| 2001-2002 Archived Poems | |||
| 2003-2004 Archived Poems | |||
| 2007-2008 Archived Poems | |||
| January '05 | Winter Trees | February '05 | Washington's Monument, February 1885 |
| March '05 | The True Encounter | April '05 | The Months |
| May '05 | The Mind is a Hawk | June '05 | Up-hill |
| July '05 | With a Bunch of Roses | August '05 | In August |
| September '05 | Fall Sunrise | October '05 | Autumn Leaves |
| November '05 | Motionless Horse | December '05 | Deck the Halls |
| January '06 | Sonnet IX: You also under the moon | February '06 | Ain't Misbehavin' |
| March '06 | A March Snow | April '06 | Night Rain |
| May '06 | The Princess Recalls Her One Adventure | June '06 | first frog voices |
| July '06 | Calendar of Sonnets: July | August '06 | August Moonrise |
| September '06 | Under the Harvest Moon | October '06 | just the facts |
| November '06 | My November Guest | December '06 | Snow in the Suburbs |
| Winter Trees | |
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All the complicated details
of the attiring and the disattiring are completed! A liquid moon moves gently among the long branches. Thus having prepared their buds against a sure winter the wise trees stand sleeping in the cold. —William Carlos Williams |
| Washington's Monument, February 1885 | |
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Ah, not this marble, dead and cold:
Far from its base and shaft expanding--the round zones circling, comprehending, Thou, Washington, art all the world's, the continents' entire--not yours alone, America, Europe's as well, in every part, castle of lord or laborer's cot, Or frozen North, or sultry South--the African's--the Arab's in his tent, Old Asia's there with venerable smile, seated amid her ruins; (Greets the antique the hero new? 'tis but the same--the heir legitimate, continued ever, The indomitable heart and arm--proofs of the never-broken line, Courage, alertness, patience, faith, the same--e'en in defeat defeated not, the same:) Wherever sails a ship, or house is built on land, or day or night, Through teeming cities' streets, indoors or out, factories or farms, Now, or to come, or past--where patriot wills existed or exist, Wherever Freedom, pois'd by Toleration, sway'd by Law, Stands or is rising thy true monument. —Walt Whitman |
| The True Encounter | |
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"Wolf!" cried my cunning heart
At every sheep it spied, And roused the countryside.
"Wolf! Wolf!"—and up would start
At length my cry was known:
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| The Months | |
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March
When the Earl King came to steal away the child in Goethe's poem, the father said don't be afraid, it's just the wind... As if it weren't the wind that blows away the tender fragments of this world— leftover leaves in the corners of the garden, a Lenten Rose that thought it safe to bloom so early. |
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April
In the pastel blur of the garden, the cherry and redbud shake rain from their delicate shoulders, as petals of pink dogwood wash down the ditches in dreamlike rivers of color. |
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May
Mayapple, daffodil, hyacinth, lily, and by the front porch steps every billowing shade of purple and lavender lilac, my mother's favorite flower, sweet breath drifting through the open windows: perfume of memory-conduit of spring. |
| —Linda Pastan | |
| The Mind is a Hawk | |
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The mind is like a hawk, trying to survive
on hardscrabble. Hunting, you wheel sometimes for hours on thermals rising from sand so dry no trees grow native. Some days, you circle only bones and snakeskin, the same old cactus and mesquite. The secret is not to give up on shadows, but glide until nothing expects it, staring to make a desert give up dead-still ideas like rabbits with round eyes and rapidly beating hearts. |
| —Walter MacDonald | |
| Up-hill | |
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Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkeness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yes, beds for all who come. |
| —Christina Rossetti | |
| With a Bunch of Roses | |
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Here's last year's grief
In the green leaf; And all he knows is That Time will take All heartbreak, And turn it to roses. |
| —Robert Nathan | |
| In August | |
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Heat urges secret odors from the grass.
Blunting the edge of silence, crickets shrill. Wings veer: inane needles of light, and pass. Laced pools: the warm wood-shadows ebb and fill. The wind is casual, loitering to crush The sun upon his palate, and to draw Pungence from pine, frank fragrances from brush, Sucked up through thin grey boughs as through a straw. Moss-green, fern-green and leaf and meadow-green Are broken by the bare, bone-colored roads, Less moved by stirring air than by unseen Soft-footed ants and meditative toads. Summer is passing, taking what she brings: Green scents and sounds, and quick ephemeral wings. |
| —Babette Deutsch | |
| Fall Sunrise | |
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fall sunrise
the shadows of leaves follow the wind |
| —Martin Cohen | |
| Autumn Leaves | |
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autumn leaves
floating through the reflection of autumn leaves |
| —John Sheirer | |
| A Motionless Horse | |
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A motionless horse,
at peace in the field, in the quietly falling snow. |
| —Issa (1762 - 1826) | |
| Deck the Halls | |
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Deck the halls with boughs of holly Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la 'Tis the season to be jolly Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la Don we now our gay apparel Fa-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-la. Troll the ancient Yule-tide carol Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la. See the blazing Yule before us. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la Strike the harp and join the chorus. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la Follow me in merry measure. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la While I tell of Yule-tide treasure. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la Fast away the old year passes. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la Hail the new year, lads and lasses Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la Sing we joyous, all together. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la heedless of the wind and weather. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la |
| Sonnet IX: You also under the moon | |
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You also under the moon, Oh dark of hair,
In the night's beauty, being part of the night, Dream of me in the darkness, in the bright Lakes of moonlight, in the meadowy air. Dream of me in the wind which slowly passes Over these stars, the full, the deepening stream, Sharing this beauty, being part of the dream, The night and I, the wind, the shadowy grasses, Which must themselves change again and assemble Distant and strange, where another you and I Under another moon and another sky Feel their hearts melt in the dark and tremble, Calling each other across the widening sea: Dream of me too in the moonlight; dream of me. |
| —Robert Nathan | |
| Ain't Misbehavin' | |
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No one to walk with, all by myself.
No one to talk with, but I'm happy on the shelf. Ain't misbehavin', I'm savin' my love for you. I know for certain the one I love. I'm through with flirtin', it's you I'm thinking of. Ain't misbehavin', I'm savin' my love for you. Like Jack Horner in the corner, don't go nowhere. What do I care? Your kisses are worth waitin' for, believe me. I don't stay out late, don't care to go. I'm home about eight, just me and my radio. Ain't misbehavin', I'm savin' my love for you. |
| —Fats Waller | |
| A March Snow | |
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Let the old snow be covered with the new:
The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden. Let it be hidden wholly from our view By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden. When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring's feet Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet. Let the old life be covered by the new: The old past life so full of sad mistakes, Let it be wholly hidden from the view By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes. Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring Let the white mantle of repentance fling Soft drapery about it, fold on fold, Even as the new snow covers up the old. |
| —Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |
| Night Rain | |
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night rain
between the wind chimes thunder |
| —Ann Schwader | |
| The Princess Recalls Her One Adventure | |
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Hard is my pillow
Of down from the duck's breast, Harsh the linen cover; I cannot rest. Fall down, my tears, Upon the fine hem, Upon the lonely letters Of my long name; Drown the sigh of them. We stood by the lake And we neither kissed nor spoke; We heard how the small waves Lurched and broke, And chuckled in the rock. We spoke and turned away. We never kissed at all. Fall down, my tears. I wish that you might fall On the road by the lake, Where the cob went lame, And I stood with my groom Till the carriage came. |
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| —Edna St Vincent Millay | |
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first frog voices
somewhere in the darkness petals are falling |
| —Scott Mertz |
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A Calendar of Sonnets: July |
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Some flowers are withered and some joys have died;
The garden reeks with an East Indian scent From beds where gillyflowers stand weak and spent; The white heat pales the skies from side to side; But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content, Like starry blooms on a new firmament, White lilies float and regally abide. In vain the cruel skies their hot rays shed; The lily does not feel their brazen glare. In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share Their dews, the lily feels no thirst, no dread. Unharmed she lifts her queenly face and head; She drinks of living waters and keeps fair. |
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| —Helen Hunt Jackson |
| August Moonrise | |
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The sun was gone, and the moon was coming
Over the blue Connecticut hills; The west was rosy, the east was flushed, And over my head the swallows rushed This way and that, with changeful wills. I heard them twitter and watched them dart Now together and now apart Like dark petals blown from a tree; The maples stamped against the west Were black and stately and full of rest, And the hazy orange moon grew up And slowly changed to yellow gold While the hills were darkened, fold on fold To a deeper blue than a flower could hold. Down the hill I went, and then I forgot the ways of men, For night-scents, heady, and damp and cool Wakened ecstasy in me On the brink of a shining pool. |
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O Beauty, out of many a cup
You have made me drunk and wild Ever since I was a child, But when have I been sure as now That no bitterness can bend And no sorrow wholly bow One who loves you to the end? And though I must give my breath And my laughter all to death, And my eyes through which joy came, And my heart, a wavering flame; If all must leave me and go back Along a blind and fearful track So that you can make anew, Fusing with intenser fire, Something nearer your desire; If my soul must go alone Through a cold infinity, Or even if it vanish, too, Beauty, I have worshipped you. Let this single hour atone For the theft of all of me. |
| —Sara Teasdale | |
| Under the Harvest Moon | |
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Under the harvest moon,
When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the grey mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers. |
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| Under the summer roses When flagrant crimson Lurks in the dusk Of the wild red leaves, Love, with little hands, Comes and touches you With a thousand memories, And asks you Beautiful, unanswerable questions. |
| —Carl Sandburg | |
| just the facts | |
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Please don't bother asking me the reason
for my love. Instead, ask me to recall when it began, and I'll describe the season -- dry summer turning into brilliant fall -- and the day -- a morning cloudy and cool, an afternoon that never turned to rain; the oak you sat under while I played the fool eager for your smile, covering my strain at being captured by the web of light spun in your wind-blown hair. That I can tell: each nuance and detail, however slight. But ask for my reason? You might as well ask the flower to describe the sun, ask the bullet its opinion of the gun. |
| —Ed Gaillard | |
| Copyright 1994 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.
If you want to re-distribute this piece, please ask him. You can mail him at : gaillard AT panix DOT com |
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| My November Guest | |
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My Sorrow, when she's here with me
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be. She loves the bare, the withered tree She walks the sodden pasture lane. Her pleasure will not let me stay She talks and I am fain to list She's glad the birds are gone away, She's glad her simple worsted gray Is silver now with clinging mist. |
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The desolate, deserted trees
The faded earth, the heavy sky The beauties she so truly sees, She thinks I have no eye for these And vexes me for reason why Not yesterday I learned to know This love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow But it were vain to tell her so And they are better for her praise |
| —Robert Frost | |
| Snow in the Suburbs | |
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Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it; Every fork like a white web-foot; Every street and pavement mute: Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward, when Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again. The palings are glued together like a wall, And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall. |
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A sparrow enters the tree,
Whereon immediately A snow-lump thrice his own slight size Descends on him and showers his head and eyes, And overturns him, And near inurns him, And lights on a lower twig, when its brush Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush. |
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The steps are a blanched slope,
Up which, with feeble hope, A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin; And we take him in. |
| —Thomas Hardy |
| Ridges | Walden | Pine | Black Oak | Little Pine | Chestnut | Haw |
| Greenbelt | Emory Valley | Key Springs | Newfound Gap | Pellissippi |