- Poems - Page 1
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Upon Moving Into My Van
Joy. Pure joy. I am
What I always wanted
to grow up and be
Things are becoming
more of a dream
each waking day -
The heavy brows of Daily Life
are becoming encrusted
with glitter and the shaking finger
of consequence is
beginning to giggle
Grumpy old men
have wings
Bums sport halos
and everyday dullness
has begun to breathe
as I remember the
incredible lightness
of living
-Jewel Kilcher
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Absence
Sometimes I know the way
You walk, up over the bay;
It is a wind from the far sea
That blows the fragrance of your hair to me.
Or in this garden when the breeze
Touches my trees
To stir their dreaming shadows on the grass
I see you pass.
In shelterd beds, the heart of every rose
Serenly sleeps tonight. As shut as those
Your guarded heart; as safe as they from the beat, beat
Of hooves that tread dropped roses in the street.
Turn never again
On these eyes blind with a wild rain
Your eyes; they were stars to me.
There are things stars may not see.
But call, call, and though Christ stands
Still with scarred hands
Over my mouth, I must answer. So
I will come--He shall let me go!
-Charlotte Mew
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The Old House
I look at it, not seen these fifty years.
The mountain's taller than I saw it then;
the house so small I cannot quite believe
that six of us lived there. Weeds own it now,
and trees from deep woods creep out, slender, tall
sentinels to guard the prison I recall.
I shudder at remembered pain, and try
to find the little windowed, attic room
where I had felt so safe. I wonder now
if there was ever such a room, or did
I build its very walls within my mind,
a place that no one else could ever find.
Fifty long years! How can I reconcile
what was with what I see before me now?
The roof beam sags, the windows are long gone,
the front door, fallen, leaves a gaping hole
that looks on darkness. Darkness that I know
left no escape those many years.
-Sr. Andrew John
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Parting
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
-Emily Dickinson
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The Rose
All is hushed
saving when from the south
somewhere over the sea
the thunder mutters in fluent ambiguity
strange nothings down its steep
and watery wind pipe.
A repartee that spans the horizon
is fled back and forth
in gross and pendulous modulation
in the gutteral tongue;
and quiet sits the rose.
the dark and lofty clouds
slide south
as though down the slope
of the rounded earth.
In their wake
comes a warm and humid day
the sky
purged by the storm
of stifling airs and vanities.
and quiet sits the rose.
About her every barb is bared
like sworded sentinels armed and squared
Above her the leafy shade is spread
With tender poise above her quiet head
All sweetness smells the flower-bed
and quiet sits the rose.
-John Clinton
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Griefs
I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.
I wonder if when years have piled--
Some thousands--on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.
The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies,--
Death is but one and comes but once,
And only nails the eyes.
There's grief of want, and grief of cold,--
A sort they call 'despair;'
There 's banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the cross,
Of those that stand alone,
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.
-Emily Dickinson
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Heart, We Will Forget Him
Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, to-night!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.
When you have done, pray tell me,
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you 're lagging,
I may remember him!
-Emily Dickinson
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A Well
What mystery pervades a well!
The water lives so far,
Like neighbor from another world
Residing in a jar.
The grass does not appear afraid;
I often wonder he
Can stand so close and look so bold
At what is dread to me.
Related somehow they may be,--
The sedge stands next the sea,
Where he is floorless, yet of fear
No evidence gives he.
But nature is a stranger yet;
The ones that cite her most
Have never passed her haunted house,
Nor simplified her ghost.
To pity those that know her not
Is helped by the regret
That those who know her, know her less
The nearer her they get.
-Emily Dickinson
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Caged Bird
A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom
-Maya Angelou
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I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuos as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in a never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company;
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth to me the show had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
That flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
-William Wordsworth
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The Shell
And then I pressed the shell
Close to my ear,
And listened well.
And straightway, like a bell,
Came low and clear
The slow, sad murmur of far distant seas
Whipped by an icy breeze
Upon a shore
Wind-swept and desolate.
It was a sunless strand that never bore
The footprint of a man,
Nor felt the weight
Since time began
Of any human quality or stir,
Save what the dreary winds and waves incur.
And in the hush of waters was the sound
Of pebbles, rolling round;
Forever rolling, with a hollow sound:
And bubbling seaweeds, as the waters go,
Swish to and fro
Their long cold tentacles of slimy grey;
There was no day;
Nor ever came a night
Setting the stars alight
To wonder at the moon:
Was twilight only, and the frightened croon,
Smitten to whimpers, of the dreary wind
And waves that journeyed blind...
And then I loosed my ear.-Oh, it was sweet
To hear a car go jolting down the street!
-James Stephens
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Tom
Sometimes it just seemed like he was born moving uphill.
He was always a scrappy kid; six kinds of toughness
layered over a sweet generous temper and a kind heart,
topped with a shock of uncombed black hair and
an attitude calculated to make a saint chew nails.
He had a way of looking at you, all blue-eyed innocence,
that made you want to check and see if your wallet was
still in your pocket.
Such a scrappy kid.
I knew him for years, walking up that hill, and I
always wondered if we'd see the downhill together.
Of course, I always thought it would be me stuck on the steep while
Tom waved one of those big hands at me and rolled down the
other side into easy living, still grinning.
I don't know what happened.
Maybe he started listening to those voices too much -
It can't be easy, hearing the woman who gave birth to you
telling you how worthless, unloved, and unlovable you are.
Or maybe it was his absentee father - a man whose major
contributions to his son were a cornucopia of addictions and
the company of trashy women. Who knows?
Maybe it was just that no one has enough scrap to make
a hill like that when it's as sheer as a cliff and as long as your life.
He used it up young - climbing hard and fast,
and burning the same way.
Sometimes he gets in my head, even now, and lives there for a while,
grinning mischief at me with those shy blue eyes, and I find
myself unconsciously checking for my wallet, and I laugh.
I don't grudge him the space.
I can give him a rest and a ride now, though I couldn't before;
and maybe when I crest that hill, we can have a good laugh together
and shake our heads that we made it all the way down into easy living.
Such a scrappy kid.
-Ceallach Allen
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What Is A Smile?
A smile is like a rainbow,
spreading from cloud to cloud,
person to person,
like the sun's rays.
A smile is a gift to someone
better than Christmas,
for smiles can be given all year long
for no reason but joy or happiness.
A smile is like a disease,
for it is contagious,
but still worth catching.
And yet a smile is an antidote
that cures lonliness and sadness.
But most of all,
a smile is a wordless way
to say " I love you".
-unknown
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Friends
Friends can always make you smile,
make you feel relaxed for awhile.
They are a hug when you are sad,
comforting you until you're glad.
Friends are always there for you,
the guiding hand that sees you through.
They will be forever faithful,
and you should be forever grateful
to have friends.
-unknown
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The Gallery
They stood in the gallery side by side,
gazing at each other with obvious pride.
For one of her artworks was on the wall
the proudest moment that she could recall.
And what was still better - she joyfully told
her colorful creation was labeled 'sold',
Making her heart feel happy and light
for seeing that sign was a beautiful sight.
Yes, all of her efforts - her attempt at detail
was truly loved, and she did not fail
because every stroke was a piece of her
from parts that would simmer, and quietly stir.
For as the colors hit another's eyes
it evoked the same elation, and heartfelt sighs,
making her feel so less all alone
and within this sale that was easily shown.
They left happily smiling with one last gaze,
knowing that somewhere on some future days
a part of her will be out on display,
thus a piece of her being will not fade away.
-Barry Maltese
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The Real Adventure Is Putting On Your Socks
the real adventure is putting on your socks,
it's difficult to do early in the morning.
your eyes, they don't focus,
your fingers, they don't pinch,
your toes, they don't wiggle.
i sometimes sleep in my socks,
i'm not always in the mood for adventure.
-Rom Carpathian
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A Soldier
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it ploughed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone
-Robert Frost
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I Remember
By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color - no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.
-Anne Sexton
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The Firebombers
We are America.
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflower.
The bomb opens like a shoebox.
And the child?
The child is certainly not yawning.
And the woman?
The woman is bathing her heart.
It has been torn out of her
and because it is burnt
and as a last act
she is rinsing it off in the river.
This is the death market.
America, where are your credentials?
-Anne Sexton
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A Thunderstorm
The raindrops
fall against the windows
like the sound of little children
running barefoot down the hall.
Then a rumbling,
first in the distance,
growing closer
until lightning crashes overhead
and it's almost like the heavens
are being torn apart,
sure to come tumbling down
at any moment.
And the house,
so quiet for once,
a drastic contrast
to the angry storm outside.
The house will surely
be blown away
by the howling winds
and driving rain.
But then the raging clouds
are blown across the sky
by the same winds
that seemed so hostile before.
The rain turns from a torrent
back into running feet.
Then even the feet stop
and all is quiet.
The only clouds are white and few
while the sun shines down
through a sky that was all darkness
just a few moments ago.
-Amanda Cobb
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Better Late Than Never
I do not wish
you any ill
or any pain or sorrow.
You ask me how long
I'll love you 'til?
I'll love you 'til tomorrow.
Tomorrow never comes they say
so I'll love you 'til forever.
I know that it's been
a long time since
but it's better late than never.
-T. J. Daniels
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