Name | Date | Link |
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SCRAPS | 8/9/02 | [www.emule.com] |
KING OF THE WIND | 8/30/02 | [www.emule.com] |
WEEDS | 10/12/02 |
Name | Date | Poem |
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SCRAPS | 8/9/02 | I'm building a bird house out in the garage. nothing fancy or fine left-over scraps too good to throw away No power, no phone, no haste allowed out here. Average hands, simple tools, glue It will be white with a red roof Those are the colors I found on the shelf It will only be big enough for a small bird or two. Just a short perch under a hole too small for my thumb finches maybe, or sparrows The big guys can fend for themselves I'll hang it in the maple just outside the kitchen window The cats will spend their days making idle, impotent threats The late afternoon is getting cool. I'm losing the last of this golden light. This wood, this day, was too good to waste. I did something for the birds, the cats, and me. | KING OF THE WIND | 8/30/02
I COULD WRITE SOME STUFF IN HERE IF I WANTED TO | It came to me again last night
Unbeckoned, but giddily welcome Unchanged from the days of my youth The wonderous dream of flight From a muddle of commonplace musings Perspective begins to shift I know the signs, I feel it coming The drift to a low hover, the butterflies Gaining a bit of control now Easily dodging trees and powerlines Summersaults, cartwheels, loop-the-loop Easing into a long, slow roll I know I'm wearing an idiot's grin But there's no one for miles to see it Nor hear my howls of childish laughter The wind in my ears Tracking my shadow on the clouds No worries of traffic up here Nobody else can fly like this I am The King of the Wind! How do I perform these brilliant maneuvers?! So effortlessly, no practice How long can this dream last? No sooner thought, begins to fade Instantly awake, disappointed Light's on, she's staring at me 'You woke me up... laughing Were you flying again?' |
WEEDS | 10/12/02 | A vacant lot
A country lane The footpath by the river Slow down Look close There is plenty of time First color Daffodil gold Shrugging off her ermine coat of snow In the ditch Facing south The purple loosestrife too impatient for April Queen Annes' lace Rules the meadow In the same exquisite gown her mother wore No hothouse No nursery No frail supermodel orchid or even rose No fertilizer No insecticide Their Gardener is nowhere to be seen High summer Song-birds and cicadas The mower comes along to clear the mess No sorrow No tears We'll all be back in the spring Unnoticed Unwanted Who are they to call us weeds? |
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I'd a dream to-night As I fell asleep, O! the touching sight Makes me still to weep: Of my little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Ay, the child I had, But was not to keep. |
As in heaven high, I my child did seek, There in train came by Children fair and meek, Each in lily white, With a lamp alight; Each was clear to sight, But they did not speak. |
Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn, But the lamp he had, O it did not burn! He, to clear my doubt, Said, half-turned about, "Your tears put it out; Mother, never mourn." |
William Barnes [1801-1886] |
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I'd a dream to-night As I fell asleep, O! the touching sight Makes me still to weep: Of my little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Ay, the child I had, But was not to keep. |
As in heaven high, I my child did seek, There in train came by Children fair and meek, Each in lily white, With a lamp alight; Each was clear to sight, But they did not speak. |
Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn, But the lamp he had, O it did not burn! He, to clear my doubt, Said, half-turned about, "Your tears put it out; Mother, never mourn." |
William Barnes [1801-1886] |
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I'd a dream to-night As I fell asleep, O! the touching sight Makes me still to weep: Of my little lad, Gone to leave me sad, Ay, the child I had, But was not to keep. |
As in heaven high, I my child did seek, There in train came by Children fair and meek, Each in lily white, With a lamp alight; Each was clear to sight, But they did not speak. William Barnes [1801-1886] |
Then, a little sad, Came my child in turn, But the lamp he had, O it did not burn! He, to clear my doubt, Said, half-turned about, "Your tears put it out; Mother, never mourn." |
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