Make Fun Of Life! - Poems

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.

The Old Farmer's Song

10/24/2016

The Old Farmer’s Song

At the edge of the world, I graze my sheep,
Where storm clouds swirl, and the valley cuts deep.

I’ve farmed this land for fifty years,
Calloused my hands on shovels and shears.

Raised my cattle as best I could,
A constant battle in thick bog mud.

But a soaring hawk, a hare on the run,
An early walk with the rising sun.

A horse’s flanks as they heave and steam,
Frost on the banks of a snow-melt stream.

Make my old heart beat to the rhythm of the farm,
The low pig grunts and the cows in the barn.

Till I’m ash and dust, till I’m dead and gone,
I’ll be in these hills, and I’ll sing this song.

-Matt Goodfellow

The Star

10/23/2016

The Star

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are,
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is set,
When the grass with dew is wet,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveler in the dark,
Thanks you for your tiny spark;
He could not see which way to go
If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye
Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and shiny spark,
Lights the traveler in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

-Jane Taylor: as published in “Rhymes for the Nursery” (1806), a compilation of poems by Jane Taylor and her sister Ann Gilbert (maiden name 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.