Serious Poems - Make Fun Of Life!

The Old Country Road

9/20/2018

The Old Country Road

Where did it come from and where did it go?
     That was the question that puzzled us so,
As we waded the dust of the highway that flowed
     By the farm like a river - the old country road.

We stood with our hair sticking up through the crown
     Of our hat, as the people went up and went down,
And we wished in our hearts as eyes fairly glowed
     We could find where it came from - the old country road.

We remember the peddler who came with his pack,
     Adown the old highway and never went back;
And we wondered what things he had seen as he strode
     From some fabulous place up the old country road.

We remember the stage driver's look of delight,
     And the crack of his whip as he whirled into sight,
And we thought we could read in each glance he bestowed,
     A tale of strange life up the old country road.

The movers came by like a ship in full sail,
     With a rudder behind in the shape of a pail,
With a rollicking crew and a cow that was towed
     With a rope on her horns, down the old country road.

And the gypsies - how well we remember the week
     They camped by the old covered bridge on the creek;
How the neighbors quit work and the crops were unhoed,
     Till the wagons drove off down the old country road.

Oh, the top of the hill was the rim of the world,
    And the dust of the summer that over it curled
Was the curtain that hid from our sight the abode
     Of the fairies that lived up the old country road.

The old country road I can see it still flow
     Down the hill of my dreams, as it did long ago,
And I wish even now that I could lay off my load
     And rest by the side of the old country road.

by Author Unknown

The House with Nobody in It

9/10/2018

The House with Nobody in It

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
     I go by a poor old farm-house with its shingles broken and black;
I suppose I’ve passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
     And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

I’ve never seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;
     That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
I know that house isn’t haunted and I wish it were, I do,
     For it wouldn’t be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.

This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,
     And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.
It needs new paint and shingles and vines should be trimmed and tied,
     But what it needs most of all is some people living inside.

If I had a bit of money and all my debts were paid,
     I’d put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.
I’d buy that place and fix it up the way that it used to be,
     And I’d find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.

Now a new home standing empty with staring window and door
     Looks idle perhaps and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store,
But there’s nothing mournful about it, it cannot be sad and lone
     For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life,
     That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
A house that has echoed a baby’s laugh and helped up his stumbling feet,
     Is the saddest sight, when it’s left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track
     I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,
     For I can’t help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

by Joyce Kilmer

Joyce Kilmer was born in 1886. He was an American poet. He was killed in action in France on 30 July 1918, during World War I, while serving with the 165th Infantry Division.

The Price of Riches

9/6/2018

The Price of Riches

Nobody stops at the rich man’s door to pass the time of day.
     Nobody shouts a “hello!” to him in the good old-fashioned way.
Nobody comes to his porch at night and sits in that extra chair
     And talks till it’s time to go to bed. He’s all by himself up there.

Nobody just happens in to call on the long, cold winter nights.
     Nobody feels that he’s welcome now, though the house is ablaze with lights.
And never an unexpected guest will tap at his massive door
     And stay to tea as he used to do, for his neighborly days are o’er.

It’s a distant life that the rich man leads and many an hour is glum,
     For never the neighbors call on him save when they are asked to come.
At heart he is just as he used to be and he longs for his friends of old,
     But they never will venture unbidden there. They’re afraid of his wall of gold.

For silver and gold in a large amount there’s a price that all men must pay,
     And who will dwell in a rich man’s house must live in a lonely way.
For once you have built a fortune vast you will sigh for the friends you knew
     But never they’ll tap at your door again in the way that they used to do.

by Edgar A. Guest

Forgive and Forget

9/3/2018

Forgive and Forget

Forgive and forget! why the world would be lonely,
     The garden a wilderness left to deform,
If the flowers but remembered the chilling winds only,
     And the fields gave no verdure for fear of the storm!
Oh! still in thy loveliness emblem the flower,
     Give the fragrance of feeling to sweeten life’s way;
And prolong not again the brief cloud of an hour,
     With tears that but darken the rest of the day!

Forgive and forget! there’s no breast so unfeeling
     But some gentle thoughts of affection there live;
And the best of us all require something concealing,
     Some heart that with smiles can forget and forgive!
Then away with the cloud from those beautiful eyes
     That brow was no home for such frowns to have met:
Oh! how could our spirits e’er hope for the skies,
     If Heaven refused to forgive and forget.

by Charles Swain

Be Thankful

8/31/2018

Be Thankful

Be thankful that you don’t already have everything you desire.
If you did, what would there be to look forward to?

Be thankful when you don’t know something,
for it gives you the opportunity to learn.

Be thankful for the difficult times.
During those times you grow.

Be thankful for your limitations,
because they give you opportunities for improvement.

Be thankful for each new challenge,
because it will build your strength and character.

Be thankful for your mistakes.
They will teach you valuable lessons.

Be thankful when you’re tired and weary,
because it means you’ve made a difference.

It’s easy to be thankful for the good things.
A life of rich fulfillment comes to those who
are also thankful for the setbacks.

Gratitude can turn a negative into a positive.
Find a way to be thankful for your troubles,
and they can become your blessings.

by Author Unknown

Count Your Blessings

8/30/2018

Count Your Blessings

I’ve never made a fortune,
     and it’s probably too late now.
But I don’t worry about that much,
     I’m happy anyhow.
And as I go along life’s way,
     I’m reaping better than I sowed.
I’m drinking from my saucer,
     ’Cause my cup has overflowed.

Haven’t got a lot of riches,
     and sometimes the going’s tough.
But I’ve got loving ones all around me,
     and that makes me rich enough.
I thank God for his blessings,
     and the mercies He’s bestowed.
I’m drinking from my saucer,
     ’Cause my cup has overflowed.

I remember times when things went wrong,
     My faith wore somewhat thin.
But all at once the dark clouds broke,
     and the sun peeped through again.
So Lord, help me not to gripe,
     about the tough rows I have hoed.
I’m drinking from my saucer,
     ’Cause my cup has overflowed.

If God gives me strength and courage,
     When the way grows steep and rough.
I’ll not ask for other blessings,
     I’m already blessed enough.
And may I never be too busy,
     to help others bear their loads.
Then I’ll keep drinking from my saucer,
     ’Cause my cup has overflowed.

by Author Unknown

Thick Is the Darkness

8/29/2018

Thick Is the Darkness

Thick is the darkness -
     Sunward, O, sunward!
Rough is the highway -
     Onward, still onward!

Dawn harbors surely
     East of the shadows.
Facing us somewhere
     Spread the sweet meadows.

Upward and forward!
     Time will restore us:
Light is above us,
     Rest is before us.

by William Ernest Henley

William Ernest Henley was born in 1849. He was an influential poet, critic and editor of the late-Victorian era in England. He is regarded as having as central a role in his time as Samuel Johnson in the eighteenth century. He is remembered most often for his poem “Invictus” (1875), a piece which recurs in popular awareness. It is one of his hospital poems from early battles with tuberculosis, and is said to have developed the artistic motif of poet as a patient, and to have anticipated modern poetry in form and subject matter. William Ernest Henley passed on in 1903.

You Have to Believe in Happiness

8/27/2018

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.

by 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 “Muskegon 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 Old Farmer’s Song

8/26/2018

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.

by Matt Goodfellow

A Wish

8/26/2018

A Wish

Mine be a cot beside the hill;
     A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill
     With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
     Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
     And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
     Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
     In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church among the trees,
     Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
     And point with taper spire to Heaven.

by S. Rogers

Today and Tomorrow

5/21/2018

Today and Tomorrow

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
     He who can call today his own;
He who, secure within, can say,
     Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,
     The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not heaven itself upon the past has power;
     But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

by John Dryden: “Imitation of Horace” (1685): Book III, XXIX 29, lines 65 through 68

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

2/9/2018

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.

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

by Robert Frost (1923)

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 Lee Frost passed on at 88 years of age on 29 January 1963 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America. The Robert Lee Frost online memorial is at https://goo.gl/WyLnLG.

I Remember, I Remember

2/9/2018

I Remember, I Remember

I remember, I remember,
     The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
     Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
     Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
     Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
     The roses, red and white,
The vi’lets, and the lily-cups,
     Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
     And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday-
     The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,
     Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
     To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
     That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
     The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember,
     The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
     Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
     But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heaven
     Than when I was a boy.

by Thomas Hood (1827)

Thomas Hood was born on 23 May 1798 in London, England. He was a poet, a writer, a humorist, an engraver, and an illustrator. His poems were published in periodicals such as “Punch” and “The London Magazine.” He is known for his poem “The Song of the Shirt.” Thomas Hood passed on at 44 years of age on 3 May 1843 in London, England.

I Am

2/9/2018

I Am!

I am - yet what I am none cares or knows;
     My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes -
     They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
     And yet I am, and live - like vapors tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
     Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
     But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
     Are strange - nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man hath never trod
     A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
     And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
     The grass below - above the vaulted sky.

by John Clare

John Clare was born into a peasant family on 13 July 1793 in Helpston, England. Although he was the son of illiterate parents, Mr. Clare received some formal schooling. While earning money through manual labor such as ploughing and threshing, he published several volumes of poetry, including “Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery” (1820). John Clare passed on at 70 years of age on 20 May 1864 in Northampton, England. The John Clare online memorial is at https://goo.gl/eC9FjV.

The Land of Beginning Again

1/15/2018

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.

by Louisa Fletcher

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.

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.

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.

By 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.