autumn afternoon: swollen clouds cut the light, it looks like sundown.
Monsoon Autumn [Haiku]
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Tag Archives: poetry
O Captain! My Captain by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red!
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up -- for you the flag is flung -- for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths -- for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here, Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that one the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores! and sing, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
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Hulk Limerick
There was an Anger Management counselor who, truth be told, was kind of an amateur. His schedule planner didn't know the name "Banner." So, for his new place, he hired a nerd.
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In Flanders Fields by John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
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Taoist Limerick
Once upon a time, there was a wise, old Taoist priest
who got the least from the most & the most from the least.
If he offered a snack,
you'd be bursting your slacks,
but expect empty plates when he'd call for a feast.
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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost [w/ Audio]
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
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Typhoon Trap [Rubāʿiyāt Stanza Variation]
Trapped on the island by typhoon. It's evening dark, though at high noon. The waves are wild and still rising. So, ferries won't be running soon. The few streets there are lie silent, but - seaside - the winds whip violent. We hide inside a bungalow, and hope it's fixed firmer than my tent. One 's always where it's most remote when they cancel all ferryboats: where there're too many thoughts to think, and few distractive antidotes.
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The Tiger by William Blake [w/ Audio]
Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet? What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
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Distant Divergence [Haiku]
under dark clouds; yon hills at once bombarded with light- & rainbands.
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The Color Burden [Haiku]
branches hang strong
against the dense clusters
of yellow trumpets.
