Houses That Only I Know

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

No spider’s web just chilled air and thought.

I pass homes.

Houses that only I know.

Me, myself, as I am…alone.

And, when the entanglement be invisible…

I fall

I fall with bruised bone.

No matter the acclimation,

home, sweet home is long gone.

Mine is a history that dares me to repeat.

Mine is a history that dares me to repeat.

A Favorite Poem

 

mortar 1I turn back, time and time, again…to the voice and words of Frost.  Having spent time with similar, familiar demons, self induced negativity and judgment from beings…I, too, did not ask for in my life…There was a slight, speck of dust in time, where I turned to poetry and it’s suffering.

We all, each and everyone of us, can find the art needed to get us…not only out…but through!

 

imageedit_13_7645604223

 

 

Oven Bird by Robert Frost

There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.
imageedit_131_4107695277
Enter a caption
“Most people do not believe in anything very much and our greatest poetry is given to us by those who do.”
– Cyril Connolly

Turn the Page

Every writer dips his brush into his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.

imageedit_1_7138689704

 

A book is good company. It is full of conversation without loquacity. It comes to your longing with full instruction, but pursues you never. It is not offended at your absent-mindedness, nor jealous if you turn to other pleasures, of leaf, or dress, or mineral, or even of books. It silently serves the soul without recompense, not even for the hire of love. And yet more noble, it seems to pass from itself, and to enter the memory, and to hover in a silvery transfiguration there, until the outward book is but a body, and its soul and spirit are flown to you, and possess your memory like a spirit. And while some books, like steps, are left behind us by the very help which they yield us, and serve only our childhood, or early life, some others go with us in mute fidelity to the end of life, a recreation for fatigue, an instruction for our sober hours, and a solace for our sickness or sorrow. Except the great out-doors, nothing that has no life of its own gives so much life to you.38021435-open-book-vintage-effect-style-picture-processing

Henry Ward Beecher

 

Definition of a Poet

What is a poet?

A wanderer?

A solitary lake shallow on the edges…deep and vast at the belly of the beast?

A keeper of few within her soul’s home?

A fractured window omitting promises of hope peppered with disdain.

The owner of a little circle as close knit…

as a pair of Grandma’s macrame Christmas sleepers!

100_1225

What is a poet? An unhappy man (woman) who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music…. And people flock around the poet and say: ‘Sing again soon’ – that is, ‘May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.

Kierkegaard

 

We Must Get Home

We must get home! How could we stray like this?
So far from home, we know not where it is,
cropped-bridge-2.jpgonly in some fair, apple-blossomy place
of children’s faces…and the mother’s face.
We dimly dream it, till the vision clears
even in the eyes of fancy, glad with tears.

We must get home…for we have been away.
So long, it seems forever and a day!
And, O so very homesick we have grown,
the laughter of the world is like a moan.
In our tired hearing, and its song as vain…
We must get home!  We must get home again!

We must get home! With heart and soul we yearn.
cropped-woman-and-man-3.jpgTo find the long-lost pathway, and return!…
The child’s shout lifted from the questing band.
Of old folk, faring weary, hand in hand,
but faces brightening, as if clouds at last
were showering sunshine on us as we passed.

We must get home: It hurts so staying here.
Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear.
And, where to wear wet lashes means, at best…
When most our lack, the least our hope of rest…
When most our need of joy, the more our pain…
We must get home…We must get home again!

We must get home…home to the simple things…
cropped-imageedit_10_7365917179.jpgThe morning-glories twirling up the strings
And, bugling color, as they blared in blue…
And, white o’er garden-gates we scampered through…
the long grape-arbor, with its under-shade
blue as the green and purple overlaid.

We must get home.  All is so quiet there:
The touch of loving hands on brow and hair…
Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild…
The lost love of the mother and the child.
Restored in restful lullabies of rain,
We must get home…We must get home again!

The rows of sweetcorn and the China beans
Beyond the lettuce-beds where, towering, leans.
imageedit_21_7011298630The giant sunflower in barbaric pride
guarding the barn-door and the lane outside.
The honeysuckles, midst the hollyhocks,
that clamber almost to the martin-box.

We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse.
Time humors us and tiptoes through the house.
and, loves us best when sleeping baby-wise.
With dreams…not tear-drops…brimming our clenched eyes,
pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain.
We must get home…We must get home again!

We must get home! The willow-whistle’s call,
trills crisp and liquid as the waterfall…
imageedit_206_7223608855mocking the trillers in the cherry-trees
and, making discord of such rhymes as these.
That know nor lilt nor cadence but the birds.
First warbled…then all poets afterwards.

We must get home and, un-remembering there…
all gain of all ambition other-where…
Rest from the feverish victory, and the crown…
of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.
Fame’s fairest gifts we toss back with disdain…
We must get home…We must get home again!

We must get home again…we must…we must!
(Our rainy faces pelted in the dust)
Creep back from the vain quest through endless strife…
to find not anywhere in all of life.
A happier happiness than blest us then …
We must get home…We must get home again!

imageedit_80_4389937315We must get home! 

We must get home!

James Whitcomb Riley