The Lighthouse – A Poem By Katharine Lee Bates

 

“The Lighthouse”

IN seas far north, day after day
We leaned upon the rail, engrossed
In frolic fin and jewel spray
And crystal headlands of the coast.
Those beauties held so long in gaze
Have melted from my mind like snow,
But still I see through rifted haze
The wizard tower and portico
That flashed one instant, white and whist,
A grace too exquisite to keep,
A picture springing from the mist
As a dream comes shining out of sleep.
I do not know what name he wrote,
Our captain, in his good ship’s log,
For that sea-wraith, -how men denote
Our fleeting phantom of the fog;
But yet across the world I thrill
With rapture of that ivory gleam,
That sudden shaft of glory, till
It wears the wonder of a dream.

Written by: (Katharine Lee Bates)

Inspirationalstories.com/poems

“My Lazy Day” – A Poem

 

Lazily I sat on the dock of the bay,

Enjoying the breeze while wasting the day.

I called in earlier and took the day off,

Fooling myself that I intended to play golf…

 

I didn’t feel like walking,

Sure, didn’t feel like talking.

I sat and soaked up the sun,

I almost got up and went for a run.

Changed my mind quick and fast.

Me, running, shhhh…that’s a laugh!

 

I had no way to tell the time,

The watch I wear is a 5 and dime.

Clumsily, I stood to go home,

But slipped and fell into the water below.

 

 

Written by: Jasmine Parker

Photo credit: Yahoo.com/images

 

Little Red Riding Hood And the Wolf – A Poem

As soon as Wolf began to feel
That he would like a decent meal,
He went and knocked on Grandma’s door.
When Grandma opened it, she saw
The sharp white teeth, the horrid grin,
And Wolfie said, ‘May I come in?’
Poor Grandmamma was terrified,
‘He’s going to eat me up!’ she cried.
And she was absolutely right.
He ate her up in one big bite.
But Grandmamma was small and tough,
And Wolfie wailed, ‘That’s not enough!
I haven’t yet begun to feel
That I have had a decent meal!’
He ran around the kitchen yelping,
‘I’ve got to have a second helping!’

Then added with a frightful leer,
‘I’m therefore going to wait right here
Till Little Miss Red Riding Hood
Comes home from walking in the wood.’

He quickly put on Grandma’s clothes,
(Of course he hadn’t eaten those).
He dressed himself in coat and hat.
He put on shoes, and after that,
He even brushed and curled his hair,
Then sat himself in Grandma’s chair.

In came the little girl in red.
She stopped. She stared. And then she said,
‘What great big ears you have, Grandma.’
‘All the better to hear you with,’
the Wolf replied.
‘What great big eyes you have, Grandma.’
said Little Red Riding Hood.
‘All the better to see you with,’
the Wolf replied.
He sat there watching her and smiled.
He thought, I’m going to eat this child.
Compared with her old Grandmamma,
She’s going to taste like caviar.

Then Little Red Riding Hood said, ‘
But Grandma, what a lovely great big
furry coat you have on.’

‘That’s wrong!’ cried Wolf.
‘Have you forgot
To tell me what BIG TEETH I’ve got?
Ah well, no matter what you say,
I’m going to eat you anyway.’

The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers.
She whips a pistol from her knickers.
She aims it at the creature’s head,
And bang bang bang, she shoots him dead.

A few weeks later, in the wood,
I came across Miss Riding Hood.
But what a change! No cloak of red,
No silly hood upon her head.
She said, ‘Hello, and do please note
My lovely furry wolfskin coat.’

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/little-red-riding-hood-and-the-wolf-by-roald-dahl

Rabindranath Tagore – “Let Me Not Forget” – A Poem

Rabindranath’s poems leaves me thinking of how deep this man was in his lifetime. Each of his poems that have left me wanting more. This exquisite piece of poetry, ‘Let Me Not Forget’ expresses the melancholic emptiness behind missing the beloved. The lines are beautiful yet they carry spasms of distress.

“Let Me Not Forget”

If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life
then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight
—let me not forget for a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.
As my days pass in the crowded market of this world
and my hands grow full with the daily profits,
let me ever feel that I have gained nothing
—let me not forget for a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.
When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting,
when I spread my bed low in the dust,
let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me
—let me not forget a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.
When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound
and the laughter there is loud,
let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house
—let me not forget for a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.

Source: Desiblitz.com

Rabindranath Tagore – “Where the Mind is Without Fear” – A Poem

This superlative poem, titled ‘Where the Mind is Without Fear’, talks about the boundless power of human knowledge, valour of standing by the truth, and the essence of true freedom.

 

“Where the Mind is Without Fear”

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection:
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is lead forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action–
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

 

source: desiblitz.com & Yahoo.com/images

Your Unknown Place – A Poem

I so love this poem, and discovering poets from all over the world, and from other eras.  Such poet is Tahir Hamut Izgil, a prominent modernist Uyghur poet, filmmaker, and activist. A leader in avant-garde Uyghur poetry in the 1990s, he is known for poems and films strongly influenced by Uyghur life. Originally from Xinjiang, he is currently living in exile in the United States. I hope you all enjoy this poem as much as I did.

Your Unknown Place –

Here people’s names were not contagious,
we said they were, it came to be.
There was no sand here growing roots,
we said there was, it came to be.
Here time did not drip from the walls,
we said it did, it came to be.
Here loneliness did not multiply,
we said it did, it came to be.
Here a thousand eyes did not fleck the skies,
we said they did, it came to be.
Here there were no fugitive forgettings,
we said there were, it came to be.

Yet our words could undo nothing here,
even the things we brought to be.

February 2016, Ürümchi

Written by: Tahir Hamut Izgil

Source: https://www.asymptotejournal.com

Where The Red Ferns Grow – A POEM

Walking along the lake shores thinking of everything, anything, and nothing. The heat bearing down upon me like the sun had grown a mouth, and the mouth was wide open with swords of fire jumping out, torching, and scorching everything in its path. As I walked out into the lake, I felt rejuvenated as I splashed water all over my body, not even caring that my clothes were getting soaked. I just wanted the intense heat to stop its torture, at least for a while. Out of the lake, I walked, all the while wringing the water from my hair and clothing. I had a date with my soaker tub as soon as I arrived home. The water from the lake felt soothing, but the fish smell was overpowering. I have always loved this lake and all its trees and plants with such beautiful foliage.

I sat for a moment underneath a tree, just gazing and allowing my eyes to unwrap all the beauty that surrounded me. This day was radiant as the trees had blossomed, the plants were so green, and there was the smell of flowers in the air. Then out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a fern; naturally, I walked over to inspect it and absorb its ambient colors. This fern had red veins and stems; it was an unexpected find. I always thought all ferns were green but wondered if there could be other colors mixed in their leaves. What a great find? With my eyes now searching through the other foliage, I found four more, and these beauties were red. They were gently tucked away and growing in the shaded moist, wet, rich soil that seemed to bite at my nostrils.

I was so happy to have walked along the lake shore this day and to find something so fresh and almost enchanting that it would make me take my walks here more often. The time soon came for me to head home, and as I beheld the beauty once again, I was sure of one thing, Peace, beauty, and tranquility reside at this lake. So much more than one could ever know. It’s found down by the lake where the Red Ferns grow!

 

 

Written by: Jasmine Parker ©

Photo credit: Yahoo.com/images

At Least It’s Thursday – A Poem

It may not be Friday

but at least it’s Thursday.

Monday is four days away

I sit at my desk and ponder

It feels good to work on Thursdays.

 

 

Written by: Jasmine Parker ©

Photo credit: Yahoo.com/images

Oscar Wilde – Flower Of Love – A Poem

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common
clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the
larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without
name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of
Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre’s strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in
mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the
dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? –
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is
past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the
root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God’s own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in
wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better than the poet’s crown of bays.

Source: https://www.poemhunter.com

“Walk a Little Slower, Daddy” – A Poem

“Walk a little slower, Daddy,”
said the little twins so small.
We’re following in your footsteps,
and we don’t want to fall.

Sometimes your steps are very fast,
sometimes they’re hard to view;
so walk a little slower Daddy,
for you are leading two.

Someday when we’re all grown up,
You’re what we want to be,
We will have our own children,
Following our footsteps, you see.

And we would want to lead just right,
and know that we were true;
So walk a little slower Daddy,
for we must follow you.

source:https://holidayvault.com/

Photo:Yahoo.com/images