Poetry

[Kazimer]

I thought this thread might be a good way for people to share the poems they have written or simply enjoy reading.


After the Rain
by connetta jean

I love an old gravel road
with numbers ( no name)
on hot summer evenings
still wet from the rain..
Where Deep in the silence
i hear not a sound
as nature is drinking
from A water soaked ground..
soon there’s a chatter
of birds in the trees..
shaking their feathers
as they hide nieth the leaves.
I park near the curve
Just to listen to things
like left over rain drops
falling after the rain..
Just looking at trees
and those things inbetween
after a late evening shower
is a heart warming thing…
as the warmth of the day
starts to rise from the ground..
i see fog is forming
and head back to town.
There’s nothing as peaceful
that i can name..
as the smells of a backroad
After the rain…

[Pier]

Originally Posted by Kazimer

I thought this thread might be a good way for people to share the poems they have written or simply enjoy reading.


After the Rain
by connetta jean

I love an old gravel road
with numbers ( no name)
on hot summer evenings
still wet from the rain..
Where Deep in the silence
i hear not a sound
as nature is drinking
from A water soaked ground..
soon there’s a chatter
of birds in the trees..
shaking their feathers
as they hide nieth the leaves.
I park near the curve
Just to listen to things
like left over rain drops
falling after the rain..
Just looking at trees
and those things inbetween
after a late evening shower
is a heart warming thing…
as the warmth of the day
starts to rise from the ground..
i see fog is forming
and head back to town.
There’s nothing as peaceful
that i can name..
as the smells of a backroad
After the rain…

Excellent poem!

Here's one by my favorite poet...


Rendezvous

By Ernestine Cobern Beyer

When Himself's behind his paper and
the childer sleepin' sound,
And the moon's a winkin' lantern
throwin' shadows all around,
Forsakin' fire and hearthstone, down
the Way of Dreams I start
To meet my darlin' truelove in a
corner of my heart.

His voice is like the west-wind when
it whispers low and sweet,
His words are like the poppies that be
growin' in the wheat.
I forget the bangin' shutters and the
candle's sleepy stare,
When I meet my laughin' truelove where
he's waitin' for me there.

When Himself has grown a-weary
in the cozy evening tide,
A ghost it is that follows him and
settles at his side.
I'll be so true and faithful that he'll
never know, shall he,
I go to meet the laughin' lad, the
lad he used to be!

[Kazimer]

The peace of wild things by Wendell Berry

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

[Friday13thAngel]

I agree so I joined in! God Bless you!

[Pier]

Originally Posted by Kazimer

The peace of wild things by Wendell Berry

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Another good one...
Do you have more?
This is much fun -
Poems galore!

[barbc]

Thank-you, this thread is an answer to prayer! Any brave people out there willing to share some they've written? I think this is kind of corny but it comes from the heart! God bless,


The Church

You make the holy from the every day,
Church father's footsteps illuminate the way.

Our Lord's Blood and Body, from common bread and wine,
Age-old marriage act mirrors Loving Union, Divine.

Glimpses of the Great High Priest are simply men, submitted,
Body of Christ formed from a crowd of people, committed,

The Sacred Dwelling of God, not just 4 walls and a steeple,
Christ's own Body formed from a group of faithful people,

Ordinary people gathered for a routine Sunday hour, is truly all of Heaven worshipping in God's Glory and Power,

God, You make the holy from the every day,
These rich traditions, deep and ancient mysteries,
early fathers' footsteps, illuminate the Way.

[Ghoti]

A poem I wrote for my mother on Mother's Day, about 15 years back (with apologies to Howard Johnson):

[ahem-hem-hem...]

M is for the many things gave me,
U is for the hunderwear you warshed;
D is for the diapers wot you changed me,
D is for the doo-doos in them, squarshed;
E is for the 'eadaches wot you suffered,
R is for your face so very Red,
Put 'em all together, they spells "Mudder",
And that's better than a kick upside the head!

[b_justb]

Written after an experience while in Adoration.

29 March 2007

Adoration

At a time not chosen by me and in a place I would not normally go; I met the Master. I knew it was Him, but I did not realize it was Him. Not yet. The quiet softly grew into silence. My mind raced.

Why is this so hard?

Stop.

Why is this so hard?

Stop.

Why is this so hard?

It’s not. Now you know it’s Me.

Time stops: There is nothing to hide behind. Finally, I know Him.

Dim light, tear soaked eyes, knees aching on that old cold Chapel floor: Time starts.

I knew Him once. If that is all I ever get it is enough.

[barbc]

Originally Posted by Ghoti

A poem I wrote for my mother on Mother's Day, about 15 years back (with apologies to Howard Johnson):

[ahem-hem-hem...]

M is for the many things gave me,
U is for the hunderwear you warshed;
D is for the diapers wot you changed me,
D is for the doo-doos in them, squarshed;
E is for the 'eadaches wot you suffered,
R is for your face so very Red,
Put 'em all together, they spells "Mudder",
And that's better than a kick upside the head!

Thanks, love it!! What's the accent?

[Kazimer]

What We Want
by Linda Pastan

What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things
we thought we wanted:
a face, a room, an open book
and these things bear our names--
now they want us.
But what we want appears
in dreams, wearing disguises.
We fall past,
holding out our arms
and in the morning
our arms ache.
We don't remember the dream,
but the dream remembers us.
It is there all day
as an animal is there
under the table,
as the stars are there
even in full sun.

[Ghoti]

Originally Posted by barbc

Thanks, love it!! What's the accent?

Sort of a cross between Newfoundlander and generic comedy British (like Two Ronnies).

Glad you enjoyed. Mom nearly peed laughing.

[Friday13thAngel]

Originally Posted by barbc

Thank-you, this thread is an answer to prayer! Any brave people out there willing to share some they've written? I think this is kind of corny but it comes from the heart! God bless,


The Church

You make the holy from the every day,
Church father's footsteps illuminate the way.

Our Lord's Blood and Body, from common bread and wine,
Age-old marriage act mirrors Loving Union, Divine.

Glimpses of the Great High Priest are simply men, submitted,
Body of Christ formed from a crowd of people, committed,

The Sacred Dwelling of God, not just 4 walls and a steeple,
Christ's own Body formed from a group of faithful people,

Ordinary people gathered for a routine Sunday hour, is truly all of Heaven worshipping in God's Glory and Power,

God, You make the holy from the every day,
These rich traditions, deep and ancient mysteries,
early fathers' footsteps, illuminate the Way.

This is beautiful. You wrote this yourself?

[barbc]

yes, thank-you! I was away from the Church a long time, it was like I was in a deep blindness, I'm definitely not a poet!

[Kazimer]

The Grey Monk
by William Blake

"I die, I die!" the Mother said,
"My children die for lack of bread.
What more has the merciless Tyrant said?"
The Monk sat down on the stony bed.

The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side,
His hands and feet were wounded wide,
His body bent, his arms and knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees.

His eye was dry; no tear could flow:
A hollow groan first spoke his woe.
He trembled and shudder'd upon the bed;
At length with a feeble cry he said:

"When God commanded this hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight,
He told me the writing I wrote should prove
The bane of all that on Earth I lov'd.

My Brother starv'd between two walls,
His Children's cry my soul appalls;
I mock'd at the rack and griding chain,
My bent body mocks their torturing pain.

Thy father drew his sword in the North,
With his thousands strong he marched forth;
Thy Brother has arm'd himself in steel
To avenge the wrongs thy Children feel.

But vain the Sword and vain the Bow,
They never can work War's overthrow.
The Hermit's prayer and the Widow's tear
Alone can free the World from fear.

For a Tear is an intellectual thing,
And a Sigh is the sword of an Angel King,
And the bitter groan of the Martyr's woe
Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow.

The hand of Vengeance found the bed
To which the Purple Tyrant fled;
The iron hand crush'd the Tyrant's head
And became a Tyrant in his stead."

[Kazimer]

Pot Roast
by Mark Strand

I gaze upon the roast,
that is sliced and laid out
on my plate
and over it
I spoon the juices
of carrot and onion.
And for once I do not regret
The passage of time.

I sit by a window
that looks
on the soot-stained brick of buildings
and do not care that I see
no living thing—not a bird,
not a branch in bloom,
not a soul moving
in the rooms
behind the dark panes.
These days when there is little
to love or to praise
one could do worse
than yield
to the power of food.
So I bend

to inhale
the steam that rises
from my plate, and I think
of the first time
I tasted a roast
like this.
It was years ago
in Seabright,
Nova Scotia;
my mother leaned
over my dish and filled it
and when I finished
filled it again.
I remember the gravy,
its odor of garlic and celery,
and sopping it up
with pieces of bread.

And now
I taste it again.
The meat of memory.
The meat of no change.
I raise my fork in praise,