Posts Tagged With: poetry

The Lady of the Lake


She sits in seaweed, stringily strewn

An adornment fit for this lady renowned

And serenaded by goose and loon

With reed and lily is aptly crowned

 

With longing gaze she contemplates

A vision gold and green and gay

And swaying, bending to the fates

Allows her reeds to blow away

 

Where’er they will; she wisteth not

Her heart is lightened by their flight.

She swims in seaweed, all uncaught

By caring where her reeds may light.

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Blessed Be


Blessed be the bed sores
That make them notice
That I exist
And give me those fifteen minutes of humanity.

Blessed be the medication
that falls from my hand
to the cold tiles
Forcing them to touch me.

Blessed be the little children
who actually see me
Even if
they don’t understand. “What’s wrong with her, Mommy?”

Blessed be the well-wishers
who utter empty platitudes
and then leave
But don’t send them back, please.

Blessed be the dirty floors
and the janitor
and laughter
that echoes past the sound of the mop

Blessed be the flowers from who-knows-where
That sit by my table
and fill the room
with sunshine reflecting on tiles.

Blessed be my daughter
and forgive her
and my sons
They mean to come more often, I am sure.

Blessed be.

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Poetry cannot be taught


Poetry cannot be taught,
And writing is not learned.
Classrooms give no wings to thought–
Nor teach you how to yearn.

But watch the world for half an hour–
Be silent in your soul.
Leave, for once, your ivory tower
And listen to the pull

Of falling stars, of concrete, trees,
Of lovers’ rendezvous–
Dance unshod through dewy grass;
Memorize your shoes.

Read a book–or two–or three–
That makes you laugh aloud;
Be unashamed to shout and weep
Amidst the grey-black crowd.

Then listen to a little child
As if he were a king;
Sit with him an hour, and wind
His yoyo on its string.

Then–and only then–you might
Begin to hear the song
That underscores the woolen night;
That makes the day run long.

Then, if you hear the glittering words
And pull them from thick air
The heartbeat of the universe
Might open to your ears.

And if to class you then return
You’ll know the truth untold:
A poet’s born, and learns to yearn
By first becoming old.

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A poem from class… pre-the post-class revision


Mornings

 

A coffee-maker grumbles, and I

Awake in bed, hold shut my eyes

And pine for sleep and fickle night

But sunrise wreaks unceasing light.

 

Unhurried haste from pillows pulls

My tangled head; I, blinking, dull,

Escape from sheets to plod at last

Across the floor; to break my fast–

 

A hunk of bread, a slice of cheese,

Again the morning pleasantries–

And coffee, from its maker freed

Gives wings to eyes, and lets them read

 

The lengthening hour–I must to school–

But pause, for morning ritual;

Nut-brown scents and sour-yeast leaven

Are dearest tastes of absent heaven.

 

I linger but a moment longer;

The lure of bed grows ever stronger;

The morning, like a heady brew,

Has forgotten all I have to do–

 

But wait–it’s almost half-past-ten!

I, frenzied, rush to class–but then

Discover, to my great dismay,

Today is actually Saturday.

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Wild


English: Footpath to the Faerie Glen

Road to Faerie Glen

From under flowers  peeped bright eyes,

Each toad a princeling in disguise

And leaping streams

With naiads teemed

And oaks hid dryads, old and wise

With mermaid song rang windswept coves

And elven dance filled moonlit groves

And giants’ bones

Appeared like stones

Whilst life with faerie interwove

The grass is short, the trees are trimmed

The moon with streetlights now is dimmed

The wild is tamed

And dreamers shamed

By blind and busy mortal men.

While life with wonder leaps and sings,

And hidden, darkened glimmerings

The joy and grief

In root and leaf

Are left–for tamer, safer things.

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To Do Battle


In glittering garb she greets the day
With smiling mask set firmly on
Her determination cloaked in grace
To do battle with the day.

Her jewels and gems in grim array
Declare her warlike intention
The fragile shield upon her face
To do battle with the day

But, “Peace, my child,” she hears Him say
“Rejoice in the day that is given.”
And for now she will accept the grace
That is given by God for the day.

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Human Cathedrals


Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?

–1 Corinthians 6:19

You are surrounded by greatness every single day. Invisible temples, offerings of love surround you.

Every day, you pass that little church, full to the brim with praise and thanksgiving such that it spills over onto everyone she meets.

At lunch, you always see that dignified cathedral, old, wise, compassionate. A sanctuary.

In class, that utilitarian church, linoleum and folding chairs and plastic baskets, who always asks the uncomfortable questions. He has planted churches in places you have never been.

Once a week, you listen in chapel as the stone, monastic church, the unassuming church, the church that wrote of the Love of Christ, speaks of callings and obedience.

And that one church that still meets in a school? She is searching for a home, for friends. Support her.

Human churches, temples to God. Invisible, holy, adorned as a bride.

What kind of church are you?

 

 

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Twilight


Mary Magdalene

Through the twilight at midday,

I watched a man’s life slip away.

I helped him not, nor gave him care.

I simply watched him hanging there.

Through the twilight at midday,

I watched a man’s life slip away.

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The Supper


In plastic

A few short poems on the actors in this play.

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For April 12.


The Blue And The Gray
 Francis Miles Finch (1827-1907)
 

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