shore birds scurry,
evading rolling surf,
like playful kids.
Scurry [Haiku]
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Category Archives: poem
“On this wondrous sea” (4) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]
On this wondrous sea
Sailing silently,
Ho! Pilot, ho!
Knowest thou the shore
Where no breakers roar --
Where the storm is o'er?
In the peaceful west
Many the sails at rest --
The anchors fast --
Thither I pilot thee --
Land Ho! Eternity!
Ashore at last!
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“A learned man came to me once” by Stephen Crane [w/ Audio]
A learned man came to me once.
He said, "I know the way, -- come."
And I was overjoyed at this.
Together we hastened.
Soon, too soon, were we
Where my eyes were useless,
And I knew not the ways of my feet.
I clung to the hand of my friend;
But at last he cried, "I am lost."
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Ostrich [Lyric Poem]
"Oh, beware the trotting Ostrich!"
I'd never, ever have thought which
Would be a real concern for me,
As I sit in cafes and libraries.
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“I shall go back again to the bleak shore” by Edna St. Vincent Millay [w/ Audio]
I shall go back again to the bleak shore
And build a little shanty on the sand,
In such a way that the extremest band
Of brittle seaweed will escape my door
But by a yard or two; and nevermore
Shall I return to take you by the hand;
I shall be gone to what I understand,
And happier than I ever was before.
The love that stood a moment in your eyes,
The words that lay a moment on your tongue,
Are one with all that in a moment dies,
A little under-said and over-sung.
But I shall find the sullen rocks and skies
Unchanged from what they were when I was young.
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Pillbox Bunker [Tanka]
pillbox bunker from
a war a lifetime ago
sits in a field.
what the farmer must think
as he plants around it.
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“A Minor Bird” by Robert Frost [w/ Audio]
I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;
Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.
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“Autumn Within” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [w/ Audio]
It is autumn; not without,
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.
Birds are darting through the air,
Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
Save within my lonely breast.
There is silence: the dead leaves
Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves
Comes no murmur from the mill.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 