Poems

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.

Oh I Believe In Angels

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

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

The Swing 

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

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