Welcome to my new blog! Hopefully it will be a place of respite for all of us--a place of poetry and prose, of common sense, of humor.
First up: An original poem
I take my lunch and a chair,
For a make-do picnic
On an April day stolen from July,
An hour stolen from work,
Big oak in a little park,
A small respite.
For a lawnmower grinds across the street,
And a train groans across the river,
Kids shout on the basketball court.
A sparrow chats above my head
And the breeze disturbs the new leaves,
The Little Wabash moves just beyond,
Muddy, high, swift, determined.
Shut my eyes and inhale
The rustle, the song, the water,
The kids, the train, the roar--
And suddenly I am all here, and gone, too,
For a breath, a blink, a tick on my watch and
Soon too soon I really must go,
Must be really gone,
Pack my chair, my lunch, yea my soul,
Turn from the bird, the tree, the river,
Even the mower, the children, the train,
Stuff in my car, slam my door, say goodbye,
Deep breath, held breath, time suspended,
Yes I know:
The sparrow it sings on, so blows the breeze,
--The river, surely, it flows forever--
Kids play, mowers roar, trains fly:
O so should I.
Copyright © 2002 Cathy A. Dee. All rights reserved.
Link of the Day
What's better than just reading a good book? Reading it and talking about it with a great book club. I'm lucky to have one. Visit our web site and find out what we're reading by clicking here: Books Worth Reading.
Poems, Gotta Read 'Em
Reading a poem a day is better than taking a vitamin. Like a vitamin for the soul, maybe! The classics are foundations for anyone who's ever tried to write a poem. Here's one for today:
by John Keats (1795-1821)
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
Visit The Poetry Archives online for more great poems.
Later: A dreary sort of spring day, cool, wet, low-hanging clouds. Typical of our Indiana spring this year. The worst baseball weather I think I've ever seen.