Summer Rain


50167-its-raining-its-pouring-illustration

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.

Prayer


Cima_da_Conegliano,_God_the_Father

A man was praying to God.

He said, “God!?”

God responded, “Yes?”

The man said, “Can I ask a question?”

“Go right ahead,” God said.

“God, what is a million years to you?”

God said, “A million years to me is only a second.”

“Hmmmm…” the man pondered.

Then he asked, “God, what is a million dollars worth to you?”

God said: “A million dollars to me is as a penny.”

So the man said, “God, can I have a penny?”

And God cheerfully said, “Sure!! … just a second.”

Hundred.


A thousand books my library
Contains;
And all are primed, it seems to me
With brains.
Mine are so few I scratch in thought
My head;
For just a hundred of the lot
I’ve read.

A hundred books, but of the best,
I can
With wisdom savour and digest
And scan.
Yet when afar from kin and kith
In nooks
Of quietness I’m happy with
Sweet books.

So as nine hundred at me stare
In vain,
My lack I’m wistfully aware
Of brain;
Yet as my leave of living ends,
With looks
Of love I view a hundred friends,
My books.

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The Joke.


Knipsel

The harridan who holds the inn
At which I toss a pot,
Is old and uglier than sin,–
I’m glad she knows me not.
Indeed, for me it’s hard to think,
Although my pow’s like snow,
She was the lass so fresh and pink
I courted long ago.
I wronged her, yet it’s sadly true
She wanted to be wronged:
They mostly do, although ’tis you,
The male bloke who is thonged.
Well, anyway I left her then
To sail across the sea,
And no doubt she had other men,
And soon lost sight of me.
So now she is a paunchy dame
And mistress of the inn,
With temper tart and tounge to blame,
Moustache and triple chin.
And though I have no proper home
Contentedly I purr,
And from my whiskers wipe the foam,
–Glad I did not wed her.
Yet it’s so funny sitting here
To stare into her face;
And as I raise my mug of beer
I dream of our disgrace.
And so I come and come each day
To more and more enjoy
The joke–that fifty years away
I was her honey boy.

The Busy Man


If you want to get a favor done
by some obliging friend,
And want a promise, safe and sure,
on which you may depend,

Don’t go to him who always has
much leisure time to plan,
If you want your favor done,
just ask the busy man

The man with leisure never has
a moment he can spare,
He’s always “putting off” until
his friends are in despair

But he whose every waking hour
is crowded full of work
Forgets the art of wasting time,
he cannot stop to shirk

So when you want a favor done,
and want it right away,
Got to the man who constantly
works twenty hours a day

He’ll find a moment somewhere,
that has no other use
And help you, while the idle man
is framing an excuse

HelpingHand

When the children come home


Knipsel

On a lonely selection far out in the West
An old woman works all the day without rest,
And she croons, as she toils ‘neath the sky’s glassy dome,
`Sure I’ll keep the ould place till the childer come home.’

She mends all the fences, she grubs, and she ploughs,
She drives the old horse and she milks all the cows,
And she sings to herself as she thatches the stack,
`Sure I’ll keep the ould place till the childer come back.’

It is five weary years since her old husband died;
And oft as he lay on his deathbed he sighed
`Sure one man can bring up ten children, he can,
An’ it’s strange that ten sons cannot keep one old man.’

Whenever the scowling old sundowners come,
And cunningly ask if the master’s at home,
`Be off,’ she replies, `with your blarney and cant,
Or I’ll call my son Andy; he’s workin’ beyant.’

`Git out,’ she replies, though she trembles with fear,
For she lives all alone and no neighbours are near;
But she says to herself, when she’s like to despond,
That the boys are at work in the paddock beyond.

Ah, none of her children need follow the plough,
And some have grown rich in the city ere now;
Yet she says: `They might come when the shearing is done,
And I’ll keep the ould place if it’s only for one.’

Dawn in Upper Egypt


giza101
The feet of the Gods are but half withdrawn;
The Colour fringes their garments’ hem,
And the stones of the desert remember them.

Where the white mists enfold each hill
Lingers their brooding presence still;
Still, though the glory of Thebes be done,
The twin Colossi salute the sun.

Lure on lure at the break of morn
The earth lies fair as the earth was born,
And the old Gods walk in the mist and the dew
Of an ancient splendour for ever new.

Books, words, wisdom


boekenwijsheid

Paper, ink and thought
Fiction and reality
Passion and purpose
Poetry and prose
Map and drawing

Monographs and periodicals
Card catalog and bar code

Reading and research
Pleasure and knowledge
Wonder of language,
The power of words.

Books create
the wise man,
they educate
the sage;
the erudite
strops his
intellect
with the turn
of every
page.

Life Is Changing and And Through It All I Have Learned


wis

I’ve learned that no matter what happens,
or how bad it seems today, life does go on,
and it will be better tomorrow.

I’ve learned that people will forget what you said,
people will forget what you did,
but people will never forget how you made them feel.

I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person
by the way he or she handles these three things:
a rainy day, lost luggage,
and tangled Christmas tree lights.

I’ve learned that regardless of the differences
you have with the people in your life,
you’ll miss them when they’re gone.

I’ve learned that making a “living”
is not the same thing as making a “life.”

I’ve learned that life sometimes
gives you a second chance.

I’ve learned that you shouldn’t go through life
with a catcher’s mitt on both hands.
You need to be able to throw something back.

I’ve learned that if you pursue happiness,
it will elude you.

But if you focus on your family, your friends,
the needs of others,your work and doing the very best you can,
happiness will find you.

I’ve learned that whenever I decide something
with an open heart,
I usually make the right decision.

I’ve learned that even when I have pains,
I don’t have to be one.

I’ve learned that every day you should
reach out and touch someone.
People love that human touch —
holding hands, a warm hug,
or just a friendly pat on the back.

I’ve learned that you should
pass this on to someone you care about.
Sometimes they just need a little something
to make them smile.

I’ve learned that I still have a lot to learn.

To my kids


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I can read in red. I can read in blue.
I can read in pickle color too.
I can read in bed, and in purple. and in brown.
I can read in a circle and upside down!
I can read with my left eye. I can read with my right.
I can read Mississippi with my eyes shut tight!

There are so many things you can learn about.
But…you’ll miss the best things
If you keep your eyes shut.
The more that you read, the more things you will know
The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go.

If you read with your eyes shut you’re likely to find
That the place where you’re going is far, far behind
SO…that’s why I tell you to keep your eyes wide.
Keep them wide open…at least on one side.

 

Slowing our steps in the forest


forest

Credit Picture : Sheila Kuhn

Walking along, a community together
slowing our steps, the forest before us
spending time, lingering there
Open to what the creator will show us
gifts of this moment to share
Entering in, deeper and deeper
the pond and its treasure made known
An expanse of water, the reeds and the rushes
the artistry of our maker’s brush
Trees and moss, the ferns and the oak leaves
the crunch of the branches, the rocks underfoot
Sharing the day, the time and the fellowship
slowing our walk, in union with you

Ralphie will understand…


They meet after months and yet
The time melts away
And they are back in the swing
Ready to banter and bait
To play off one against the other
Of easy laughter and witty repartee
Easy smiles and quick jabs
To while away to hours
And drink in life again
As they do, as old friends do
With relish and a tall tale or two

True_Friendship_by_kimcats

…block…


typewriter

I’ve never known what I take we understand is

writer’s block.

I can write well past eternity

unless unless

unless unless

Unless

I’m not grabbed by an idea or until I grab hold.

And I’m well past midnight-stiff, startled, appalled.

That I’ve grabbed hold and

shaped and crafted

and exulted

six hundred six thousand six hundred thousand times

before

one time one time one time

one time….

No matter.

Is this what writers fear?

It scares me shot through to a place of

persistent, low-grade, three-a.m. terror.

Because my commitment is to write every day,

write something meaningful to me,

I do lie in bed many nights (as this one)

with an anxiety dreadfully real and

dull-pounding.

Yet even as I know and as I say

“How absurd!”

(and I do say it, I do pronounce it)

I know that come sun (or morning fog)

I’ll have my idea.

Just now, I don’t.

And I’m shot-though terror.

Unseen


Hundreds of thousands visit online
Those who chose to join not.

Still hundreds more who took the time
To fill out the data, post info and sign
Their pledge to conform to the rules.

Somehow surviving, the twenty plus Reverse.
Their choice is choose not to reveal who they are.
They lurk and rework in a manner perverse
Writing God only knows what from afar.

What attraction holds them to be
either poet or reader,
less a need to communicate
or express, not exist?
Left to dwell in anonymity?
A choice, a good reason? Mystery.

White Witch


witchO brothers mine, take care! Take care!
The great white witch rides out to-night.
Trust not your prowess nor your strength,
Your only safety lies in flight;
For in her glance there is a snare,
And in her smile there is a blight.

The great white witch you have not seen?
Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth,
Like nursery children you have looked
For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth;
But no, not so; the witch appears
In all the glowing charms of youth.

Her lips are like carnations, red,
Her face like new-born lilies, fair,
Her eyes like ocean waters, blue,
She moves with subtle grace and air,
And all about her head there floats
The golden glory of her hair.

But though she always thus appears
In form of youth and mood of mirth,
Unnumbered centuries are hers,
The infant planets saw her birth;
The child of throbbing Life is she,
Twin sister to the greedy earth.

And back behind those smiling lips,
And down within those laughing eyes,
And underneath the soft caress
Of hand and voice and purring sighs,
The shadow of the panther lurks,
The spirit of the vampire lies.

For I have seen the great white witch,
And she has led me to her lair,
And I have kissed her red, red lips
And cruel face so white and fair;
Around me she has twined her arms,
And bound me with her yellow hair.

I felt those red lips burn and sear
My body like a living coal;
Obeyed the power of those eyes
As the needle trembles to the pole;
And did not care although I felt
The strength go ebbing from my soul.

Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs,
And heard your laughter loud and gay,
And in your voices she has caught
The echo of a far-off day,
When man was closer to the earth;
And she has marked you for her prey.

She feels the old Antaean strength
In you, the great dynamic beat
Of primal passions, and she sees
In you the last besieged retreat
Of love relentless, lusty, fierce,
Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.

O, brothers mine, take care! Take care!
The great white witch rides out to-night.
O, younger brothers mine, beware!
Look not upon her beauty bright;
For in her glance there is a snare,
And in her smile there is a blight.

Foto : Sheila

Its funny sometimes


Its funny sometimes,
how the little things matter,
how we listen to gossip,
and mindless chatter

Its funny sometimes,
how we stress for no reason,
we feel down on a sunday,
or we change with each season

Its funny sometimes,
how we can feel so alone,
wanting someone to visit,
wanting someone to phone

Its funny sometimes,
how we just need a hug,
to scootch up on the sofa,
and cuddle and snug

Its funny sometimes,
when things get us down,
always looking at the floor,
always showing a frown,

Its funny sometimes,
if we just lift our heads,
look at the world,
and smile instead

Embrace every meeting,
enjoy every talk,
sharing those special moments,
laughing together on a nice long walk.

Open our eyes,
and take in every sight,
theres no time for sadness,
its time to fight!

Its funny sometimes,
that everything is fine,
and the people who love you,
have been right here the whole time.

Lullaby


Now the day is done,
Now the shepherd sun
Drives his white flocks from the sky;
Now the flowers rest
On their mother’s breast,
Hushed by her low lullaby.

Now the glowworms glance,
Now the fireflies dance,
Under fern-boughs green and high;
And the western breeze
To the forest trees
Chants a tuneful lullaby.

Now ‘mid shadows deep
Falls blessed sleep,
Like dew from the summer sky;
And the whole earth dreams,
In the moon’s soft beams,
While night breathes a lullaby.

Now, birdlings, rest,
In your wind-rocked nest,
Unscared by the owl’s shrill cry;
For with folded wings
Little Brier swings,
And singeth your lullaby.