Well, I'm back to my unrhymed poetry. I've got a whole packet of rhymed poetry. When I find it, I'll probably add a few more. Until then---------
I waited for the storm to end.
The cabin remained dry, but
cold and damp feeling.
The wind rattled the old windows,
that desperately needed putty
to make them tighter.
Shivering, I peered through
the cob-webbed smeared panes
and observed a light mist
that left enough water to allow
for dripping from the leaves.
Sitting in an ancient rocker,
I decided to wait for a few
streaks of sunlight before I
would start for home.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Book Bathing
I wrote this poem many years ago when I realized how much reading meant to me. It is a "refreshing" activity. I hope you'll like this rhymed poem:
A tear is the beer that a lonely man drinks.
A book is the brook where I go to think.
I sit a my table of escape and I bathe
in the rippling waters that flow from each page.
Whenever I feel sorrow or pain,
I put on my trunks , and go swimming again.
I swim the cool waters that take me away
From the dull, lonely living that comes with each day.
If I get tired as the pages go by,
I climb out of the water, and wipe myself dry.
A tear is the beer that a lonely man drinks.
A book is the brook where I go to think.
I sit a my table of escape and I bathe
in the rippling waters that flow from each page.
Whenever I feel sorrow or pain,
I put on my trunks , and go swimming again.
I swim the cool waters that take me away
From the dull, lonely living that comes with each day.
If I get tired as the pages go by,
I climb out of the water, and wipe myself dry.
Oh, It's Halloween
Up until now, my poetry presented here has been unrhymed. I have also written many rhymed poetry. The following has been published in the Bangor Daily News at Halloween time:
The night could not be darker.
The wind is shrill and loud.
The moon looks almost frightened
as it haies behind a cloud.
An owl hoots in the distance.
Dry leaves fall from the trees.
Ripe pumpkins line the gardens,
And puddles start to freeze.
A cat screames from a fencepost.
All kinds of spooks are seen.
We think they are trick--or--treaters.
Who knows? It's Halloween!
The night could not be darker.
The wind is shrill and loud.
The moon looks almost frightened
as it haies behind a cloud.
An owl hoots in the distance.
Dry leaves fall from the trees.
Ripe pumpkins line the gardens,
And puddles start to freeze.
A cat screames from a fencepost.
All kinds of spooks are seen.
We think they are trick--or--treaters.
Who knows? It's Halloween!
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Forgotten, but not Gone
I have always enjoyed reading Joyce Kilmer's " The House with Nobody in IT". I could relate to it, so I wrote about an old house I remember from my boyhood::
Forget--me--nots
ironically surround
the cellar
of the old house.
Winter winds
had removed
a few shingles,
but the windows
had kept
out the snow.
Picturesque---
An artist's dream---
not really.
Only an abandoned
old house
trying to retain
some of its
dignity.
Forget--me--nots
ironically surround
the cellar
of the old house.
Winter winds
had removed
a few shingles,
but the windows
had kept
out the snow.
Picturesque---
An artist's dream---
not really.
Only an abandoned
old house
trying to retain
some of its
dignity.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Old Ben?
Growing up on the coast brought me many old stories, legends and strange tales. My Grampa Les was quite the story teller, and often sent chills up my spine, so I wrote this to him:
caused the tiny ripples
on the water to sparkle
like some rare gems from
the sea,
But at night, the tall trees
seem to block out the moonlight
that might have kept the jewels
sparkling if I could have seen
them.
An eerie moan comes from the wind as
as it tries to part the branches to get
a better look at what is happening
below.
Perhaps Old Ben will make his rounds
to seek out the one who had cheated on him
so long ago. I quicken my pace now
for my grandfather had once told of Old Ben
searching and mumbling words that
only the wind can understand.
The walk in the daytime
was lovely, for the suncaused the tiny ripples
on the water to sparkle
like some rare gems from
the sea,
But at night, the tall trees
seem to block out the moonlight
that might have kept the jewels
sparkling if I could have seen
them.
An eerie moan comes from the wind as
as it tries to part the branches to get
a better look at what is happening
below.
Perhaps Old Ben will make his rounds
to seek out the one who had cheated on him
so long ago. I quicken my pace now
for my grandfather had once told of Old Ben
searching and mumbling words that
only the wind can understand.
That's the Way it Is.
I have always had"fun with the words excuses and explanations, so I wrote this poem about these two words
Unable to find
an excuse, as the
explanation sounded
unbelievable, I simply
stopped the fishing
expedition.
If there is no understanding
from the one who needs
to understand,
too bad !
I know that
I've done
my best.
Unable to find
an excuse, as the
explanation sounded
unbelievable, I simply
stopped the fishing
expedition.
If there is no understanding
from the one who needs
to understand,
too bad !
I know that
I've done
my best.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
On the Ground
Ever since I learned about personification, I have enjoyed using it in my writings. This poem came to mind after one of my final walks around the area behind a school where I had taught for many years:
Weathered sticks--
the dry, broken bones
of trees--
lie where they
have fallen
like solkdiers
away from home.
Looking closely,
I see what
used to be
when each one
was part of
the branch,
attached to the limb
and growing,
in a childhood
untouched
except for birds
and caterpillers.
Weathered sticks--
the dry, broken bones
of trees--
lie where they
have fallen
like solkdiers
away from home.
Looking closely,
I see what
used to be
when each one
was part of
the branch,
attached to the limb
and growing,
in a childhood
untouched
except for birds
and caterpillers.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Fish Truck
My Grammy Young had her groceries delivered and there were other salesmen that would supply things, like milk, bakery products etc. I remember these, but what I remembered most was the fish truck:
Mr. Finson usually came
every Thursday.
The back of his paneled truck
held ice and fish.
When Grammy felt up to it,
she'd shop---
Buying enough haddock
for a chowder.
The green peeling paint
on the outside
gave way to a neat, clean
inside, smelling
like a hospital disinfectant.
As Grammy grew older,
and I became more responssible,
I got to choose the fish.
The old man would smile
as he counted the money,
because Grammy always
gave me the exact amount.
Time's great eraser leaves only
faded memories,
that always become sharper
whenever I smell the aroma
of homemade fish chowder.
Mr. Finson usually came
every Thursday.
The back of his paneled truck
held ice and fish.
When Grammy felt up to it,
she'd shop---
Buying enough haddock
for a chowder.
The green peeling paint
on the outside
gave way to a neat, clean
inside, smelling
like a hospital disinfectant.
As Grammy grew older,
and I became more responssible,
I got to choose the fish.
The old man would smile
as he counted the money,
because Grammy always
gave me the exact amount.
Time's great eraser leaves only
faded memories,
that always become sharper
whenever I smell the aroma
of homemade fish chowder.
Fairies' Brooms
I love to see spring come, but I get a liitle sad when one thing leave us, and I'm waitng for another to come,so I wrote this poem and it cheers me.
The petals from the apple tree
float down creating a flurry
of scented snowflakes
to be shoveled up by fairies,
or, at least, swept aside
with their dried Queen
\ Anne's lace brooms.
I stand in the scent
of lilacs and newly
cut grass to watch
what seems like magic,
but reality keeps it
from being. As the breeze
dies down, I turn for home
where I have chores to be done.
The petals from the apple tree
float down creating a flurry
of scented snowflakes
to be shoveled up by fairies,
or, at least, swept aside
with their dried Queen
\ Anne's lace brooms.
I stand in the scent
of lilacs and newly
cut grass to watch
what seems like magic,
but reality keeps it
from being. As the breeze
dies down, I turn for home
where I have chores to be done.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Yellow Swamp Violets
This poem is hard for me to share as it is where I and my beloved Christine started many years ago. For you,Christine. R.I.P.
You ask only
for two small
tokens---
A strip of
white birch bark
and
the petals from
a yellow swamp
violet,
and I ask
how can these
compare
with what you
have given in
return?
You ask only
for two small
tokens---
A strip of
white birch bark
and
the petals from
a yellow swamp
violet,
and I ask
how can these
compare
with what you
have given in
return?
Giants?
When I was a pre-teen, I used to love to go to Grampa and Grammy K,s. Near the beach there was a huge rock that I loved to climb upon. This poem is a tribute to that rock:
The rock had been split
nearly in two,
leaving only a few small
pieces, much as
the saw leaves its
sawdust.
Perhaps years of
thawing and re-freezing
became the strength
of giant hands
pulling the small
crack into a neat
break.
Goliath's roar, or
maybe his distinct
sigh of accomplishment
could be heard
in the waves
crashing against the
other rocks
on the beach.
The rock had been split
nearly in two,
leaving only a few small
pieces, much as
the saw leaves its
sawdust.
Perhaps years of
thawing and re-freezing
became the strength
of giant hands
pulling the small
crack into a neat
break.
Goliath's roar, or
maybe his distinct
sigh of accomplishment
could be heard
in the waves
crashing against the
other rocks
on the beach.
Morning Walk
Whenever I get a chance, I love to take an early morning walk, especially after a light rain. This poem tells about that:
Leaves, shaking off rain
like a dog ridding itself
of bath water,
give me a nice, cool shower
as I begin my morning walk.
Periwinkle, known locally as
blue myrtle, peeks its
blue eyes through leaves
of forest green
and watches me
as I continue
on my way.
Leaves, shaking off rain
like a dog ridding itself
of bath water,
give me a nice, cool shower
as I begin my morning walk.
Periwinkle, known locally as
blue myrtle, peeks its
blue eyes through leaves
of forest green
and watches me
as I continue
on my way.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Coastal Fog
Fog has always intriqued me after living on the coast of Maine where fog could be very thick and mysterious. It can be dangerous when one ventures, but it seems to have a mystique of its own:
Fog
wrapped
its cold
damp
arms
around any
nearby
traveler
walking down
roads
that once
had been
the
center of
the town.
Fog
can be friend,
or enemy.
Only the
traveler's destination
would determine
this.
Fog
wrapped
its cold
damp
arms
around any
nearby
traveler
walking down
roads
that once
had been
the
center of
the town.
Fog
can be friend,
or enemy.
Only the
traveler's destination
would determine
this.
Waiting for Lenore
I have always found Edgar Allan Poe fascinating, and I knew of a fellow waiting for the return of his love, hopelessly. I wrote this poem for his situation:
Listening to the wind
for some sound like Poe"s
lost Lenore, he heard only
the intensity of the storm.
Flickering flames from the
fireplace produced the
popping of pine knots.
Tonight, she'd not be here,
nor would there be any word
spoken. The raven of darkness
caused his eyelids to droop
as the book fell from his lap.
Listening to the wind
for some sound like Poe"s
lost Lenore, he heard only
the intensity of the storm.
Flickering flames from the
fireplace produced the
popping of pine knots.
Tonight, she'd not be here,
nor would there be any word
spoken. The raven of darkness
caused his eyelids to droop
as the book fell from his lap.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Maybe
This poem I wrote after a friend had been a bit critical with me, and I knew there was no apparent reason other than grumpiness.
Maybe
you'll read
my poem,
or
at least
smile when
I
ask for
one new
word
to make
it worth
your
while.
Maybe
you'll read
my poem,
or
at least
smile when
I
ask for
one new
word
to make
it worth
your
while.
Happily Alone
I am not anti-social, but I do find that sometime I do need "alone" time to clear my head. I do not have a large number of friends, and with the loss of my dear Christine, I now have no real close friends. This poem shows a lot of the real me:
The steps are mine,
at least for the time being.
Tracing my finger along a crack--
Neither adding to, nor taking away
from the surface.
There is no moon,
and I don't need one.
Shadowless, my world
surrounds me and supplies
all I need at the moment.
A voice would be unwelcome,
as would any sound
that pushed its way
into my thoughts.
Maybe tomorrow night
will bring moonlight
and night birds,
But tonight, I am
glad that I am
alone.
The steps are mine,
at least for the time being.
Tracing my finger along a crack--
Neither adding to, nor taking away
from the surface.
There is no moon,
and I don't need one.
Shadowless, my world
surrounds me and supplies
all I need at the moment.
A voice would be unwelcome,
as would any sound
that pushed its way
into my thoughts.
Maybe tomorrow night
will bring moonlight
and night birds,
But tonight, I am
glad that I am
alone.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Umbrella? ( Two short poems )
I have always loved daffodils and pretty red umbrellas. The two come out in the following poems:
The
tiny
ant
may
use
my
daffodils
as
sunlight
on
a
rainy
day
...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
My rain
is wetter
than yours
only because
I
do not
have a
shiny
new
red
. umbrella.
The
tiny
ant
may
use
my
daffodils
as
sunlight
on
a
rainy
day
...........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
My rain
is wetter
than yours
only because
I
do not
have a
shiny
new
red
. umbrella.
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