Confession

Touched by all that love is
I draw closer toward you
Saddened by all that love is
I run from you

Surprised by all that love is
I remain alert in stillness
Hurt by all that love is
I yearn for tenderness

Defeated by all that love is
at the truthful mouth of the night
Forsaken by all that love is
I will grow toward you.

Frantisek Halas

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Edward Lear!!!!!! <img src="/ubbt/images/graemlins/grin.gif" alt="" /> <img src="/ubbt/images/graemlins/grin.gif" alt="" />

Because when we studied this poem at school, it was the first time I REALLY got poetry.

A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

AS virtuous men passe mildly away,
And whisper to their soules, to goe,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
The breath goes now, and some say, no;

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
T'were prophanation of our joyes
To tell the layetie our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harmes and feares,
Men reckon what it did and meant,
But trepidation of the speares,
Though greater farre, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers love
(Whose soule is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love, so much refin'd,
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care lesse, eyes, lips, and hands to misse.

Our two soules therefore, which are one,
Though I must goe, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiffe twin compasses are two,
Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other doe.

And though it in the center sit,
Yet when the other far doth rome,
It leanes, andhearkens after it,
And growes erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to mee, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely runne;
Thy firmnes drawes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begunne.

John Donne

this poem helped me survive the really bad recovery stage

The Promise

by Madeleine L'Engle

You promised
well, you didn't actually promise much
did you?

but that little is enough
is more than enough

We fail you
over and over again
but you promised to be
faithful to us
not to let us fail
beyond your forgiveness of our failure

In our common temptation
you promised
we could not be tempted more than we are able
you promised not to lead us into temptation
beyond our frail strength
and you
yourself
are our refuge in temptation.

Our escape from the pit
and that is enough
so that we can bear more than we thought we could bear
of lonliness
nothingness
otherness
sin
silliness
sadness

for thine is the kingdom and the other great fors:

forbearance
forgiveness
fortitude

forever

This is what you promised
it is enough
it is everything

Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes

by Billy Collins

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

We had a concert for the troops who will be leaving soon for Afghanistan and my H's RSM who has this very pronounced Irish accent sang this old Irish poem. It really brought home to me that regrets are useless to me, I've lost that time I should have had with my H during my A, I can only cherish each precious moment we have now as who knows what the future will bring.

A Soldier's lullaby

So go to sleep my weary Soldier let the time go drifting by
Can't you hear those bullets humming well that's a Soldier's lullaby

Well they say your clothes are torn and ragged
And your hair it's turning slightly gray
Some day you'll die and go to heaven
And You'll find peace again up there some day

So go to sleep my weary Soldier let the time go drifting by
Can't you hear the bullets humming that's a Soldier's lullaby

Well they say the Peelers give you trouble
Sure they cause trouble everywhere
Some day you'll die and go to heaven
And you will find no Peelers over there

So go to sleep my weary Soldier let the time go drifting by
Can't you hear the bullets humming that's a Soldier's lullaby

Sure we’ll tell her what became of you,
and tell her a soldier you became
and say your final sounds
were the whispers of her name

So go to sleep my weary Soldier let the time go drifting by
Can't you hear the bullets humming that's a Soldier's lullaby

that's a Soldier's lullaby

that's very beautiful

The Road Not Taken....Robert Frost

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

love dat! Thanks! <img src="/ubbt/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

The Deacon's Masterpiece, by Oliver Wendell Holmes

HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,--
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,--
Snuffy old drone from the German hive;
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss-shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,--
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,--
Above or below, or within or without,--
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,"
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown!
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "t's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke,--

That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber,--they could n't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.

That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'll dew."

Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!

Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,

Children and grandchildren--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss-shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found
The Deacon's Masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;--
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.

Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.

In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it.--You 're welcome.--No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day.--
There are traces of age in the one-hoss-shay--
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There could n't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there was n't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore,
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss-shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. --Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday's text,--
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill

--First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,--
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,--
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!

--What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,--
All at once, and nothing first,--
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss-shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.

The Riderless Horse - John O'Brian

He comes when the gullies are wrapped in the gloaming,
And lime-lights are trained on the tops of the gums,
To stand by the sliprails, awaiting the homing
Of one who marched off to the beat of the drums;
So handsome he looked, in his putties and khaki,
Light-hearted he went, like a youngster, to play,
But why comes he never to speak to his "[censored]",
Around at the rails at the close of the day.

Hard by at the station, the training commences,
In circles they're schooling the hacks for the shows,
The high-mettled hunters are sent at the fences,
And satins and dapples the brushes disclose;
Sound-winded, and fit, and quite ready is [censored],
Impatient to strip for the sprint and the flight,
But what can be keeping the rider in khaki,
And why does the silence hang heavy tonight?

Ah, surely, he'll come, when the waiting is ended,
To fly the stiff fences, and take him in hand,
Blue-ribboned once more, and three-quarters extended,
Hard-held for the cheers, from the fence and the stand;
But there on the cross beam, the saddle hangs idle,
The cobweb around the loose stirrup is spun,
There's rust on the spur, and there's dust on the bridle,
And gathering mould are the badges he won.

We'll take the old horse, to the paddocks, tomorrow,
Where grasses are waving, breast-high, after rain,
And there, with the clean-skins, we'll turn him in sorrow,
And muster him, never, ah, never, again ;
The bushbirds will sing, when the shadows are creeping,
A sweet plaintive note, soft and clear as a bell's,
Would it might ring where the bush boy lies sleeping,
to colour his dreams by the far Dardanelles.

And why are the neighbours foregathered so gently,
Their horses a-doze , at the fence, in a row,
What are they talking of, softly, intently,
And why are the women-folk lingering so?
One hand, soft and small, that so often caressed him,
Was trembling, just now, as it fondled his head,
And what was the trickling, warm drop that distressed him,
And what were the heartbroken words that she said?

He comes, when the gullies are wrapped in the gloaming,
And lime-lights are trained on the taps of the gums,
To stand by the sliprails, awaiting the homing,
Of one who marched off to the beat of the drums;
So handsome he looked, in his putties and khaki,
Light-hearted he went, like a youngster, to play,
But why comes he never to speak to his "[censored]",
Around at the rails at the close of the day?

W H Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.


***
William Butler Yeats
THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

***
Elizabeth Akers Allen

At last, when all the summer shine
That warmed life's early hours is past,
Your loving fingers seek for mine
And hold them close—at last—at last!
Not oft the robin comes to build
Its nest upon the leafless bough
By autumn robbed, by winter chilled,—
But you, dear heart, you love me now.

Though there are shadows on my brow
And furrows on my cheek, in truth,—
The marks where Time's remorseless plough
Broke up the blooming sward of Youth,—
Though fled is every girlish grace
Might win or hold a lover's vow,
Despite my sad and faded face,
And darkened heart, you love me now!

I count no more my wasted tears;
They left no echo of their fall;
I mourn no more my lonesome years;
This blessed hour atones for all.
I fear not all that Time or Fate
May bring to burden heart or brow,—
Strong in the love that came so late,
Our souls shall keep it always now!

[color:"brown"]****Trigger Caution***** [/color]
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Anne Sexton
You All Know the Story of the Other Woman

It's a little Walden.
She is private in her breathbed
as his body takes off and flies,
flies straight as an arrow.
But it's a bad translation.
Daylight is nobody's friend.
God comes in like a landlord
and flashes on his brassy lamp.
Now she is just so-so.
He puts his bones back on,
turning the clock back an hour.
She knows flesh, that skin balloon,
the unbound limbs, the boards,
the roof, the removable roof.
She is his selection, part time.
You know the story too! Look,
when it is over he places her,
like a phone, back on the hook.

I remember this from Three Weddings and a Funeral



sounds especially forlorn when recited with a Scottish brogue

poetry is so cool

This is my favourite children's poem. My daughter had to learn this to recite to the class when she was nine and she has a lisp. So cute.

Sick
by Shel Silverstein


"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more--that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke--
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

Lewis Carroll

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.




"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.



`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Pep poetry IS cool. It really helps me at times and it is such a pleasure to just sit and read it.

TT aren't the kids just great ...I used to love mine reading Green Ham and eggs lol

Mothers, Daughter, Wives - Judy Small (Later set to music)

The first time it was fathers,
The last time it was sons
And in between your husbands
Marched away with drums and guns.
And you never thought to question.
You just went on with your lives.
Cause all they taught you who to be,
Was mothers, daughters, wives.

You can only just remember
The tears your mother shed
As they sat and read the papers
Through the lists and lists of dead.
And the gold frames held the photograghs
That mothers kissed each night.
And the door frames held the shocked
And silent strangers from the fight.

It was twenty-one years later,
With children of your own.
The trumpets sounded once again,
And the soldier boys were gone.
And you drove their trucks and made their guns
And tended to their wounds.
And at night you kissed their photographs
And prayed for safe returns.

And after it was over
You had to learn again
To be just wives and mothers,
When you'd done the work of men.
So you worked to help the needy
And you never trod on toes.
And the photos on the pianos
Struck a happy family pose.

Then your daughters grew to women
And your little boys to men.
And you prayed that you were dreaming
When the call came up again.
But you proudly smiled and held your tears
As they bravely waved goodbye.
And the photos on the mantel pieces
Always made you cry.

And now you're getting older
And in time the photos fade.
And in widowhood you sit back
And reflect on the parade.
Of the passing of your memories
As your daughters change their lives.
Seeing more to our existence
Than just mothers, daughters, wives.

The first time it was fathers,
The last time it was sons
And in between your husbands
Marched away with drums and guns.
And you never thought to question.
You just went on with your lives.
Cause all they taught you who to be,
Was mothers, daughters, wives.

Um, Pep, it's "Four Weddings And a Funeral"

And yes, this poem struck a chord with me the first time I heard it in this movie, I couldn't stop the tears. Poetry is AMAZING...

Bwhaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

I guess one of the weddings did not mean so much to me !!!!!!

<img src="/ubbt/images/graemlins/grin.gif" alt="" />

Heart! We will forget him! by Emily Dickinson


Heart! We will forget him!
You and I -- tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave --
I will forget the light!

When you have done, pray tell me
That I may straight begin!
Haste! lest while you're lagging
I remember him!

It was a favorite of mine before I ever saw the movie. I read it to my husband during the height of his A, I was writing a paper on it for school, and I tearfully read him my paper, basing it on how I would feel to lose my husband. I was crying on the back porch reading it to him while he coldly went on bar-b-q-ing, very irritated with me.

It remains a favorite even so, so much so that at our renewal I'm giving out little compasses, and quoting -- he is "my North, my South, my East and West", the compass symbolizes the way home for us, my home is in his heart, as his is in mine.