Poetry

I am trying to assemble and post some of my own work, but it will be a slow process.
Until that great day satisfy yourself with some of my inspirations.*


Here's a Christmas poem by Frost that gets me every time:


Christmas Trees
by Robert Frost
"THE CITY had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city, 5
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind 10
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees. 15
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was. 20
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling. 25
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,
I said, “There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut, 30
You let me look them over.”

“You could look. But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few 35
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so. 40
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north.
He said, “A thousand.”
“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”
He felt some need of softening that to me: 45
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents 50
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools 55
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter. 60
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you here with a Merry Christmas."



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The Artist

Mr. T.
                bareheaded
                                                 In a soiled undershirt
his hair standing out,
                 on all sides
                                                 stood on his toes
heels together
                 arms gracefully
                                                 for the moment
curled above his head
                 Then he whirled about
                                                 bounded
into the air
                  and with an entrechat
                                                perfectly achieved
completed the figure.
                  My mother
                                                 taken by surprise
where she sat
                  in her invalid's chair
                                                 was left speechless.
Bravo! She cried at last
                  and clapped her hands.
                                                The man's wife
came from the kitchen:
                  What goes on here? she said.
                                                 But the show was over.
-William Carlos Williams



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There is something about a martini,
'Ere the dining and dancing begin,
To tell you the truth,
It is not the Vermouth,
I think that perhaps it's the Gin.
-Ogden Nash



**********

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right or wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
-long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame


as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald men's hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
-long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung


or as the seeing are the blind
and the robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common's rare and millstones float
-long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late


worms are the words but joy's the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts and thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
-time is a tree(this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough


-e e cummings
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* Disclaimer- I am not using any of these works by permission of the author or the publisher, however, I am not receiving any monetary gain for posting any of the above literature on my web page and would be glad to take them off should anyone official have a problem with that.

"There's no place like home."