| By the River Fields of flowers beside the river, clouds overhead with lines of silver. Deer look forth, to the river which points them north. The brilliant colors - red, yellow and pink, reflect in the eyes of foxes who drink. Playful bunnies come and go, Without a care they give their show. All this here I've come to see, is how we know the world should be, with nature's beauty to unfold, as our savior's hand we hold. - Sonja Wheeler |
| THE REDWOODS Here, sown by the Creator's hand, In serried ranks, the Redwoods stand; No other clime is honored so, No other lands their glory know. The greatest of Earth's living forms, Tall conqueroes that laugh at storms; Their challenge still unanswered rings, Through fifty centuries of kings. The nations that with them were young, Rich empires, with their forts far-flung, Lie buried now - their splendor gone; But these proud monarchs still live on. So shall they live, when ends our day, When our crude citadels decay; For brief the years alloted man, But infinite perennials' span. This is their temple, vaulted high, And here we pause with reverent eye, With silent tongue and awe-struk soul; For here we sense life's proper goal; To be like these, straight, true and fine, To make our world, like theirs, a shrine; Sink down, oh traveler, on your knees, God stands before you in these trees. -Joseph B. Strauss Builder of the Golden Gate Bridge |
| I hear America singing. I hear America singing, the varied carolsI hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood cutter's song, the plowboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to no one else, The day what belongs to the day - at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs. -Walt Whitman |
| Here's a collection of some of my favorite poems, plus some I wrote myself. Beware, many of them are morbid. |
| Rock Wall The sun shining down on my back A cool breeze tickling my skin Cold rock beneath my fingers The world below is miniscule to my perception The sky above- infinite in its expanse But all focus is above me Will I rise; yet again conquer? Or will I fall, and once again be defeated? Now is the moment The peak of determination Stone beneath my feet A completed ascent I look out and smile in exhileration. -Sonja Wheeler 10-1-03 |
| Things Lost Lanterns glisten across the night's expanse One of them flickers then fades It's life has been long and hard Shinning light for millions of people Few looked up to appreciate its splendor Even fewer notice when its gone Ancients tower in a bright green expanse One of them trembles then falls Its life has been long and hard Giving shade for thousands of people Few realized the efforts for its splendor Few will see the sorrow of its fall Beings wander through the city's expanse One of them cries out then dies Its life has been short but hard Living in fear of just two people Few could see it beyond all their wealth and splendor Now it's too late, another child gone. -Sonja Wheeler 10-11-03 |