Make Fun Of Life! - Poems

It Is the Soldier

9/19/2017

It is the Soldier

It is the soldier, not the reporter,
     who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the soldier, not the poet,
     who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the soldier, not the campus organizer,
     who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.

It is the soldier, not the lawyer,
     who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the soldier,
     who salutes the flag, who
     serves under the flag, and whose coffin is
     draped by the flag, who allows the
     protester to burn the flag.

-Dennis Edward O’Brien

Dennis Edward O’Brien was born on 8 October 1923 in Dallas, Texas, United States of America. Mr. O’Brien served in the United States Marine Corp in World War 2. He was ordained a priest on 13 June 1953 and served in Africa, Mexico, and the United States of America. He eventually became a chaplain, with the title Father, in the United States Marine Corps (USMC). Dennis Edward O’Brien passed on at 78 years of age on 29 August 2002.

Two Sides of War

9/19/2017

Two Sides of War

All wars are planned by older men
     In council rooms apart,
Who call for greater armament
     And map the battle chart.

But out along the shattered field
     Where golden dreams turned gray,
How very young the faces were
     Where all the dead men lay.

Portly and solemn in their pride,
     The elders cast their vote
For this or that, or something else,
     That sounds the warlike note.

But where their sightless eyes stare out
     Beyond life’s vanished joys,
I’ve noticed nearly all the dead
     Were hardly more than boys.

-Grantland Rice

Henry Grantland ‘Grantland’ Rice was born on 1 November 1880 in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, United States of America. He was an American newspaperman and sports writer. He is known for his book of sports poetry, “Songs of the Stalwart” (1917). Henry Grantland ‘Grantland’ Rice passed on at 73 years of age on 13 July 1954 in New York City, New York, United States of America. The Grantland Rice online memorial is at https://goo.gl/D4Tkym.

Child Abuse

9/15/2017

Child Abuse

For every child who cries at night,
     Alone with shame and pain and fright,

For every child who wants so much,
     To only feel a gentle touch,

For the beaten child, who cries in pain,
     Whose tears run silent, like the rain,

For the child used to satisfy lust,
     Who never learns to love or trust,

For the child taken from her home,
     And made to feel so all alone,

For the child whose home is just a shell,
     Where life becomes a living hell,

For the child who smiles but cannot feel,
     Because of scars too deep to heal,

For every child who yearns for love,
     I hope and pray to God above,

To hear your cries and heal your pain,
     And give you back your life again,

With love, to all the children,

-Kathy Williams

Coming Out from the Shadows

9/15/2017

Coming Out from the Shadows

Growing up,
     I learned real fast,
Hide your true self,
     And wear a mask.

No one cared,
     Or ever did,
So I cried to myself,
     And always hid.

The older I got,
     The more I hid,
Thinking I was still
     A little kid.

It’s taken a lot,
     To finally see,
There was nothing ever
     Wrong with me!

I do not let others
     Shape my life,
And when they insist,
     I give them due strife.

Take it from someone
     Who learned later on,
Just stay true to yourself,
     And you’ll never be wrong.

-Author Unknown

The Land of Beginning Again

9/12/2017

The Land of Beginning Again

I wish that there were some wonderful place
     Called the land of Beginning Again,
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches
     And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door,
     And never put on again.

I wish we could come on it all unaware,
     Like the hunter who finds a lost trail;
And I wish that the one whom our blindness had done
     The greatest injustice of all
Could be at the gates like an old friend that waits
     For the comrade he’s gladdest to hail.

We would find all the things we intended to do
     But forgot, and remembered too late,
Little praises unspoken, little promises broken,
     And all of the thousand and one
Little duties neglected that might have perfected
     The day for one less fortunate.

It wouldn’t be possible not to be kind
     In the land of Beginning Again;
And the ones we misjudged and the ones
     Whom we grudged
The moments of victory here
     Would find in the grasp of our loving handclasp
More than penitent lips could explain.

For what had been hardest we’d know had been best
     And what had seemed loss would be gain;
For there isn’t a sting that will not take wing
     When we’ve faced it and laughed it away;
And I think that the laughter is most what we’re after
     In the land of Beginning Again.

So I wish that there were some wonderful place
     Called the land of Beginning Again,
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches
     And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door,
     And never be put on again.

-Louisa Fletcher

My Garden Is a Pleasant Place

8/26/2017

My Garden is a Pleasant Place

My Garden is a pleasant place
Of sun glory and leaf grace.
There is an ancient cherry tree
Where yellow warblers sing to me,

And an old grape arbor, where
A robin builds her nest, and there
Above the lima beans and peas
She croons her little melodies,
Her blue eggs hidden in the green
Fastness of that leafy screen.
Here are striped zinnias that bees
Fly far to visit; and sweet peas,
Like little butterflies newborn,
And over by the tasseled corn
Are sunflowers and hollyhocks,
And pink and yellow four-clocks.
Here are hummingbirds that come
To seek the tall delphinium -
Songless bird and scentless flower
Communing in a golden hour.

There is no blue like the blue cup
The tall delphinium holds up,
Not sky, nor distant hill, nor sea,
Sapphire, nor lapis lazuli.

My lilac trees are old and tall;
I cannot reach their bloom at all.
They send their perfume over trees
And roofs and streets, to find the bees.

I wish some power would touch my ear
With magic touch, and make me hear
What all the blossoms say, and so
I might know what the winged things know.
I’d hear the sunflower’s mellow pipe,
“Goldfinch, goldfinch, my seeds are ripe!”
I’d hear the pale wistaria sing,
“Moon moth, moon moth, I’m blossoming!”

I’d hear the evening primrose cry,
“Oh, firefly! come, firefly!”
And I would learn the jeweled word
The ruby-throated hummingbird
Drops into cups of larkspur blue,
And I would sing them all for you!

My garden is a pleasant place
Of moon glory and wind grace.
O friend, wherever you may be,
Will you not come to visit me?
Over fields and streams and hills,
I’ll pipe like yellow daffodils,
And every little wind that blows
Shall take my message as it goes.
A heart may travel very far
To come where its desires are,
Oh, may some power touch my ear,
And grant me grace, and make you hear!

-Louise Driscoll

Louise Driscoll was born on 15 January 1875 in Poughkeepsie, Dutchess County, New York, United States of America. She was educated by private teachers and in the public schools of Catskill, New York. Miss Driscoll first attracted attention with a poem about World War One, titled “Metal Checks,” which received a prize of one hundred dollars from “Poetry: A Magazine of Verse,” after being chosen as the best poem about the war. The poem emphasized the heavy human cost of war that was far from the minds of young women, who were presenting young men with white feathers and encouraging them to enlist. In 1917, her play titled, “The Poor House” was published in “The Drama” magazine, volume 7, section 29, page 448. She had two collections of her poems published in book form: “The Garden of the West” (1922) and “Garden Grace” (1924). She contributed verses and stories to “Poetry Magazine,” with approximately thirteen submissions between 1913 and 1929. She was also a contributor to “Harper’s Magazine.” Louise Driscoll lived most of her adult life in Catskill, Greene County, New York, where she worked as the head librarian at the public library. Louise Driscoll passed on at about 82 years of age in 1957.

Image: Gladiolus flowers.

Mrs. Malone

8/22/2017

Mrs. Malone

Mrs. Malone
     Lived hard by a wood
All on her lonesome
     As nobody should.
With her crust on a plate
     And her pot on the coal
And none but herself
     To converse with, poor soul.
In a shawl and a hood
     She got sticks out-o’-door,
On a bit of old sacking
     She slept on the floor,
And nobody, nobody
     Asked how she fared
Or knew how she managed,
     For nobody cared.
Why make a pother
     About an old crone?
What for should they bother
     With Mrs. Malone?

One Monday in winter
     With snow on the ground
So thick that a footstep
     Fell without sound,
She heard a faint frostbitten
     Peck on the pane
And went to the window
     To listen again.
There sat a cock-sparrow
     Bedraggled and weak,
With half-open eyelid
     And ice on his beak.
She threw up the sash
     And she took the bird in,
And mumbled and fumbled it
     Under her chin.
’Ye’re all of a smother,
     Ye’re fair overblown!
I’ve room fer another,’
     Said Mrs. Malone.

Come Tuesday while eating
     Her dry morning slice
With the sparrow a-picking
     (‘Ain’t company nice!’)
She heard on her doorpost
     A curious scratch,
And there was a cat
     With its claw on the latch.
It was hungry and thirsty
     And thin as a lath,
It mewed and it mowed
     On the slithery path.
She threw the door open
     And warmed up some pap,
And huddled and cuddled it
     In her old lap.
‘There, there, little brother,
     Ye poor skin-an’-bone,
There’s room fer another,’
     Said Mrs. Malone.

Come Wednesday while all of them
     Crouched on the mat
With a crumb for the sparrow,
     A sip for the cat,
There was wailing and whining
     Outside in the wood,
And there sat a vixen
     With six of her brood.
She was haggard and ragged
     And worn to a shred,
And her half-dozen babies
     Were only half-fed,
But Mrs. Malone, crying
      ‘My! ain’t they sweet!’
Happed them and lapped them
     And gave them to eat.
‘You warm yerself, mother,
     Ye’re cold as a stone!
There’s room fer another,’
     Said Mrs. Malone.

Come Thursday a donkey
     Stepped in off the road
With sores on his withers
     From bearing a load.
Come Friday when icicles
     Pierced the white air
Down from the mountainside
     Lumbered a bear.
For each she had something,
     If little, to give -
‘Lord knows, the poor critters
     Must all of ’em live.’
She gave them her sacking,
     Her hood and her shawl,
Her loaf and her teapot -
     She gave them her all.
‘What with one thing and t’other
     Me fambily’s grown,
And there’s room fer another,’
     Said Mrs. Malone.

Come Saturday evening
     When time was to sup
Mrs. Malone
     Had forgot to sit up.
The cat said meeow,
     And the sparrow said peep,
The vixen, she’s sleeping,
     The bear, let her sleep.
On the back of the donkey
     They bore her away,
Through trees and up mountains
     Beyond night and day,
Till come Sunday morning
     They brought her in state
Through the last cloudbank
     As far as the Gate.
‘Who is it,’ asked Peter,
      ‘You have with you there?’
And donkey and sparrow,
     Cat, vixen, and bear

Exclaimed, ‘Do you tell us
     Up here she’s unknown?
It’s our mother, God bless us!
     It’s Mrs. Malone
Whose havings were few
     And whose holding was small
And whose heart was so big
     It had room for us all.’
Then Mrs. Malone
     Of a sudden awoke,
She rubbed her two eyeballs
     And anxiously spoke:
‘Where am I, to goodness,
     And what do I see?
My dears, let’s turn back,
     This ain’t no place fer me!’
But Peter said, ‘Mother
     Go in to the Throne.
There’s room for another
     One, Mrs. Malone.’

-Eleanor Farjeon (1881 - 1965)

Census

7/30/2017

Census

It was the first day of census, and all through the land
     each pollster was ready . . . a black book in hand.
He mounted his horse for a long dusty ride,
     his book and some quills were tucked close by his side.
A long winding ride down a road barely there,
     toward the smell of fresh bread wafting, up through the air.

The woman was tired, with lines on her face
     and wisps of brown hair she tucked back into place.
She gave him some water . . . as they sat at the table
     and she answered his questions . . . the best she was able.
He asked her of children. Yes, she had quite a few -
     the oldest was twenty, the youngest not two.

She held up a toddler with cheeks round and red;
     his sister, she whispered, was napping in bed.
She noted each person who lived there with pride,
     and she felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside.
He noted the sex, the color, the age . . .
     the marks from the quill soon filled up the page.

At the number of children, she nodded her head
     and saw her lips quiver for the three that were dead.
The places of birth she “never forgot”
     was it Kansas? or Utah? or Oregon . . . or not?
They came from Scotland, of that she was clear,
     but she wasn’t quite sure just how long they’d been here.

They spoke of employment, of schooling and such,
     they could read some . . . and write some . . . though really not much.
When the questions were answered, his job there was done
     so he mounted his horse and he rode toward the sun.
We can almost imagine his voice loud and clear,
      “May God bless you all for another ten years.”

Now picture a time warp . . . it’s now you and me
     as we search for the people on our family tree.
We squint at the census and scroll down so slow
     as we search for that entry from long, long ago.
Could they only imagine on that long ago day
     that the entries they made would affect us this way?

If they knew would they wonder at the yearning we feel
     and the searching that makes them so increasingly real.
We can hear if we listen the words they impart
     through their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart.

-Author Unknown

If

7/29/2017

If

If I knew it would be the last time that I’d see you fall asleep,
I would tuck you in more tightly and pray the Lord, your soul to keep,
If I knew it would be the last time that I see you walk out the door,
I would give you a hug and kiss and call you back for one more.
If I knew it would be the last time I’d hear your voice lifted up in praise,
I would video tape each action and word, so I could play them back day after day.
If I knew it would be the last time, I could spare an extra minute or two
To stop and say, “I love you,” instead of assuming, you would know I do.
If I knew it would be the last time I would be there to share your day,
Well, I’m sure you’ll have so many more, so I can let just this one slip away.
For surely there’s always tomorrow to make up for an oversight,
and we always get a second chance to make everything right.
There will always be another day to say our “I love you’s,”
And certainly there’s another chance to say our “Anything I can do’s?”
But just in case I might be wrong, and today is all I get,
I’d like to say how much I love you and I hope we never forget,
Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, young or old alike,
And today may be the last chance you get to hold your loved one tight..
So if you’re waiting for tomorrow, why not do it today?
For if tomorrow never comes, you’ll surely regret the day,
That you didn’t take that extra time for a smile, a hug, or a kiss
And you were too busy to grant someone, what turned out to be their one last wish.
So hold your loved ones close today, whisper in their ear,
Tell them how much you love them and that you’ll always hold them dear,
Take time to say, “I’m sorry,” “please forgive me,” “thank you,” or “it’s okay.”
And if tomorrow never comes, you’ll have no regrets about today.

-Author Unknown

Potatoes

7/28/2017

Potatoes

An old lady sat in her old arm-chair
With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair
And hunger worn features:
For days and for weeks her only fare,
As she sat there in her old armchair,
Had been potatoes.

But now they were gone; of bad or good
Not one was left for the old lady’s food
Of the potatoes.
And she sighed and she said,
“What shall I do?
Where shall I send, and to whom shall I go
For more potatoes?”

And the thought of the deacon over the way,
The deacon so ready to worship and pray,
Whose cellar was full of potatoes;
And she said,
“I will send for the deacon to come;
He’ll not mind much to give me some of such a store
of potatoes.”

And the deacon came over as fast as he could,
Thinking to do the old lady some good,
But never thought once of potatoes:
He asked her at once what was her chief want,
And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,
immediately answered, “Potatoes.”

But the deacon’s religion wasn’t that way:
He was more accustomed to preach and to pray,
Then to give of his hoarded potatoes:
So not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,
He rose to pray with uncovered head,
But she thought only of potatoes.

He prayed for patience, wisdom, and grace,
But when he prayed “Lord give her peace,”
She audibly sighed
“Give potatoes.”
And at the end of each prayer which he said,
He heard, or thought he heard in its stead
The same request for potatoes.

The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do;
’Twas very embarrassing to have her act so
About “those carnal potatoes.”
So ending his prayer, he started for home;
But, as the door closed behind him he heard a deep groan,
“O, give to the hungry, potatoes!”

And that groan followed him all the way home;
In the midst of the night it haunted his room-
“O, give to the hungry, potatoes!”
He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed,
From his well-filled cellar taking in haste
A bag of his best potatoes.

Again he went to the widow’s lone hut:
Her sleepless eyes were not yet shut;
But there she sat in that old armchair,
With the same wan features, the same sad air.
And entering in, he poured on the floor
A bushel or more from his goodly store
Of choicest potatoes.

The widow’s heart leaped for joy;
Her face was haggard and wan no more.
“Now,” said the deacon, “shall we pray?”
“Yes” said the widow, “now you may.”
And he knelt down on the sanded floor,
Where he had poured his goodly store,
And such a prayer the deacon prayed
As never before his lips essayed;

No longer embarrassed, but free and full,
He poured out the voice of a liberal soul,
And the widow responded aloud, “Amen!”
And said no more of potatoes.

And would you, who hear this simple tale,
Pray for the poor, and praying “prevail,”
Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds:
Search out the poor, their wants and their needs;
Prayer for peace, and grace, and spiritual food,
For wisdom and guidance - for all these are good,
But don’t forget the potatoes.

-J. T. Pettee

John Tyler Pettee was born on 5 September 1822 in Sharon, Massachusetts, United States of America. In 1843, he graduated from Wesleyan University. On 26 October 1843, he married Mariette Roxanne Clark. Mr. Pettee became a minister with the title Reverend, an amateur astronomer, a Meriden School superintendent, a teacher, a principal, a poet, a judge of probate, and a town selectman. John Tyler Pettee passed on at 84 years of age on 7 February 1907 in Meriden, Connecticut, United States of America. To visit his online memorial click on the link https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=17001404.

Around the Corner

7/22/2017

Around the Corner

Around the corner I have a friend,
     In this great city that has no end,
Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,
     And before I know it, a year is gone.

And I never see my old friends face,
     For life is a swift and terrible race,
He knows I like him just as well,
     As in the days when I rang his bell.

And he rang mine but we were younger then,
     And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game,
     Tired of trying to make a name.

“Tomorrow” I say! “I will call on Jim
     Just to show that I’m thinking of him,”
But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,
     And distance between us grows and grows.

Around the corner, yet miles away,
     “Here’s a telegram sir.” . . . “Jim died today.”
And that’s what we get and deserve in the end.
     Around the corner, a vanished friend.

-Charles Hanson Towne

Charles Hanson Towne was born in 1877 in Louisville, Kentucky, United States of America. At three years of age, he moved with his family to New York. At eleven years of age, he published the “Unique Monthly,” a magazine by and for children. Over the span of his career, he was an editor for several magazines, including “Cosmopolitan,” “Smart Set,” and “Harper’s Bazaar.” He was also a novelist, a dramatist (playwright), an essayist, a songwriter, and a poet. His autobiography is “So Far, So Good” (1945). Charles Hanson Towne passed on in 1949.

Blue Flowers

7/10/2017

Blue Flowers

I bumped into a stranger as he passed by.
     “Oh, . . . excuse me, please,” was my reply.
He said, “Please excuse me too;
     I wasn’t even watching for you.”

Oh, we were polite - this stranger and I.
     We went on our way and we said our good-bye.
But at home a different story is told,
     How we treat our loved ones, young and old.

Later that day, cooking the evening meal,
     My daughter stood beside me very still.
When I turned, I nearly knocked her down.
     “Move out of the way!” I said with a frown.

She walked away, her little heart broken.
     I didn’t realize how harshly I’d spoken.
Later that night wide awake in my bed,
     God’s still, small voice came to me and said,

“While dealing with a stranger, common courtesy you use,
     But the children you love, you seem to abuse!
Look upon the kitchen floor,
     You’ll find some flowers there by the door.

Those are the flowers she brought for you,
     She picked them herself - pink, yellow and blue.
She stood quietly not to spoil the surprise,
     And you never saw the tears in her eyes.”

By this time, I felt very small
     And now my tears began to fall.
I quietly went and knelt by her bed;
     “Wake up, sweetheart,” I whispered and said.

“Are these the flowers you picked for me?”
     She smiled, “I found ’em, out by the tree.
I picked ’em because they’re pretty like you.
     I knew that you’d like them - especially the blue.”

I said, “Daughter, I’m sorry how I acted to you today;
     I shouldn’t have yelled at you that way.”
She hugged me and said “Mommy, that’s okay.
     You know I love you anyway.”

I said, “Daughter, I love you too!
     And I do like the flowers - especially the blue.”

-Author Unknown

Should You Go First

6/29/2017

Should You Go First

Should you go first and I remain
To walk the road alone,
I’ll live in memory’s garden, dear,
With happy days we’ve known.

In Spring I’ll watch for roses red
When fades the lilac blue,
In early Fall when brown leaves call
I’ll catch a glimpse of you.

Should you go first and I remain
For battles to be fought,
Each thing you’ve touched along the way
Will be a hallowed spot.

I’ll hear your voice, I’ll see your smile,
Though blindly I may grope,
The memory of your helping hand
Will buoy me on with hope.

Should you go first and I remain
To finish with the scroll
No length’ning shadows shall creep in
To make this life seem droll.

We’ve known so much of happiness,
We’ve had our cup of joy
And memory is one gift of God
That death cannot destroy.

Should you go first and I remain
One thing I’d have you do;
Walk slowly down that long, lone path,
For soon I’ll follow you.

I’ll want to know each step you take
That I may walk the same.
For someday, down that lonely road,
You’ll hear me call your name.

-Albert Rowswell

Albert Kennedy ‘Rosey’ Rowswell was born on 1 February 1884 in Alton, Illinois, United States of America. He was a sports radio broadcaster and a poet. He wrote the poem “Should You Go First” for his wife. Albert Kennedy ‘Rosey’ Rowswell passed on at 71 years of age on 6 February 1955 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, United States of America.

The Road Not Taken

5/16/2017

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

-Robert Frost

Robert Lee Frost (rŏbꞋərt lē frôst/frŏst) was born on 26 March 1874 in San Francisco, California, United States of America. He was the quintessential American poet and a leading American poet of the twentieth century. He had the remarkable ability to write poetry about nature and the sights and sounds of rural life in New England that was deeply philosophical and unforgettably beautiful, much of it written while he lived on a farm in New Hampshire. His poetry collections include “Mountain Interval” (1916), “West-running Brook” (1928), “A Further Range” (1936), “Steeple Bush” (1947), and “In the Clearing” (1962). Robert Frost passed on at 88 years of age on 29 January 1963 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America.

The Violet

5/9/2017

The Violet

Down in a green and shady bed
A modest violet grew;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its color bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused a sweet perfume,
Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go,
This pretty flower to see,
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.

-Jane Taylor

Jane Taylor was born on 23 September 1783 in London, England, as one among an extensive literary family. She was a novelist and a poet, best remembered for the song “The Star” (also known as “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”) (1806) and the poem “The Violet.” Jane Taylor passed on at 40 years of age on 13 April 1824.

The Philosopher

4/11/2017

The Philosopher

I saw him sitting in his door,
Trembling as old men do;
His house was old; his barn was old,
And yet his eyes seemed new.

His eyes had seen three times my years
And kept a twinkle still,
Though they had looked at birth and death
And three graves on a hill.

“I will sit down with you,” I said,
“And you will make me wise;
Tell me how you have kept the joy
Still burning in your eyes.”

Then like an old-time orator
Impressively he rose;
“I make the most of all that comes,
And the least of all that goes.”

The jingling rhythm of his words
Echoes as old songs do,
Yet this had kept his eyes alight
Till he was ninety-two.

-Sara Teasdale: “Collected Poems of Sara Teasdale” (1937)

Sara Teasdale Filsinger was born as Sara Trevor Teasdale on 8 August 1884 in Saint Louis, Missouri, United States of America. She was a lyrical poet. Sara Teasdale Filsinger passed on at 48 years of age on 29 January 1933 in New York City, New York, United States of America.

To Every Thing There Is a Season

3/20/2017

To Everything There Is a Season

To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of war, and a time of peace.

-Author Unknown: ‘Ecclesiastes,’ chapter 3, verses 1 through 8, in “The Bible”

The Serenity Prayer

2/18/2017

The Serenity Prayer

God, grant me the serenity
to accept the things
I cannot change,
Courage to change the
things I can, and the
wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardship as the
pathway to peace.
Taking, as He did, this
sinful world as it is,
not as I would have it.
Trusting that He will make
all things right if I
surrender to His will;
That I may be reasonably happy
in this life, and supremely
happy with Him forever in
the next. Amen

-Reinhold Niebuhr (1926)

Shown above is one of several versions of “The Serenity Prayer” known to exist, the work having been revised by its author more than once.

Karl Paul Reinhold Niebuhr was born on 21 June 1892 in Wright City, Missouri, United States of America. He was a Christian Protestant minister (1915 - 1928), a professor at Union Theological Seminary (1928 - 1960), and an editor of the magazine “Christianity and Crisis” (1941 - 1966). Karl Paul Reinhold Niebuhr passed on at 78 years of age on 1 June 1971 in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, United States of America.

You Have to Believe in Happiness

12/12/2016

You Have to Believe in Happiness

You have to believe in happiness,
Or happiness never comes.
I know that the bird chirps none the less,
When all that he finds is crumbs.

You have to believe that winds will blow,
Believe in the grass, the days of snow,
Ah, that’s the reason the bird can sing:
On his darkest day he believes in Spring.

You have to believe in happiness,
It isn’t an outward thing;
The Spring never makes the song, I guess,
As much as the song makes the Spring.

Aye, man’s heart could find content,
If it saw the joy on the road it went,
The joy ahead when it had to grieve,
For the joy is there - but you have to believe.

-Douglas Malloch

Douglas Malloch, Senior was born on 5 May 1877 in Muskegon, Michigan, United States of America. He grew up in the midst of logging camps, sawmills, and lumber yards. He became enamored with writing poems and stories about lumbering scenes and eventually became known as the ‘Lumbermen’s Poet.’ He wrote his first poem at 10 years of age, which was published in the “Detroit News.” After leaving school, he took a job on the editorial staff at the Muskegon Chronicle, where he remained for 13 years, becoming a reporter and feature writer for the paper. After leaving the Chronicle, he joined the staff of the “American Lumberman” in 1903 as a syndicated columnist. Mr. Malloch soon became a popular and nationally renowned humorist, lecturer, and radio personality. His column was often written in the form of a poem and eventually the poems were collected into a series of books with “In Forest Land” (1906) being his first published work and a national best seller. Douglas Malloch, Senior passed on at 61 years of age on 2 July 1938 in Muskegon, Michigan, United States of America.

The Rainy Day

12/5/2016

The Rainy Day

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering* wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering* past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

* moldering: slow decay or disintegration, especially due to neglect.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born on 27 February 1807. He was an American poet and writer. His works include “Paul Revere’s Ride” (1860) and the epic “The Song of Hiawatha” (1855). He was one of five members of a group of 19th century American poets from New England known as the Fireside Poets. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow passed on at 75 years of age on 24 March 1882.

All Things Bright and Beautiful

11/26/2016

All Things Bright and Beautiful

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures, great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings;

The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them, high and lowly,
And ordered their estate.

The purple-headed mountain,
The river running by,
The sunset and the morning,
That brightens up the sky;

The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden -
He made them every one.

The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water
We gather every day, -

He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell,
How great is God Almighty,
Who has made all things well!

-Cecil Frances Alexander: “Hymns for Little Children” (1848)

Cecil Francis Alexander was born in April 1818 in Dublin, Ireland. She was a poet and a hymn writer. Cecil Francis Alexander passed on at 77 years of age on 12 October 1895.

I Am Not There

11/24/2016

I Am Not There

Do not stand at my grave and weep -
I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush,
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

-Mary Elizabeth Frye (1932)

Mary Elizabeth Frye was born on 13 November 1905 in Dayton, Ohio, United States of America. Orphaned at 3 years of age. She was a flower grower, a florist, and a poet. Mary Elizabeth Frye passed on at 98 years of age on 15 September 2004 in Baltimore, Maryland, United States of America.

Bless Our Family Farm

11/22/2016

Bless Our Family Farm

O Lord, please bless this land we farm,
our buildings, home, and all the rest.
Protect the seed we plant in spring,
and send the rain to do its best.

Give us the wisdom to tend your land,
and do our best and what we know.
Please help the seeds we planted,
to multiply and grow.

Command your elements to be kind,
and guard our crops out in the field.
Bless our farm at harvest time,
and fill our bins with a grateful yield.

We thank you for these special gifts,
you’ve granted through the year.
But most of all, we thank you, Lord,
for our family close and dear.

-Edward C. Schaefer

In Flanders Fields

11/21/2016

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

-John McCrae (3 May 1915)

Flanders Fields was a battle region in the First World War, which lasted from 1914 to 1918. Roughly a million soldiers from more than fifty different nations were wounded, went missing, or were killed in action in Flanders Fields. The region now makes up the northern part of the country of Belgium, and it still bears witness to history in its many monuments, museums, and cemeteries, and in the innumerable stories of individual lives that were dramatically changed.

Poppies are plants with large bright-red flowers, and were among the first plants to regrow after the ground was torn apart by war and then disturbed again by the making of the final resting places of the war dead.

John McCrae was born on 30 November 1872 in Guelph, Ontario, Canada. He was a writer, a poet, a physician, and a Lieutenant Colonel in the Canadian Expeditionary Force during the First World War. John McCrae passed on at 45 years of age on 28 January 1918 in Boulogne-sur-Mer, France.

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson

11/1/2016

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson
Went to the school-house on the hill
In a little town called Talcotville,
And her face was thin, and her shoes were worn,
And her clothes were faded and patched and torn,
And the children laughed at her with scorn -
And Mary Elizabeth always heard,
But never answered a single word.

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson
Hadn’t an extra share of looks,
But she knew a lot when it came to books.
And she used to dream of the things she read
When she lay at night in her wooden bed,
With an arm beneath a tousled head;
And her heart was sad, and her thoughts were old,
But Mary Elizabeth never told.

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson
Plodded on till the dreams came true,
And she did the things that she planned to do
By the very force of her brain and will,
And those from the school-house on the hill
Are talking about the wonder still,
And credit the town with what was done
By Mary Elizabeth Jefferson.

Mary Elizabeth Jefferson
Has plenty of fame and riches now,
But the hurt of life is there somehow
For a child too thin, with shoes too worn;
With clothes that were faded and patched and torn;
Lonely, and treated with bitter scorn -
A child so sad, with thoughts so old
Who never answered and never told.

-Nan Terrell Reed: “Prose and Poems” (1919), pages 27 and 28

Nan Terrell Reed was born in Connecticut, United States of America. She was a poet and a songwriter. Her poems were widely published in periodicals.