Public Posts

Come with me, my friend,
to a land far away,
where we return to our youth,
playing games every day.

A place, we will love,
above all the rest.
Where friends are friends,
unlike all of the rest.

There is no hatred,
where we will soon go,
just love for others,
as we live out life's show.

Are you ready to,
take the next move?
To play like a child,
with nothing to lose.

From the beginning,
when light first arose,
writing the words,
changing it to prose.

When did it start?
Oh, how long ago,
when the World was right,
for it was our show.

Our turn to dance,
until the cows came home,
or dance with others,
or dance alone.

Frustrations,
may abide, when
we guess at our
thoughts of living.

     THE YELLOW VIOLET

When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird's warble know,
The yellow violet's modest bell
Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming
Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,[Page 16]
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,
When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,
Thy early smile has stayed my walk;
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried.
I copied them—but I regret
That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
That made the woods of April bright.

William Cullen Bryant (1794 – 1878) was an American romantic poet, journalist, and long-time editor of the New York Evening Post. Born in Massachusetts, he started his career as a lawyer but showed an interest in poetry early in his life. He soon relocated to New York and took up work as an editor at various newspapers. He became one of the most significant poets in early literary America and has been grouped among the fireside poets for his accessible, popular poetry. Wikipedia

Poem is in the public domain

Willow trees are fluttering,
Spring winds fly
across green meadows,
under a dappled sky.

Clouds, massive pillows,
slowly passing by,
comforting, this old son.
Another life to try.

"Only a dad, but he gives his all
To smooth the way for his children small,
Doing, with courage stern and grim,
The deeds that his father did for him.
This is the line that for him I pen,
Only a dad, but the best of men"

Last Stanza from Edgard Guest's Poem "Only a Dad" See complete poem

Just a thought
about Twilight.

Awaiting a sunny
day after all the rain.

A loss of memory,
A loss of love,
The pain, intense,
coming from above.

There are sometimes,
in this life we lead,
where reality feeds,
into a fantasy.

The sands trickle quickly,
through the hourglass flask,
as our life slowly expires,
just like any other daily task.

Time passes as we change,
to a more mature version of
our younger selves,
and here we are, once more.