Have you ever contemplated why the human species sometimes does such destructive things? I have. In fact, I have, enough to write a poem about it. we're so inventive, creative, and resourceful, yet we still do so many things to the earth that let's us be so innovative. I've thought a lot about that earth, too. We need to make the conscience decision to appreciate and help it - I realize that writing poetry won't do that, but it will certainly enrich the lives of those who live here, and maybe inspire someone to make a change. I know poetry does that for me. So here you are, "Graceful is the Ocean" a poem from me to the environment.

Graceful is the Ocean

Graceful

Is the ocean

As it  twirls through endless waves

Gawky

Are the fisherman

As they tumble through rods, nets, and other toxic gear

Regal

Are the mountains

As they gaze upon the worlds below

Spiteful

Are the workers

Who fall through miles smokey building built upon the icy tops

Caring

Are the tree-tops

As they soar with birds and run with deer

Reckless

Are the Loggers

As they tear down leaf-green hopes from the sky whilst still with both feet firmly positioned in the soil, as if they were afraid they would walk away by the end of their work.

Early in the Morning

Good morning! I think the early morn' is my favorite time of day - everything seem so fresh, and everyone around me seems wide awake and ready for a great day. I've always liked slightly windy mornings, and although that doesn't happen too often, I now have a new swing and I'm able to create my own swift wind in the chirping, bright morning. Now when I say everyone around me is wide awake, I'm usually talking about the birds and other animals, because most people that I know are horribly sleepy morning heads. Dedicated to this special morning, I'm posting a beautiful poem by Li-Young Lee

Early in the Morning

While the long grain is softening

in the water, gurgling

over a low stove flame,

the salted Winter Vegetable is sliced

for breakfast, before the birds,

my mother glides an ivory comb

through her hair, heavy

and black as a calligrapher's ink. 

She sits at the foot of the bed.

My father watches, listens for

the music of a comb 

against hair.

My mother combs,
pulls her hair back
tighter, rolls it
around two fingers, pins 
in a bun to the back of her head.
For half a hundred years she has done this.
My father likes to see it like this.
He says it is kempt.

But I know
it is because of the way
my mother's hair falls
when he pulls the pins out.
Easily, like the curtains
when they untie them in the evening

Not Really

Good morning, and happy September! But why is it September? Why did we decide on months? Why not Gargalides to tell what time of year it is? It could be Gargalide Three if you wanted it to be. Is it really September? Things are not always what they seem - Sometimes you think everything around you is changing, although, really, you are the one changing.
A poem that I have written about this strange matter itself, here is "Not Really":

Not Really
The crisp is not so crisp
The grass is not so green
Is the air more than just a wisp?
Well, not really.
The ripple isn't water
The mist is more than air
Are the pages getting longer?
Well, not really.

However, there is a certain reason it is September. Just saying.

To The River

Edgar Allen Poe is a classic. His work never gets old, so here I am, sharing some more of it.


To The River
Fair river! in they bright, clear flow 
Of crystal, wandering water,
Tough art an emblem of the flow
Of beauty - the unhidden heart -
The playful maziness of art
In old Alberto's daughter;

But when within they wave she looks -
Which glistens then, and trembles -
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in my heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies -
They heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.

   -Edgar Allen Poe

Frozen Poems

I'm not usually into writing love poems, but this one just hit me after watching the Disney movie Frozen - it's inspired by Anna and Kristoff. Enjoy! 

Worth The While

She laughs

It's twirling

Like her eyes

Their howls

Ringing

Never lies

He winks

It's quiet

Like his smile

But if you stick

It's worth the while

And, a bonus! Very obviously about the scene in the movie where Ana and Kristoff fall from a snowy cliff.

Sled Drop

Falling

Falling

Into snow

Hanging

Hanging

Let it go

It's like a pillow

Soft and smooth

My hair's now white

We've gotta move

HAZE by Carl Sandburg

 KEEP a red heart of memories

Under the great gray rain sheds of the sky,

Under the open sun and the yellow gloaming embers.
Remember all paydays of lilacs and songbirds;
All starlights of cool memories on storm paths.

Out of this prairie rise the faces of dead men.
They speak to me. I can not tell you what they say.

Other faces rise on the prairie.
 They are the unborn. The future.

Yesterday and to-morrow cross and mix on the skyline
The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets. One waits.

In the yellow dust of sunsets, in the meadows of vermilion eight o’clock June nights … the dead men and the unborn children speak to me … I can not tell you what they say … you listen and you know.

I don’t care who you are, man:
I know a woman is looking for you
and her soul is a corn-tassel kissing a south-west wind.
(The farm-boy whose face is the color of brick-dust, is calling the cows; he will form the letter X with crossed streams of milk from the teats; he will beat a tattoo on the bottom of a tin pail with X’s of milk.)

I don’t care who you are, man:
I know sons and daughters looking for you
And they are gray dust working toward star paths
And you see them from a garret window when you laugh
At your luck and murmur, “I don’t care.”

I don’t care who you are, woman:
I know a man is looking for you
And his soul is a south-west wind kissing a corn-tassel.

(The kitchen girl on the farm is throwing oats to the chickens and the buff of their feathers says hello to the sunset’s late maroon.)

I don’t care who you are, woman:
I know sons and daughters looking for you
And they are next year’s wheat or the year after hidden in the dark and loam.

My love is a yellow hammer spinning circles in Ohio, Indiana. My love is a redbird shooting flights in straight lines in Kentucky and Tennessee. My love is an early robin flaming an ember of copper on her shoulders in March and April. My love is a graybird living in the eaves of a Michigan house all winter. Why is my love always a crying thing of wings?

On the Indiana dunes, in the Mississippi marshes, I have asked: Is it only a fishbone on the beach?
Is it only a dog’s jaw or a horse’s skull whitening in the sun? Is the red heart of man only ashes? Is the flame of it all a white light switched off and the power house wires cut?

Why do the prairie roses answer every summer? Why do the changing repeating rains come back out of the salt sea wind-blown? Why do the stars keep their tracks? Why do the cradles of the sky rock new babies?

The Arrow and the Song

This poem is called The Arrow and the Song, and it's by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I chose this poem because lately I've been feeling extra appreciative about having the friends I do. I don't have crowds of them, but it's about quality - not quantity. One true friend is better than a million fake ones.




The Arrow and the Song
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to Earth, I knew not where
For so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to Earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.