.

– People in the restless street,
Can it be, oh can it be
In the meeting of our eyes
That you know as much of me?

If you have a poem you’d like to submit, let me know. And I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something you wrote, it can be your favorite poem.

wRitErsbLock

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Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….

Author unknown.

wRitErsbLock

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How about a little Sylvia Plath to start your day?

Conversation Among the Ruins
~Sylvia Plath

Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit
And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net
Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.
Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak
Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light
Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight
Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.

Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;
While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit
Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,
Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:
Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,
What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?

If you have a poem you’d like to submit, let me know. And I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something you wrote, it can be your favorite poem.

wRitErsbLock

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Wow, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? In honor of the money Uncle Sam gave us yesterday, the money we promptly pumped into the economy at our local Apple Store inside Florida Mall, I give you a poem about money.

Smart
~Shel Silverstein

My dad gave me one dollar bill
‘Cause I’m his smartest son,
And I swapped it for two shiny quarters
‘Cause two is more than one!

And then I took the quarters
And traded them to Lou
For three dimes — I guess he don’t know
That three is more than two!

Just then, along came old blind Bates
And just ’cause he can’t see
He gave me four nickels for my three dimes,
And four is more than three!

And I took the nickels to Hiram Coombs
Down at the seed-feed store,
And the fool gave me five pennies for them,
And five is more than four!

And then I went and showed my dad,
And he got red in the cheeks
And closed his eyes and shook his head —
Too proud of me to speak!

I wasn’t quite that silly; I traded my money for a shiny new computer. Yay!

If you have a poem you’d like to submit, let me know. And I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something you wrote, it can be your favorite poem.

wRitErsbLock

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ARGH! I feel pulled in too many directions right now. I’d prefer:

Hug 0′War
~Shel Silverstein

I will not play at tug o’war.
I’d rather play at hug o’war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.

Oh to be a child again and only have to worry about school and not getting in trouble.

wRitErsbLock

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Happy Friday, kids!

Sunshine
~Tom Simon, ED

We would tell jokes
We would talk about our childhoods
Talk about current events

I was always giving him
My stupid ideas
About what I thought should be done
In the administration or
Different views on things

I think back on it
And he always made me smile
When I was with him

It was a lot of –
He was sunshine

That is really rather happy, in a sad, nostalgic sort of way. Appropriate for Valentine’s Day, though, don’t you think?

If you have a poem you’d like to submit, let me know. And I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something you wrote, it can be your favorite poem

wRitErsbLock

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It’s been a long time. I’m burried and need some uplifting. I was looking for a modern poet and found what I wanted here.

Love
~Joseph Mayo Wristen

there is enough magic here
inside this one word
to change our world forever

mountain snow lying
across life’s pasture a
shadow reflected over
stone moss forest dream
man’s ability to under
stand nature’s living need

green comet seen in the sky
time’s gift, another
universe visiting our earth

rested bow spirit fly
into night’s seamless
ocean bring sea jewel
to land’s line touching
justice’s shore, man’s
ability to know freedom

green comet seen in the shy
time’s gift, another
universe visiting our earth

bridge between heaven’s
storm and fern field
pathway to a pollen canyon
mixed outside God’s vision,
our destiny painted in key ink
sand the touch of a woman

there is enough magic here
inside this one word
to change our world forever

Love

If you have a poem you’d like to submit, let me know. And I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something you wrote, it can be your favorite poem.

wRitErsbLock

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I’m running late this morning and was busy last night, so I didn’t manage to get a poem set to post at the usual time (505a, in case you were wondering what the usual time is). I had one in mind, though, but it turns out I posted it last year. So, I’ll go with a different poem by the same poet.

Out, Out –
~Robert Frost

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap–
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all–
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart–
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off–
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then–the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little–less–nothing!–and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

If you have a poem you’d like to submit, let me know. And I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something you wrote, it can be your favorite poem.

wRitErsbLock

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October feels like Poe to me. I posted The Raven last year. Enjoy.

Spirits of the Dead
~Edgar Allan Poe

Thy soul shall find itself alone
’Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone –
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude
Which is not loneliness, for then
The spirits of the dead who stood
In life before thee are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee: be still.

The night, tho’ clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like Hope to mortals given;
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee forever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish –
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more — like dew-drops from the grass.

The breeze — the breath of God — is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy — shadowy — yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token, –
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

If you have a poem you’d like to submit, let me know. And I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something you wrote, it can be your favorite poem.

wRitErsbLock

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I’m sorry to do this to you, kids, but it suits the week I’ve had. And I’m drawn to the darker poems anyway! Besides, it’s not like you are making suggestions for poetry Friday, so you have to deal with my selections!

A Drinking Song
~William Butler Yeats

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

and another for good measure:

Death
~William Butler Yeats

Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone –
Man has created death.

(I think Sweet Polly is my only reader who appreciates poetry anyway.)

If you have a poem you’d like to submit, let me know. And I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something you wrote, it can be your favorite poem.

wRitErsbLock

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Because of what has been going on in Jena, LA, I thought it would be appropriate to post some Langston Hughes this week.

Sea Calm
~Langston Hughes

How still,
How strangely still
The water is today,
It is not good
For water
To be so still that way.

and another

Dream Deferred
~Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore –
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over –
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

If you have a poem you’d like to submit, let me know. And I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something you wrote, it can be your favorite poem.

wRitErsbLock

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Survivors — Found
~Joan Murray

We thought that they were gone –
we rarely saw them on our screens –
those everyday Americans
with workaday routines,

and the heroes standing ready –
not glamorous enough –
on days without a tragedy,
we clicked — and turned them off.

We only saw the cynics –
the dropouts, show-offs, snobs –
the right- and left-wing critics:
we saw that they were us.

But with the wounds of Tuesday
when the smoke began to clear,
we rubbed away our stony gaze –
and watched them reappear:

the waitress in the tower,
the broker reading mail,
the pair of window washers
filling up a final pail,

the husband’s last “I love you”
from the last seat of a plane,
the tourist taking in a view
no one would see again,

the fireman, his eyes ablaze
as he climbed the swaying stairs –
he knew someone might still be saved.
We wondered who it was.

We glimpsed them through the rubble:
the ones who lost their lives,
the heroes’ double burials,
the ones now “left behind,”

the ones who rolled a sleeve up
the ones in scrubs and masks,
the ones who lifted buckets
filled with stone and grief and ash:

some people spoke a different language –
still no one missed a phrase;
the soot had softened every face
of every shade and age –

“the greatest generation”? –
we wondered where they’d gone –
they hadn’t left directions
how to find our nation-home:

for thirty years we saw few signs,
but now in swirls of dust,
they were alive — they had survived –
we saw that they were us.

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It’s Friday, and that means poetry!

Otherwise
~Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.

At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

If you have a poem you’d like to submit, let me know. And I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something you wrote, it can be your favorite poem.

wRitErsbLock

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My Hero Bares His Nerves
~Dylan Thomas

My hero bares his nerves along my wrist
That rules from wrist to shoulder,
Unpacks the head that, like a sleepy ghost,
Leans on my mortal ruler,
The proud spine spurning turn and twist.

And these poor nerves so wired to the skull
Ache on the lovelorn paper
I hug to love with my unruly scrawl
That utters all love hunger
And tells the page the empty ill.

My hero bares my side and sees his heart
Tread, like a naked Venus,
The beach of flesh, and wind her bloodred plait;
Stripping my loin of promise,
He promises a secret heat.

He holds the wire from the box of nerves
Praising the mortal error
Of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves,
And the hunger’s emperor;
He pulls the chain, the cistern moves.

If you have a poem you’d like to submit, let me know. And I’ll try to post a new poem every Friday. It doesn’t have to be something you wrote, it can be your favorite poem.

wRitErsbLock

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