posted August 27, 2004 11:01 PM         

And you, oh my Soul, where You stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling
catch
somewhere
O my Soul

Walt Whitman

A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)

I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plastic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work.
Then there was Life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched -
though touch is all -
but I grew!
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart,
but I grew, I grew!
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I'd say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a tired eyeball,
but I am rowing, I am rowing
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of Life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat inside of me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.

As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.

This story ends with me still rowing.

posted August 28, 2004 02:32 AM         

How about a line or two
A bit of poetry just from you

Posted in the correct forum I suppose
Or Maklhouf will get up your nose

I'm sorry Maklhouf I couldn't resist
It's pretty obvious you get ******

Randall fell asleep three poems ago
It can't be easy don't you know

In anticipation we'll sit and wait
Paras says I obfusgate

Nobody knows what it really means
He's reading that thesaurus in his dreams.

Dorkus, please forgive me.
I found it hard to resist
your modesty.

Gia

posted August 28, 2004 02:39 PM         

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were - I have not seen
As others saw - I could not bring
My pasions from a common spring-
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow - I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone-
And all I lov'd - I loved alone-
Then - in my childhood - in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still-
From the torrent, or the fountain-
From the red cliff of the mountain-
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold-
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by-
From the thunder, and the storm-
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view-

Edgar Allen Poe

posted September 03, 2004 02:49 PM         

To the Heavens above us
O look and behold
The Planets that love us
All harnessed in gold!
What chariots, what horses
Against us shall bide
While the Stars in their courses
Do fight on our side?

All thought, all desires,
That are under the sun,
Are one with their fires,
As we also are one:
All matter, all spirit,
All fashion, all frame,
Receive and inherit
Their strength from the same.

Oh, man that deniest
All power save thine own,
Their power in the highest
Is mightily shown.
Not less in the lowest
That power is made clear.
(Oh, man, if thou knowest,
What treasure is here!)

Earth quakes in her throes
And we wonder for why!
But the blind planet knows
When her ruler is nigh;
And, attuned since Creation
To perfect accord,
She thrills in her station
And yearns to her Lord.

The waters have risen,
The springs are unbound--
The floods break their prison,
And ravin around.
No rampart withstands 'em,
Their fury will last,
Till the Sign that commands 'em
Sinks low or swings past.

Through abysses unproven
O'er gulfs beyond thought,
Our portion is woven,
Our burden is brought.
Yet They that prepare it,
Whose Nature we share,
Make us who must bear it
Well able to bear.

Though terrors o'ertake us
We'll not be afraid.
No Power can unmake us
Save that which has made:
Nor yet beyond reason
Or hope shall we fall--
All things have their season,
And Mercy crowns all!

posted September 04, 2004 03:58 AM         

Sheaa Olein, "Dates" brought tears to my eyes. I also adore "The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner"

Here is a poem that I have loved since I was a child.

posted February 07, 2008 12:57 PM         

~ Matsuo Basho