Poems


photo~ Conny L. Dempsey


I Am Not There

by Mary Elizabeth Frye (1932)

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 glint on snow.
  I am the sun on ripened grain,
 I am the gentle Autumn rain.
 When you awake in the morning hush,
 I am the swift, uplifting
 rush of quiet birds in circling flight,
 I am the soft starlight at night.
 Do not stand at my grave and cry;
 I am not there, I did not die.



Dear Ancestor

Your tombstone stands among the rest;
neglected and alone
The name and date are chiseled out
on polished, marbled stone
It reaches out to all who care
It is too late to mourn
You did not know that I’d exist
You died and I was born.
Yet each of us are cells of you
in flesh, in blood, in bone.
Our blood contracts and beats a pulse
entirely not our own.
Dear Ancestor, the place you filled
one hundred years ago
Spreads out among the ones you left
who would have loved you so.
I wonder if you lived and loved,
I wonder if you knew
That someday I would find this spot,
and come to visit you."


 



Oh I believe there are angels among us,
 Sent down to us from somewhere up above.
 They come to you and me in our darkest hours.
 To show us how to live, to teach us how to give,
 To guide us with the light of love.




Haunting eyes peering at me
Through the veiled, forgotten past;
Spirit voices, phantom actors
Beckon me to join their cast...
Time unravels ancient stitches
As I vainly grasp each thread;
Scattered whispers, faded photos
Tell the tale of those long dead...
Withered memories pressed like flowers
Speak of young love once in bloom;
Scented traces faintly linger
Over long-neglected tomb...
Ghostly chanting leads me blindly
Down each darkened corridor..
As I ponder things that once were
-Things that are will be no more...

-Robert Westberry

source


How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside--

Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown--
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!

~Robert Louis Stevenson~





the Carousel

 by~Johnny Wheeler
Brightly painted horses prance
On poles made out of brass.
The jumpers and the standers
With their eyes made out of glass.
A blur of colored horses
As the carousel gains speed.
As little girls and boys sit tall
Upon their wooden steed.





Over the river, and through the woods
To Grandmother's house we go;
the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
through the white and drifted snow. OH..


Over the river, and through the woods..
oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes and bites the nose
as over the ground we go.


Over the river, and through the woods
and straight through the barnyard gate,
We seem to go extremely slow,
it is so hard to wait!


Over the river, and through the woods,
trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground like a hunting-hound!
For 'tis Thanksgiving Day.

~ Lydia Maria Child.
Flowers for Children, Volume 2, 1844



November Comes

November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring."
Elizabeth Coatsworth




Wild Strawberries

"Strawberries that in gardens grow
Are plump and juicy fine,
But sweeter far as wise men know
Spring from the woodland vine.
No need for bowl or silver spoon,
Sugar or spice or cream,
Has the wild berry plucked in June
Beside the trickling stream.
One such to melt at the tongue's root,
Confounding taste with scent,
Beats a full peck of garden fruit:
Which points my argument."
-  Robert Graves, Wild Strawberries




A cottage small be mine, with porch
Enwreathed with ivy green,
And brightsome flowers with dew-filled bells,
'Mid brown old wattles seen.

And one to wait at shut of eve,
   With eyes as fountain clear,
And braided hair, and simple dress,
My homeward step to hear.

On summer eves to sing old songs,
And talk o'er early vows,
While stars look down like angels' eyes
Amid the leafy boughs.

When Spring flowers peep from flossy cells,
And bright-winged parrots call,
In forest paths be ours to rove
Till purple evenings fall.

The curtains closed, by taper clear
To read some page divine,
On winter nights, the hearth beside,
Her soft, warm hand in mine.

And so to glide through busy life,
Like some small brook alone,
That winds its way 'mid grassy knolls,
Its music all its own.

Daniel Henry Deniehy
source 

artist~ Susan Rios




3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Enjoyed stumbling across your site today! It was refreshing to see so many things that I, too, enjoy.

Sandy said...

Such sweet piano music. The poems are lovely

Anonymous said...

Thank you for including my poem "Haunting Eyes." It is such a great compliment. Robert Westberry

Thank you for stopping by and taking the time to comment. I love to hear from you. ~Clara~