Tag Archives: poetry

The One Who Wears My Ring

The One Who Wears My Ring

The old Roman stones were rough,

The nearby streets hustling bustling,

With the downtown baazar filled with stuff,

I’m found wanting.

 

Though the blue sea and its warmth does please,

The carpets of Anatolia do spark wonder,

One can live life here quite at ease,

But still for one thing do I hunger.

 

Fascination is filling its appetite,

And my eyes are filled with new sights,

Curiosity is overwhelmed with the number

Of unexplored corners, and unknown streets.

But when all is still and well,

The buses and taxis have had their fill,

When the fishermen have no fish to sell,

I’m found wanting one thing, still.

 

If I could travel even more…

If I could try the world’s foods…

If I could meet the most interesting people…

If I could see the oldest ruin…

I would still be found wanting this one thing.

 

In man’s pursuit of beauty in all the land,

All he wants is to walk with her, hand in hand.

Though the world interest, curiosity, and fascination bring

Only let me be with the one who wears my ring.

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“Not all, but some” a poem

The river pours out water of life, creatures run to it.

Fields yield its joy, and with happiness a crop is harvested.

Adorned with heavenward hands, trees do sit.

Who causes the bellies of the river beds to swell and flood.

Who has let foul weather fall upon seedlings below.

Who allows fire to ravage forests, shedding priestly blood.

Though water destroys it also nourishes.

Though hope is put in your land, it can disappoint.

Though beauty may flourish, it can be taken away.

Though all cannot be understood,

Though perfection lies but a bit away,

To know what has been revealed, I could.

In this I know, God is good.

“O Pine, The Evergreen”, a poem

“O Pine, The Evergreen”


Wind has a friend in the evergreen,

Though, with its combs to prickle,

And it’s relief humanly unseen,

Sighs like a brook do trickle.

 

One need only stand in the midst

Of these ever breathing giants,

To feel the rest being lift

With the escort of wind.

 

Not like their noisy brothers,

Who clap and shudder and sap

The oak, the maple, and others

Don’t exhale the breath of nap.

 

No, no as these trees go go

Their needles tossed to and fro,

Their cones left to embed the floor,

To receive the breath and live for more.

 

Wind has a friend in the evergreen,

Lost in its arms, task and time

Ticking and wasting it may seem,

But to sweeten the sigh is the pine!

 

Luke Olson

The Wood-Pile, by Robert Frost

As you might have guessed by now, I’m a big fan of Robert Frost.  Well here is another wintry poem for you…enjoy.

The Wood-Pile
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day
I paused and said, ‘I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther- and we shall see’.
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tail slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather-
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled- and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year’s cutting,
Or even last year’s or the year’s before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
· To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.

-Robert Frost, 1915

A Wintry Poem for an awfully Wintry Evening

It is February 1st, 2011, and Chicago is being hit by a major blizzard.  The city sits tonight, waiting for this weatherly chaos to pass.  As it passes, what to do?  How about some poetry from my favorite poet of all time!  Robert Frost!  A rather befitting poem.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

– Robert Frost