Parting is such sweet sorrow...

To all my faithful readers:
Well, the time has arrived.  I leave in a few days, and the hustle and bustle of packing is on.  I may not have time to post in between now and Monday when I leave, so this is good-bye.
I have thoroughly enjoyed our time together.  The fact that you are reading my blog is yet another proof that the love of poetry has not entirely left this world.  for that I am most thankful.  Thank you for reading, and for sharing in one of my great loves.
In parting, here are a few quotes on poets and their children - poems.

"He who draws noble delights from sentiments of poetry is a true poet, though he has never written a line in all his life."
George Sand

"The smell of ink is intoxicating to me - others may have wine, but I have poetry."
Terri Guillemets

"The poet doesn't invent.  He listens."
Jean Cocteau

"To have great poets there must be great audiences too."
Walt Whitman

"Everything in creation has its appointed painter or poet, and remains in bondage like the princess in the fairy tale 'til its appropriate liberator comes to set it free."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

"To a poet, poetry is paramount; it is to him nourishment, shelter and love: nourishment to his eternally hungering soul, shelter from the cruelties of mortality, and love when there is no other love to be found.  To him poetry is life, and life is poetry."
David Jamison

It's Christmas

Two years ago, early on Christmas morning, I was out walking in the snow.  While marveling at the beauty of Winter, and pondering the special Spirit that is present at this time of year, some lines entered into my mind.  A short while later this poem had come into the world.

I do sometimes feel as if my poems were my children, after a fashion.  I strive and labor to bring them forth, I do my best to make them as good and pure as I can, and then they go out into the world.  Will they be accepted or ridiculed, praised or ignored; will they live up to my hopes and expectations?  Only time will tell...

Somewhere in the night

the rain turned into snow

and, with bitter force,

now cruelly doth blow.

Winter has us grasped

in his icy hold,

but stop shiv’ring and you’ll find

it’s not really that cold.

The warmth in our hearts,

that comes at Christmas time,

breathes through our soul

with a peace sublime.

The peace upon the earth,

promised long ago,

starts in every heart

and then forth doth go.

Oh joy, it’s Christmas!

Wake up your sleeping heart;

God, through His Son,

His love doth now impart.

Take that love and joy

and spread it all around;

then, once more, in our hearts

we’ll hear the angel-sound.

David Jamison

The Place that I Call Home

In my rush to prepare for my departure, I have not posted as much as I should.  I shall try to do better with what time I have left.

This poem was one I wrote some time ago about the area I grew up in, and the one I am preparing to leave for a while.  Whether you come from the heart of the United States or somewhere far removed, I hope this reminds you about all that you love about your home.

Deep in my country’s heart

is a place beloved by me;

near to my own heart

it will forever be.

Here I was born,

grew up and so

here I’d be glad

to live till I go.

I’ve been many places

and, wonderful though they be,

none is quite as home

as Missouri is to me;

A place of such beauty,

not greater - but unique;

a beauty that, oft times,

makes it hard to speak.

It steals the words from my mind

and places them in my heart,

sealing my lips so that

the words cannot them part.

Words of verdant green,

both hills and sinking dale;

words of the blue

of the sky most pale.

Mere words that cannot grasp

my love for the trees

that shelter and shade,

that sway in the breeze.

Never all silent,

this life-teeming place,

some cricket or bird

with song doth us grace.

Each and every season

a wonder to behold,

from the winter, white,

to the autumn, gold.

The glory of a sunset

and it’s waking rise,

a sight that gladdens the heart

and brightens the eyes.

On none of these we have

a monopoly,

but here they are dearer,

dearer unto me.

Here my heart is,

here it will stay

no matter where I go,

near or far away.

May all who come

share this love with me

of this chosen place,

living, fresh and free.

Newcomer, or native

who far did roam,

welcome here to

the place that I call home.

David Jamison

My Lighthouse, Beacon and Star

I want you to think about a person who you know personally that inspires you; someone that you admire for how good they are.  If the people you are thinking of are anything like the ones I am, chances are that they don't see themselves in as high of a regard as you do.
This poem is about one of those people.  I wrote this for someone who I completely adore for their goodness, kindness and purity.  They are all I portray them as and so much more.  And you know what?  They would never even guess that people (I'm not the only one by far) see them like that.
To all the quiet, unassuming heroes in our lives, heroic just by being themselves.

A picture is worth

a thousand words,

but I’m stumbling over these few;

and even if

I could say them right,

ten thousand would never do.

A million pictures,

a billion words,

and these would come only so close;

of the praise you deserve

my paltry words

are but a shadow and a ghost.

And even if, by

some miracle,

my telling did tell it just right,

you wouldn’t believe

these words at all -

you see it in a more humble light.

What irony

that those so great,

the best that live on the earth,

should never know

nor truly see

their unsurpassable worth.

You, who sees the good

in all those around,

are blind to your own vast light;

if I could work

one miracle,

I’d give to you perfected sight.

But I cannot tell,

and you won’t believe,

the good that I see within you;

I stutter and trip

over these words,

but it’s miles from that which is due.

My one comfort is

that angels above

are recording your deeds here below

in a tongue perfect;

I hope I’m there

when you your story are shown.

The light that will shine,

the tears in your eyes,

as you realize just who you are -

the good that you did,

the souls you touched;

you’re my lighthouse, beacon and star.

David Jamison

The Love in Her Eyes

There are many different levels and shades of true love; here is a poem about one of the levels I believe to be the most sincere and enduring.
I wrote this piece a little over two years ago, and just dug it back up.  It was inspired by a young mother I know, and by watching her hold her newborn son.

In the arms of love
the mother holds her son
as close unto her
as if they still were one.

With a hush and a song
she quiets his cries;
holding him fast,
there's love in her eyes.

This is her focus,
this is her love,
to watch o'er and care
for her gift from above.

Held close and dear
in her motherly arms,
keeping him safe
from sorrows and harms.

Though others hold near,
none grasp the same
as the one who gave him
his body and name.

Encircled in
the arms of love,
a love as vast
as Heaven above,

he clings to her -
love's evidence;
he senses her care,
this babe, this prince.

His face lights with love
when their eyes meet;
the love of these two
is tender and sweet.

As I leave, I bid
reluctant good-byes.
Never have I seen love
like the love in her eyes.

David Jamison

International Poet...

The Internet is a marvelous tool.  The scope it can reach is astounding.  In the past six months my blog has been viewed, not only in my own country, (the United States,) but in Russia, Germany, Macedonia, Sweden and Thailand!  Before I started this blog, my poetry had reached very few outside my own family and friends, and now people I have never met on three different continents are reading the things I write!  It is truly a wonder, and one that too often we take for granted.
I don't have much else to say on the matter, except thank you to all those who have ventured forth and taken upon themselves to join me in my celebration of the great wonder that is poetry.

P.S.  Three continents down, four more to go!

Thoughts on poetry?

So, I know how I feel about poetry; I think it's quite obvious since I am writing a blog on the subject.  But what are your thoughts and feelings about poetry?  What place does it occupy in your life?  What kinds do you like or dislike?  Do you prefer to write it, read it, or both?
It's always nice to discover how others feel about your passions and interests.  If you have the time, please comment and share your thoughts and feelings with me.
Wishing all of my readers a wonderful day!

Everyday Angels

I'm sorry I didn't get this up yesterday, but here it is now, the poem on gratitude I mentioned in my last post.
I am thankful for unheralded miracles, the ones that come when we need them most, but come disguised as coincidence.  Today's poem is based on one of those miracles in my own life.
This poem is dedicated to JB, an everyday angel.

Swallowed in dark of night,
too discouraged to ask;
our hearts plead for angels
for a hard, looming task.

God doth hear our pleading,
and sends angels each day -
angels to comfort us
with His own shining ray.

But blind we do not see
the angels there before;
for we know their faces,
they live just right next door.

Angels are all ‘round us,
dressed just like you and me,
and in our darkest hours
they help so cheerfully.

We think ‘coincidence,’
but the odds are too great
for it to have come now,
not too soon or too late.

Coincidence is God’s
help anonymously;
a masterpiece without
a signature to see.

Everyday angels,
messengers wearing jeans,
watching o’er us in each
of life’s troubling scenes.

God is truly with us,
His hand is here to stay.
In love He doth send us
angels every day.

David Jamison

Poetry Challenge

Happy Thanksgiving to all my American readers!  If you are reading this somewhere other than the USA, well Happy Thanksgiving to you too!
On this day it is traditional to count your blessings, remember what you have been given, and to give thanks.  So in honor of this day, I hereby challenge and invite you to join me in giving thanks in a new way, namely by writing a poem.  The topic: something that you are personally thankful for, or just gratitude in general.  I have already started mine, and will try to post it tomorrow.
If you take me up on my challenge and would like to have your poem displayed on this page, just email me a copy at poetsdesk@gmail.com, or place it in a comment to this post.  I will review any I receive, and will post them as long as they are appropriate.

P.S.  I am thankful for poetry, the heartbeat of creation.

The Gettysburg Address

I know that when I started this blog, I stated that it would be for the purpose of publishing poems and thoughts on the subject of poetry.  However, with your approval, I would like to deviate from that slightly in today's post.
This is the 148th anniversary of the giving of the Gettysburg Address by U.S. President Abraham Lincoln.  While it is not poetry by the strict sense of the word, it was and still is one of the greatest speeches of all time.  In it, a speech that lasted only two minutes, he captured the spirit of freedom, the greatness of our nation, and the courage and devotion of all honorable soldiers.to the next.
It was in his mind a simple, unimportant speech, and yet it is still remembered to this day, as well it should be.  How much we underestimate the power our words may have, for good or for ill.  How little we grasp how long our words may ring from one end of the earth
Whether you are from America or another nation, this speech captures in it the essence of liberty, a gift that is not just for one nation, but for all lands, peoples and creeds.
May his words change your life as they have mine.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Abraham Lincoln 1809-1865

Sonnet 145

In looking up information about the last poem I posted, I came across this additional poem by Shakespeare.  I cannot say I like all of his writings, but some of his love sonnets are very striking.
Here is one that he wrote for his wife, Anne Hathaway.  Once again, try reading this one out-loud.  As you reach the last two lines, look for her name in the words; if you can't see it, look at the comment I have attached to this post.
Without further ado, Shakespeare's love for his Love.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'
To me that languish'd for her sake;
But when she saw my woeful state
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away;
'I hate' from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying 'not you.'

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

Sonnet 17

I've been really busy with my day-job, and so haven't prepared any of my poems to put up here.  So filling in for me today is The Bard himself.  This is one of my favorite of his poems, and I used it (as well as a certain someone...) as inspiration for a sonnet of my own.  For the full benefit of this poem, try reading it out-loud if you are in an area that you can.

 

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

The age to come would say 'This poet lies:

Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

So should my papers yellow'd with their age

Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,

And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage

And stretched metre of an antique song:

But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

Nothing is constant but change...

As the title states, life is about nothing if not change.  A big change has arisen in my life which will affect my readers, and so I write briefly about it here.
I have been invited to spend the next two years as an official representitive and ordained minister for my church.  I have accepted, and will be leaving my home come the New Year.  At my own expense I will be living in the Four Corners Area of the United States.  (The southwestern portion of our country for those who live outside the USA.)
I will be spending all my time teaching those I meet about Jesus Christ, His love for them, and helping them strengthen their family relationships.
Due to this, I will not have time to post here after January 1st.  You are still welcome to visit this page, and when I return I intend to once again write here as often as my schedule permits.
I will attempt to post as much of my poetry here as I can between now and then, so check back often.

Like it? Share it!

First off, thanks to all those who have come here and read my work.  It's satisfying to have people pay attention to your efforts.  I hope that you have enjoyed reading my thoughts and poetry as much as I've enjoyed writing them.
Second, if you like what you see here, please let others know about my blog.  My whole reason for starting this blog was to share the gifts I've been given and my love for poetry with others.  Thank you for helping me in that quest!

The Standard Bearer

In honor of this Veterans Day, of 11-11-11, and of my 40th post on this blog, I decided I would put a poem here that is very near and dear to my heart.
This poem was one that I started more than four years ago.  Since then I've rewritten it several times, expanding and refining it, though the story and message have remained the same.  It is now my longest poem by far, with fifty stanzas of four lines each and just over one-thousand words, and holds a place in my top three favorite of any I've written.  Along the way I've had help from several friends with turning it into the piece it is now.  This post is in part dedicated to them, though I will preserve their anonymity.
It was with this poem that I won an international award last year (the same contest I finalized in this year,) and I got to perform it in front of a crowd of several hundred at the awards ceremony.  It was a very wonderful and memorable experience, one for which I am very grateful.
The story of how this allegorical poem came about is thus: I was listening to a Christian-themed song; one of the lines talked about lifting the standard when there was no one else around.  At that point I had an experience which is extremely rare for me; an image appeared in my mind of a young boy facing an opposing army, holding a tattered flag (also known as a standard.)  In an hour or so the first version was completed.
I apologize for the long introduction, but this is one poem I felt needed some preface.  I would appreciate your comments; let me know what you think and feel.  So, without further ado, here is "The Standard Bearer."

A young, unseasoned warrior
upon the field did stand;
waiting for his captain
to give his first command.

The battle hadn’t started
when the captain gave his charge.
"You're to hold this flag up steady
despite gunfire, small or large."

Then he gave o’er the battle standard
(with its colors brave and true,)
saying "Stand upon this hill, my lad,
till death or I release you."

The boy then grasped the banner
with his heart and face alight.
Though the battle hadn’t come yet,
he was sure they'd win the fight.

For theirs was a battle
for land and liberty,
guarding from invaders
from another country.

He was glad to do his part
and to cheer the soldiers on;
for as long as he stood on that hill
the enemy had not won.

With daybreak came the trumpets,
and the troops were in array.
The sun had barely risen
when all had joined the fray.

The battle still was going strong
when the sun had reached its height;
now its cruel, uncaring rays
were burning with their might.

How hot it was upon the field!
And the boy, his lips were parched.
But yet he stood steadfastly,
as the soldiers ‘round him marched.

The afternoon was wearing on.
He soon forgot his thirst;
for explosions all around him
had now begun to burst.

The fight, ‘twas going badly,
the victory switching sides.
All ‘round the boy came fleeing back
the men, in rising tides.

"Stand firm for your country!"
(He called to urge them on.)
“Yet, e’en though I stand alone,
I'll still be her true son!"

The bullets were screaming closer,
they tugged his hat and coat.
The cannons roared the louder,
‘round his feet they dug a moat.

The captain saw the danger,
and he rushed to our dear boy’s aid;
but, before he could quite reach him,
to the ground the man was laid.

The boy never saw his leader
fall onto the ground;
his eyes were on the enemy,
his ears upon their sound.

A sound, oh how frightening,
‘twas the cries of demon-men
who did the work of terror,
and found glory therein.

They drew on ever closer,
like a roaring prairie fire;
stirring in the lonely boy
a coward’s base desire;

to run like the wind,
to flee from their sight;
and yet he stood fast
and held his standard tight.

The flag was violently waving,
though there was nary a breeze;
‘twas lead shot that sent it stirring,
their buzz - like angry bees.

But still our boy stood steady;
firm and unmoving was he!
Though standard-bearers ‘round him
had long since begun to flee.

There was only one other standing;
then, with a blast, he too was gone.
Our dear boy shook with terror;
he was now the only one.

It seemed every gun was aimed at him;
oh, how he yearned to run!
Slowly he lowered his standard,
despairing "It’s over. I’m done."

Then came the words of his captain,
"Don’t fall until you die."
Up swiftly came the banner
and he screamed the battle cry!

"For liberty, land and family!
For all that you hold dear!
For all that is worth fighting for,
show your weapons, not your fear!"

It flew with tongues of lightning,
from one voice to the next,
stirring iron into the hearts
that by fear were vexed.

One small cry, heard by many,
did change the tides of war.
Swiftly men came flooding back,
recalling what they fought for.

And with the strength of dragons
the enemy they did beat;
back quickly fled those scoundrels,
in terror and retreat.

"Victory," thought the boy,
"I didn’t fight in vain.
It was worth the danger,
it was worth the pain."

Just then, as they surrendered,
someone fired a parting round;
it lodged deep within the heart
of our boy upon the mound.

The joyous cry of victory
was cut short from his lips.
Then slowly, but surely,
the banner began to slip.

His fading life-clock, ticking,
began to fast unwind.
A thousand, sweetest mem'ries
and thoughts flash through his mind.

‘Twas time spent with the families
that he was fighting for,
both with the one he now had,
and the one no more in store.

The wife he’d never have,
children he’d never hold;
a tear sank down his cheek
as his hands grew cold.

Now all that he can see
is the terror that he fought,
not the several men
but the evil that they sought.

An evil just as faceless
as the violent, massing hoard,
an evil that says, "Virtue,
is something you can’t afford."

Denying men the freedom
to make themselves free;
a freedom gained by living
strict lives of purity.

He looked up at the banner
and saw, not a flag much torn,
but the many virtues
the world mocks with scorn.

For oft betimes ‘tis heavy,
and oh, so cumbersome,
to carry close your honor,
despite what e'er may come.

And loyalty and truth
are then called "out of date"
by those who, forever,
the narrow path do hate,

And chastity, strength-giver,
is scorned by the weak,
who live only for themselves,
thus losing what they seek.

Patriotism grows heavy
before the firing-line,
like the standard-pole
the boy's fingers did entwine.

It would be so easy
to let go and go numb.
Oh, to just give up
and to death succumb.

No! With his dying strength
he planted it in the ground!
Then, without a single moan,
he joined the dead all ‘round.

His life ended with the day;
but, as the sun went down,
his spirit left his body
and calmly looked around.

Then steadily rose his spirit
to stand above the plain.
His captain also had perished
and now they meet again.

"Well done, my young hero,
you bravely held your station.
Before you go to your reward
I have for you one question."

"Why didn’t you run with the rest?
You didn’t have to die."
"I have no regret," the boy said,
"I held my standard high."

"I was fighting in a cause
far greater than you or me.
I stood my ground, facing fear;
I’m glad I didn’t flee. "

They found the lad upon the mound,
the flag still in its place.
A calm little smile was still upon
our good young hero’s face.

They buried him on the hill;
by his stone the flag did fly.
By his name were etched these words,
"He held his standard high!"

David Jamison

Amazing Grace

My mind has been much caught up with the subject of Grace this past week, what it means and how far it reaches.  I am in the process of writing a piece about grace in my life, but since it isn't finished yet, I thought I'd post my favorite poem on the subject.
This poem/hymn was written by John Newton, a slave merchant of the 1700's, and a self-described "wretch."  His was a life filled with sin and mistreatment of others.  Then, while caught in a storm at sea, his eyes were opened to the Grace that had always been there for him.  From that day on he continually worked to turn his life around, eventually becoming a well-respected preacher and hymn writer.
Here are the original words of this best known hymn of his, since heard around the world.

Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev’d;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believ’d!

Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promis’d good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who call’d me here below,
Will be forever mine.

John Newton, 1725-1807

Steadfast and Immovable

As I promised, here is the poem that was chosen as a finalist in the international contest I entered.  It's one I wrote some years ago, thinking about the strength today's younger generation holds, and the power that they have to change the world for the better.

I am a rock in the midst of the sea,

with waves crashing all around.

But I will stand firm in the face of those swells,

no matter how long they sound.

I am a tree with roots so deep,

that hold me steady and still.

Let the storm blow its worst, I’ll be strong

and hold fast to this hill.

I am the mountain that parts the skies,

that’s stood here fore’er and anon.

I was here before you were born,

and I’ll be here long after you’re gone.

I am a youth, and young though I am,

something of these three lies in me.

In the face of life’s storm I’ll stay true -

steadfast and immovable I’ll be.

David Jamison

Faith

I have not forgotten my promise from the last post to upload my poem, but that isn't the poem I am doing tonight. 
This evening I was looking ahead towards some big changes coming up in my life, and I realized that I was feeling just a hint of fear about the uncertainty of my future, and that that fear was quickly growing.  As soon as I noticed this, I remember something that a religious teacher of mine, and a man whom I highly respect, has often said.  To paraphrase, he says that fear and faith cannot both exist in the same body at the same time; one will expel the other. 
As I thought on this principle, a couple of lines appeared in my mind.  I was driving, and could not write them down, so I repeated them out-loud to myself until I could get a pen and paper.
Then my thoughts turned to my poor, neglected audience, whom I have not paid proper attention to, and here we are.  I know this isn't your average topic for a poem, and that my words are few and simple, but I know they are true.

Let fear not hold my heart,
nor lay claim to my soul;
faith shall be my lighthouse,
my trust in God e'er full.

I shall not e'er give way
to my soul's enemy;
faith leaves no room for fear -
my Lord my Guide shall be.

With all fear cast behind,
I shall not it recall;
my eyes look but one way -
to my Captain, my all!

David Jamison

Finalist & Spider

This afternoon I looked in my mailbox, and lo and behold, a letter - recognizing me as a finalist in a poetry contest I had entered!  I won the award last year, and so am not at all upset to give someone else a spot in the limelight this year. 
It is always nice to have your hard work validated, and this is especially true in an art as quiet as poetry.  In the next few days I will try to get around to posting the poem that I entered.
The poem below is one (again, not my own,) that I found some time ago, and just rediscovered tonight.  It got me thinking, and I decided to post it here for you to see too.  Enjoy, apply, share!

The spider at my window
will spin her web anew
in just the same location
in just a day or two

if I should swing a towel
or thrust up with a broom
to render sweeping judgment
on her subtle loom.

This is our little pattern,
our two-step for the fates:
again I snip, demolish,
again she spins, creates.

The spider never hurt me.
She doesn’t snitch my food
since I don’t like mosquitoes—
in fact, she’d do me good

if I would just ignore her,
adore her, for the whiz
of opalescent angle
and tapestry she is.

I’ve felt the broom, and bristled;
I know how swipes can smart;
so I should be the last man
to say what isn’t art.

Michael Ferris

Mortality

Here is another poem quoted in the broadcast I mentioned in my last post.  The first stanza was all they used, but I felt the whole thing was worth sharing.

This poem is said to have been the favorite of President Abraham Lincoln, one of the greatest leaders of our country, and a personal hero of mine. 

He is said to have once remarked, "I would give all I am worth, and go in debt, to be able to write so fine a piece as I think that is."  Do not all poets feel so, when faced with such elegance?  Do we not all long to be given the power to convey that which lies in the depths of our hearts?  I know I do.

 

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,

Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around, and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high

Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.

 

The infant a mother attended and loved;

The mother that infant's affection who proved;

The husband that mother and infant who blessed,--

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those who loved her and praised

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;

The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

 

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;

The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

 

So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed

That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

 

For we are the same our fathers have been;

We see the same sights our fathers have seen;

We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,

And run the same course our fathers have run.

 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;

To the life we are clinging they also would cling;

But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

 

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;

The scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;

They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

 

They died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

 

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

We mingle together in sunshine and rain;

And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,

Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

 

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,--

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

William Knox

About Crows

This weekend I am doing something that I look forward to every six months, and listening to the wisest men and women I know, teaching me about how to live a better, happier life. 

They often quote poetry in these broadcasts.  As a poet, I watch for and treasure it when they do.  This morning one of them quoted this poem, and I thought I would include it here for your benefit. 

(By the way, if you wish to watch this broadcast yourself, it can be found at 

http://lds.org/general-conference?lang=eng )

The old crow is getting slow;
the young crow is not.
Of what the young crow does not know,
the old crow knows a lot.

At knowing things, the old crow is still
the young crow’s master.
What does the old crow not know?
How to go faster.

The young crow flies above, below, and rings
around the slow old crow.
What does the fast young crow not know?
WHERE TO GO.

John Ciardi

Don't Look Back

So here it is; after almost three months, here is another one of my own poems.  I like sharing the work of those whom I admire, but there is something unique in putting my own work out here.  Now it is yours to praise or criticize, to laud or to decry.
This is a piece I saw unfolding and wrote down, shortly after the New Year.  I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.  Tell me, can you see it?  Does it take shape before you?  If the answer is yes, than I have succeeded.

Fiery little redhead,
squirrel in the tree;
treading her high tight-rope
oh so carefully.

She holds sumptuous cargo,
a giant, luscious nut,
to put away within
her cold weather hut.

She's miles off the ground,
on a slender twig,
reaching for another
almost just as big.

She slips, and almost falls;
she and I both gasp!
yet somehow she retains
the nut in her grasp.

She seems to gain right then
a dread fear of heights;
she heads back where she came,
safety in her sights.

But then she finds her nerve
and she turns about;
she takes the leap of faith
with her paws stretched out!

Where the treetops reach out,
as if to shake hands,
our squirrel leaps the gap
and safely she lands.

Safe on the other side,
with her winter snack,
she heads along her way -
not once looking back.

David Jamison

Nearer, my God to Thee

This well-known Christian hymn is one of my favorites.  I find great solace in its words, and wished to share them with you tonight.  I will be conducting a church choir in singing this in a few weeks, and that brought it back to the forefront of my mind. 
A famous, favored piece for over a century-and-a-half, it is thought that the music for this poem was played as the RMS Titanic sank beneath the ocean waves. 
In living or dying, these words bring peace, as it assures us of the truth that God is always there for us, stretching out His hand for us to come nearer, nearer to Him.

Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!
E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me,
still all my song shall be,
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,
darkness be over me, my rest a stone;
yet in my dreams I'd be
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

There let the way appear, steps unto heaven;
all that thou sendest me, in mercy given;
angels to beckon me
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Then, with my waking thoughts bright with thy praise,
out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise;
so by my woes to be
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Or if, on joyful wing cleaving the sky,
sun, moon, and stars forgot, upward I fly,
still all my song shall be,
nearer, my God, to thee;
nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

Sarah F. Adams

More Poetry?

So I have been looking back over my posts, and realized that I have only put five of my own poems up on here.  I'm looking to do better, but am wondering what it is that my audience wants to read.  I have written between 300 and 400 poems, on almost every subject, so please let me know what topic/type of poem you feel would improve my blog.
If I don't hear back soon I will go ahead and publish something of my choosing, but I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter.

I Shall Not Be Afraid

Have you ever missed an unpleasant emotion, such as missing someone?  I have.  Sometimes feeling that emotion is a good thing, because it means there is still hope.  When you miss being able to miss that special person, you'll know what I mean; it's far worse.
Today's poem is like that; back around the turn of the century (1900, not 2000,) there were two well-known poets who got married.  Joyce Kilmer served in WWI, and was killed in action, right at the height of his poetic career.  His wife, Aline Kilmer, wrote this poem after his death.  
She conveys with it the feeling of wishing for fear, for that would mean that the worst had not yet happened, and there was something left to fear for.  In other words, she wished that hope was still there to be found.
I don't know if any of what I've said will make sense to those reading this, but this poem really hit home for me.  Let me know your thoughts about it.

I shall not be afraid any more,
Either by night or day;
What would it profit me to be afraid
With you away?

 Now I am brave. In the dark night alone,
All through the house I go,
Locking the doors and making windows fast
When sharp winds blow.

 For there is only sorrow in my heart,
There is no room for fear.
But how I wish I were afraid again,
My dear, my dear!

Aline Kilmer

Novel Idea

So the other day I had a new idea on how to share poetry.  I was geocaching with a cousin, (for more on geocaching, see www.geocaching.com,) and didn't have anything to leave in the cache.  So I decided to write down a copy of a poem of mine and put it inside.
If there are any geocachers out there reading this, you might try placing a poem (one of your own or just one you like,) out there.  If you do, I'd love to hear how it goes.

Opportunity

Once again, it has been some time since I last posted.  But here I am, back online and writing. 
Here is a poem I have been trying to re-locate for a while now.  It is another piece by Edward Sill, the writer of "The Fool's Prayer" (see the post for 6-25-2011.) 
This poem is non-rhyming, yet it is a rarity of its kind: it is one that I still find to be poetic; something that reaches past the eye and touches the heart.  I hope it inspires you as it has me.


This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle's edge,
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-
That blue blade that the king's son bears,-but this
Blunt thing-!" he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

Edward Rowland Sill

If

So, it has been a while since I last posted.  Summer-life with two jobs has a way of eating up your time.  Poetry is one of my greatest passions, but it even slips to my back-burner at times.
Here is a poem I find to be very inspiring, so much so that I wrote one myself with it as a guide.  Perhaps someday I'll share "There Is A Man Who Lived" (the piece I wrote,) with you, but for now enjoy the work of the great Rudyard Kipling; and then let me know what you think of it, and how it inspires you.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
 
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
 
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Rudyard Kipling

Surprise, surprise!

I've been posting now for just less than two months.  To all my readers out there, what do you think so far?  What would you like to see posted here?  What do you want more or less of?
I came across this poem today.  It brought a bit of a smile to my face; I have to ask myself, will that be the reaction I get when my time comes?
 
I dreamed death came to me last night
and Heaven's gate swung wide,
with kindly grace an angel came
and ushered me inside!
And there...to my astonishment
stood folks I'd known on earth,
Some I judged and called "unfit"
and some of little worth;
Indignant words rose to my lips
But never were set free;
For every face showed stunned surprise...
Not one expected me!

Author Unknown

The New Colossus

Note: The Colossus was a bronze statue in ancient Greece.  It was built by a harbor shortly after 300 B.C, and stood over 100 feet tall.

Written as part of a fund raising for the Statue of Liberty's pedestal, this poem is now engraved on that pedestal.  It welcomes all who pass it with these words:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

 

Emma Lazarus

Fire in the Sky

Here is a poem I wrote several years ago, while watching a fireworks display.  As an earlier piece of mine, it is a bit simple, but I hope you like it regardless. 
I guess what makes watching fireworks patriotic is just the fact that, noisy as it is, it gives us time to think and focus on our country, and recall all those who gave their lives so that we might live the life that we choose.
So this poem is dedicated to freedom, and all who fight in any way to preserve it.  God bless the USA!

We watch and wait
in anticipation:
it's the Fourth of July,
the birthday of our nation!

Then comes a flash,
and then a blast:
the hour-long wait
is over at last!

The fireworks carve
a path in the sky,
deafening the ear
and pleasing the eye.

Stars of light,
and circles too;
red and white
and green and blue.

Silhouetted by flame,
our banner doth fly!
The air is aglow
with fire in the sky!

David Jamison


P.S.  I have included below a link to a site with the Declaration of Independence on it.  I always include the reading of it as part of my celebration of this day.  Who knows, you might find it inspiring too.

http://www.archives.gov/exhibits/charters/declaration_transcript.html

Breathes There the Man

I took the Sabbath off yesterday, and so today I will be posting two poems.  I'll start off with one by a great poet of the past, and then later today I'll post one of my own.
What are your feelings when you read this well known poem?  To me this piece by Sir Walter Scott says that, if I can't say that I loved and stood up my country and all it stands for, anything else I achieve will matter very little in the grand scheme of things.
Whatever your nationality or political affiliation, I encourage you to use this day as one to ponder what makes you country special, and to thank God above for giving you a nation to call home.
God bless us, everyone!

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell.
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott

Battle-Hymn of the Republic

Out of the American Civil War, the darkest hour in our history, there were those who refused to let the horrors of total war blacken their souls.  Julia Howe Ward, an American activist and poet, was one of these unconquerable souls. 
As terrible fighting was taking place across the nation to decide the rights of all men to be free, she wrote these words.  They are a tribute to the God of freedom, and to all who have given their lives for that cause, as well as a reminder of all that must yet be done to preserve our nation and our freedom.
Even after almost 150 years, this hymn is still one of the greatest pieces of patriotic poetry of all time, and it still touches the hearts of those willing to listen to its message.
There were originally six stanzas; I have omitted here the third and sixth; otherwise it is placed here as she wrote it.

Mine eyes have seen the glory
Of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage
Where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning
Of His terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watchfires
Of a hundred circling camps
They have builded Him an altar
In the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence
By the dim and flaring lamps;
His day is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet
That shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men
Before His judgement seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him;
Be jubilant, my feet;
Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies
Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom
That transfigures you and me;
As He died to make men holy,
Let us die to make men free;
While God is marching on.

Julia Howe Ward

Song of the American Eagle

In honor of America's Independence Day, I will be trying to post a patriotic poem every day for the next week or so. 
Here is a very touching piece about the eagle, our country's symbol of nobility and freedom.  I and my fellow Americans have been very blessed by God.  He has given us freedom, prosperity above many other nations, and a grand heritage, to name just a few. 
Let us always remember what we have been given, and our duty to remain "one nation under God," in Whom we trust.

I build my nest on the mountain’s crest,
Where the wild winds rock my eaglets to rest,
Where the lightnings flash, and the thunders crash,
And the roaring torrents foam and dash;
For my spirit free henceforth shall be
A type of the sons of Liberty.

Aloft I fly from my aerie high,
Through the vaulted dome of the azure sky;
On a sunbeam bright take my airy flight,
And float in a flood of liquid light;
For I love to play in the noontide ray,
And bask in a blaze from the throne of day.

Away I spring with a tireless wing,
On a feathery cloud I poise and swing;
I dart down the steep where the lightnings leap,
And the clear blue canopy swiftly sweep;
For, dear to me is the revelry
Of a free and fearless Liberty.

I love the land where the mountains stand,
Like the watch-towers high of a Patriot band;
For I may not bide in my glory and pride,
Though the land be never so fair and wide,
Where Luxury reigns o’er voluptuous plains,
And fetters the free-born soul in chains.

Then give to me in my flights to see
The land of the pilgrims ever free!
And I never will rove from the haunts I love
But watch, from my sentinel-track above,
Your banner free, o’er land and sea,
And exult in your glorious Liberty.

O, guard ye well the land where I dwell,
Lest to future times the tale I tell,
When slow expires in smoldering fires
The goodly heritage of your sires,
How Freedom’s light rose clear and bright
O’er fair Columbia’s beacon-height,
Till ye quenched the flame in a starless night.

Then will I tear from your pennon fair
The stars ye have set in triumph there;
My olive-branch on the blast I’ll launch,
The fluttering stripes from the flagstaff wrench,
And away I’ll flee; for I scorn to see
A craven race in the land of the free!

Anonymous

The Children's Hour

Of all the poets that I admire, one of my favorite is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.  His gift for rhyme and meter, (not to mention his ability to convey depth of emotion,) never ceases to inspire me.
Soon I will do a series of posts about the poet; but today I want to share one of his poems with you.
This is one of his many tributes to his own family; in this case, his daughters.

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Fool's Prayer

Another treasured poem from Crimson Trove.  This one really strikes home for me.  It reminds me of the words of the prophet who said "For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have...?" 
Oh Lord, be merciful to me, a fool!

The royal feast was done the king
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: “Sir Fool,

kneel now, and make for us a prayer!”

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before:
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head and bent his knee
Upon the monarch’s silken stool
His pleading voice arose
“Oh Lord be merciful to me, a fool!

No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool
The rod must heal the sin but, Lord
Be merciful to me, a fool!

‘Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, Oh Lord we stay
‘Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the Earth from Heaven away.

These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end
These hard well-meaning hands we trust
Among the heartstrings of a friend.

The ill-timed truth we might have kept-
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say-
Who knows how grandly it had rung?

Our faults no tenderness should ask,
The chastening stripes must cleanse the all
But for our blunders-oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

Earth bears no balsam for mistakes
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but thou, Oh Lord
Be merciful to me, a fool!”

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his garden cool,
And walked apart and murmured low,
“Be merciful to me, a fool!”

Edward Rowland Sill

Psalm 23

As I have said before, death makes you look at things from a different perspective.  And a funeral does that even more; for then the news of the person's death is real, then it really means that they've gone from this life into another.
For this post I am including a passage from the Holy Bible.  While it doesn't follow the usual rules of poetry that I apply to my writing, it is as touching as anything written by modern poets.
I know that somewhere out there, on the other side of my computer screen, there is someone going through the same thing I am at this very moment.  If you are that person, I hope that this helps you find comfort, as it has me.

The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil:
For thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil;
My cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

King David, the Psalmist

Love

Remember the new book I'm working on?  Well, here is a preview of one of the poems, a little piece I did while sitting in a class.  I don't recall why, but for some reason I got thinking about what love really is, what true love can be defined as.  I hope you enjoy it.

Love is not just a word,
that is declaration.
Love is not a feeling,
that is but affection.
Love is not starry eyes,
that is just attraction.
Love is actions, service -
that is called devotion.

David Jamison

After the Rain

A poem from my first book, Nature's Voice.

After the rain comes
Earth is a cleaner place;
dirt, grime and stress
the waters do erase.

All about in nature
is rebirth to be seen:
birdsong sounds the sweeter,
the grass looks more green,

the temperature is more fair,
the sky is so much lighter,
more free is the air,
the Sun so much brighter.

As it is in nature,
so it is in life;
to have the greatest peace
you must know the greatest strife.

The rainstorms of life,
unpleasant though they be,
leave us the cleaner
and make us more free.

Refreshed and renewed,
washed free of sin and pain,
life is better, brighter,
after comes the rain.

David Jamison

Death...

The death of a loved one makes you look at life differently.  Especially when that death comes too early.  It takes the breath out of your lungs, leaving you unsure how to progress from where you are, wondering how to move on.
In the words of Madame de Stael, "we understand Death for the first time when he puts his hand upon one whom we love."  So it is for me.  Today I lost someone very close to me.
I am a Christian, and I believe in the Resurrection with all my heart.  I have no doubts that I will see this dear one again, but still I feel the ache, still I sorrow.  I don't sorrow for them - I know they are with a loving God in Heaven now - I sorrow for their family, for all those left behind.
Good-bye dear little one; God be with you, and with us, till we meet again.

Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms

As I work on compiling my new book of love poetry, I am also reading an increased amount of love poems by other poets.  Here is one that over the years has never failed to touch me.  I even once wrote a poem inspired by it.  Here it is, an example of what true love is all about.

Believe me if all those endearing young charms,
which I gaze on so fondly today,
were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms
like fairy gifts fading away;
thou would'st still be adored as this moment thou art,
let thy loveliness fade as it will,
and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own
and thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear
that the ferver and faith of a soul can be known
to which time will but make thee more dear;
no the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
but as truly loves on to the close,
as the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
the same look which she'd turned when he rose.

Thomas Moore

Book # 2

Last December I finally completed a twenty-month project of mine and self-published my first poetry book, "Nature's Voice."  It's a collection of one-hundred poems about nature.  I wrote it over the course of seventy-five days, but with typing (I hand write most of my work first,) and compiling, (not to mention procrastination,) I didn't get it printed and bound until just before last Christmas.
Don't go looking for it at your local Barnes & Noble store just yet though.  I haven't found someone to mass-publish it.  The search continues, but while I wait it's a great feeling to see my own words in book form.
Anyway, I'm now working on book two.  I don't foresee this involving much writing, (though you never know when the Muse will descend,) as I will be gathering up and printing my previously written works on the chosen topic, which works are very numerous.  This second book will be on that which all poets fall under the spell of - love.

P.S.  I'll be sure and let you all know as soon as I get this as-yet-unnamed book printed and bound.

Comments...

A poet is an artist.  They may be a good one, a bad one, or a really bad one, but they are still an artist.  And like all other artists, they want to be seen and heard, recognized and given validation.  This is one of the reasons that I started this blog; I wanted to be heard.  But just as importantly I started it because I wanted to hear others too.
I want to know what draws you to poetry; what kinds you like or dislike; especially I want to hear what you think about what I'm writing.  So please don't have me do all the talking, (or typing as the case may be,) I would love to hear your thoughts.  I also welcome your suggestions for future page content.
I do ask that your comments stay civil and on topic, but otherwise say whatever you think about what you see here.  Remember, poetry only comes into being when someone speaks what is on their mind and in their heart.

Don't Quit

We've all had those days when we just want to quit.  I've had quite a few myself, some more recent than others.  If today is one of those days for you, here is a poem to help pick you back up.  It is by that remarkably prolific poet, Anonymous.

When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh;
When care is pressing you down a bit;
Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns
As every one of us sometimes learns;
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out:
Don't give up though the pace seems slow -
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out -
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt.
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far.
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit -
It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.

Anonymous