Poetry Friday – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Hey everyone! Hope you had a wonderful 4^th of July weekend, filled with lots of good food and fireworks. Mine was super busy, which is why there was no post last Friday or at all this week. I’ve had things going on left and right, all on top of trying to get ready to head to New York City for a couple of days starting tomorrow. It should be a good time. The whole family is going. My brother is taking me to see “Avenue Q” for my birthday and my mother apparently got us tickets to see “The Daily Show.” Hopefully I will have some time next week, after we get back, to write about the trip.

So, I thought for today I would do something a little patriotic for the 4^th of July. Yes I know this would have made more sense last Friday, but stay with me on this. This poem was introduced to me by my mother back in Junior High. We had to submit a collection of poems that fell into certain criteria. I was looking for one that told a story, which is when my mother suggested this one to me. It is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere. It is a decently long poem but worth the read. Have a great weekend and enjoy the poem.

The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,–
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,–
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~

Short Story Saturday

Wow, talk about slacking. Two weeks in a row with no update. Need to get on the ball, we shall see about that. I always promise to keep up with it and then completely fail. So no promises this time, but I will do my best to update when I am not job hunting, working, hanging out with friends, working on other writing projects. Hmmm this is going to be harder than I thought.

Speaking of other writing projects, this week I decided to change it up a bit. Instead of posting a poem that I wrote or one that someone else wrote, I’ve decided to share part of a short story that I’ve been working on. Well I take that back, it is one I worked on a couple months ago and have shelved for the moment. Currently working on another, but that isn’t fit to see the light of day. Then again, not sure this one is either. Writing stories is a fairly new concept to me. Growing up I spent more time writing English or history papers for school than I did writing short stories. I did tell a lot of stories and not the kind to get me out of trouble. Well not always, there were still a few of those. However, my imagination growing up was always running and I’ve always had some sort of story in my head. The problem is getting it down on the page. I’ve had several story ideas that I’ve been thinking about since probably sophomore year in college, but have never put them down on paper. It always seems something comes up. Until recently that is. When you are semi-unemployed (aka part time) you find other activities to spend your time on, when you aren’t job hunting. This activity for me was writing. I was inspired by my friend Zoe, who I write the other blog with, and her husband, both who have been writing for many many years.

Anyway, enough about all that let’s move on to the story. This is a very very very very rough draft of an intro. There are still some bugs and plot items to iron out, but you have to start somewhere. Right? I am sure I’ve mixed tenses and misspelled words. There are probably some fragments as well, but it might just be how I write.  So be kind in your comments. Suggestions are welcome, but just remember it is just a rough draft. Enjoy.

 

Untitled Short Story

     It must be a Tuesday. I always hated Tuesdays and as the rain pounded down on the windows of my parent’s house, this Tuesday would be no different. Thunder rolled in the distance as I walked through the silent house. On a normal day the house would be filled with the shouting of my parents, but not today.

The funeral had been nice. Their friends all stood up to say something nice about them. The pastor said some passing words and I just sat there in silence. Everyone just assumed it was because I was so distraught over my parents death, the thing is I could have cared less. The moment I turned eighteen I left that hell hole and never looked back. There were a few Christmases or Thanksgivings that I came home for, but the result was always the same. I was never good enough for them. Anything I did was either wrong or not enough. They weren’t afraid to tell me either. I could have won the lottery, paid off all their expenses and I still would have done something wrong. Then in the times they weren’t yelling at me, they were at each other’s throats. Some household to grow up in.

It wasn’t all bad. There were some happy moments as there always is in any sad story. It was always nice when they put aside their differences and would attend my little league games or a band concert. There were a few birthdays that they spent what little they had to buy me the latest gadget or throw a party for me and my friends. Unfortunately, those days were few and far between. The day after, the yelling would start again. How they lasted 35 years together, I will never know. But they were together until the end, when their car went screaming off the road. No one really knows why or how my father ended up driving off that bridge. My theory is he finally got tired of listening to my mother in one of their long bouts and just finally decided to call it quits. We will never know.

All this came flooding back to me as I stood in the quiet house listening to the storm roll in. I really hate Tuesdays and this one was going to get much worse before the night ended.

By Ten that evening, the storm was in full swing. I sat in the living room listing to the rain slam against the skylights as a fire crackled in the fireplace. Every now and then a flash of lightening would light up the room, making the shadows dance across the walls. To be honest, it was kind of spooky.

The thunder continued to roll as I sat looking over my parent’s assets. For not having a lot of money, they were pretty well off. They had very little debt and the house was basically paid off. Makes sense though, they had been living in it almost as long as they were married. They had bought the land cheap and built their one story ranch with 3 bedrooms and 2 baths. It was a nice house. Needed a bit of work here and there but nothing I couldn’t handle over the next couple of months. By then it would be ready to sell.

Until then I had to figure out what to do about my job in (pick a location, probably Chicago). It was a 7 hour drive to get back to my parents house. With gas prices continuing to go up the drive is not something I wanted to do every weekend. Not that my job was anything special. I majored in History during college, so the job market when I got out was not that great. So, I ended up landing a job in Corporate America as an office clerk. Like I said, not that exciting. But it paid the bills and kept myself moderately fed. Ramen is food right. Losing that job wouldn’t be the end of the world. Maybe I could just stay here for a few months and find something local for a bit. It could work.

By the time I had finished looking over my parent’s stuff it was almost midnight. It had been a long day and I really needed to get some sleep. Hopefully a good night’s rest would allow me some clarity in the morning about what to do now that my parents were gone. Although, with the storm raging on it might be a bit difficult, but trying didn’t hurt. Before making my way to the guest bed room, I went around the house checking all the doors. I started with the front door, checking the patio door in my parent’s old room and then finally the back patio door off the dinning/living room. As I made this final check I stopped to look out over the large back yard. The garden lanterns were glowing but otherwise it was pitch black. A flash of lightening lit it up for a brief moment allowing me to gaze out toward the expansive woods that butted up against our back yard. The image was haunting. I had spent some good times and some bad in those woods, trying to escape from my parents. Another flash of lightening and this time something strange caught my eye.

It must have been the fatigue setting in, but I could have sworn I saw a figure standing in the middle of the yard. This was strange since we are about a mile from the nearest neighbor and several miles from the nearest town. I waited for another flash, thinking that I was going insane. With the next flash I strained to look out through the rain at the spot in which I saw the dark shadow. Sure enough there it stood, silent and unmoving.

Must just be my imagination, just a log that has fallen in the middle of the yard. No one could possibly be out in this storm. Another flash of lightening and still the figure remained there. I threw open the sliding door and called out.

“Hello, is anyone there? I know you are out there. Please answer me.”

Silence. Only the sounds of the rain hitting the ground floated back to my ears as another flash of light filled the backyard. This time the figured had moved. A arm was now raised pointing directly at me and a low moan drifted over the low rumble of thunder.

Terrified I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight from under the sink. Throwing on a coat and a pair of old shoes I raced back toward the back patio. I shined the flashlight toward the spot where the figure had appeared each time. Nothing was there. Just grass. The rain pounded on my head as I began to scan the surrounding area, looking for anything resembling what I saw.

As my light passed over the tree line, I stopped dead in my tracks as my beam fell upon the dark specter. Once again the lightening illuminated the yard and I began walking toward the figure. Slowly I crept toward the tree line and was half way there when the yard was lit up again. This time the figure gestured for me to follow before turning and dissolving into the woods.

“Wait,” I cried out as I began to run. When I reached the tree line I tore into the woods with reckless abandon. Crashing through underbrush I scanned the path ahead of me. No sign of the person who so eerily beckoned me into the night. As I frantically searched my foot suddenly caught a protruding root and I went down. Hard.

I lay on the forest floor for what seemed like an eternity. The thunder continued to crash in the distance and the rain partially blocked by the trees beat down on my face. I laid there listening. Listening for any movement, but again there was only silence. Surly if anyone had come this way, even with the storm, you should be able to hear them. However, there was no sound other than my own heart beating inside my chest and the sounds of rain.

I pulled myself up, wincing as I began to walk. The fall had definitely taken a toll on my body. I made my way out of the woods and back to the yard. The rain grew heavier and the wind started to pick up. I decided to make a dash back to the house grimacing every step of the way. Once inside I made my way to the closest bath room. I peeled off my sopping wet and muddy clothing. I turned on the shower and then leaned against the sink to look at myself in the mirror as it began to fog with steam. There were several cuts on my arms and face. Nothing too major. My eyes looked as if they had aged rapidly over the last day and called for sleep. Quickly I jumped in and out of the shower, before making my way to the guest bedroom. Sleep, that is what I needed, just a bit of sleep.

Thoughts raced through my brain as I drifted off to sleep. Trying to grasp what I had seen tonight. The night wasn’t over yet and tonight was the night that I had my first dream of Joshua since I was fifteen.

Poetry Friday – The Journey

No, I am not talking about the band Journey so you can stop singing “Don’t Stop Believing.” Don’t deny it, you know you were.

Anyway, it feels like it has been forever since I’ve done one of these. Probably about two weeks, but what can I say? I’ve been busy with life. I hate it when that pesky thing gets in the way. But it has been a good couple of weeks. Memorial Day weekend I traveled back to Illinois to visit family and it was honestly a good time with some amazing food. Nothing kills a diet like good farm cooking, but it was so delicious I just couldn’t resist. I still lost weight that week, although it was only 0.4lbs. So, it was not the best week in weight loss history, but still a loss none the less.

My other project for the last week or so has been applying for jobs. Finally I have gotten some confidence back to apply for a few jobs. Hoping that one of them comes through for me. I could really use the money. I would love to start paying my college loans back, get a place of my own and look for a new car. Eventually things will start to fall into place. At least that is what I keep getting told. Just wish it would start sooner than later. Although I did finally meet the girl I’ve been talking to for the past couple weeks today, so life isn’t all bad.

Alright, on to today’s poems. Both of these poems were sent to me by my mother when I was in college having a rough semester. They helped then and have continued to help since. Anytime that I am feeling that life is crumbling around me and that I am going nowhere, I turn to these poems to give myself a little extra boost. The poems are both titled “The Journey.” The first one is by Mary Oliver, an American poet who has won both the Pulitzer and National Book Award in poetry. The second is by David Whyte, an English poet from across the pond. Who, as I just learned, has a degree in Marine Biology and has led expeditions in the Andes, Amazon, and Himalayas. Wow, I guess poetry can take you places. Although I sure the degree in marine biology has helped just a bit with his travels. Anyway, enjoy these poems. They are two of my favorites.

The Journey- Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road was full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save.

The Journey  – David Whyte

Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again

painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.

Sometimes everything
has to be
enscribed across
the heavens

so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.

Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that

small, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.

Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out

someone has written
something new
in the ashes
of your life.

You are not leaving
you are arriving.

Well This Is Awkward… Poetry Monday?

So as you can see there was no poetry Friday last week. I was so sure that after the end of the world on Saturday no one would notice that I hadn’t posted…. Haha who am I kidding I was just lazy and didn’t post anything. Although, the end of the world would have been a much better excuse.

Well I can’t really say that I was lazy. I did do a lot of work this past weekend. Friday I applied for a job, so fingers crossed on that one. I also started working out with my co-workers again and went to see the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. (I thought it was decent, although most people I have talked to thought it was lacking. To each his own I guess.)  Then on Saturday, my day started bright and early with a weight watchers meeting, followed by opening up where I work so that the Tea Party could use the facilities. Not my favorite day at work. But I guess everyone has the right to use the space. I just tried to keep my ears closed for the duration. Once I made it through that, it was up to Oxford to help a friend out by mowing his yard. That was an epic task. The mowing was only possible after my father had gone ahead of me and shortened the “grass” with a weed whacker; even then it was still tall. That evening I took time to enjoy sitting outside in the nice weather for awhile.

Sunday morning was another early day. Woke up and went with my mother and her friend to a weight watchers 5K walk. It was a lot of fun and the morning was nice, if not a little hot. My only complaint about the walk was the view as we walked. It started at a park so I thought it would be a nice walk through the park or something. This however was not the case. We walked along the street through past a lot of air port hangers and industrial looking buildings. It wasn’t until the last little bit before we turned around to go back to the park that we had a nice wooded path to walk along. Other than that it was a pleasant morning. The rest of the day was spent helping my father build a few wooden frames to make raised flower beds. Tonight’s project will be digging up the back yard to place the frames. It should be a good time.

Anyway, enough about my weekend, let’s get on to the poetry. I got help picking out this week’s selection from my friend Matt over at (site) . The first one is “Ozmandias” by Percy Shelley. It is a fabulous poem about a great ruler of the past (aka Ramesses the Great) and the fall of an empire. The second is “Prometheus” by Lord Byron who was a friend of Percy Shelley. Finally, although it is much too long to put on here, I would recommend you check out T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land.” All three of these poems are wonderful and I thank Matt for reminding me of them.  So enjoy. Hopefully there will be another “Poetry Friday” this coming Friday. However, I am leaving that day for a family reunion so it will all depend if I can get something put together by Thursday. Until then, enjoy the poems and have a wonderful week.

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away

~Percy Shelley, 1818~

Prometheus

TITAN! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity’s recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless.

Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill;
And the inexorable Heaven,
And the deaf tyranny of Fate,
The ruling principle of Hate,
Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refus’d thee even the boon to die:
The wretched gift Eternity
Was thine–and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,
But would not to appease him tell;
And in thy Silence was his Sentence,
And in his Soul a vain repentance,
And evil dread so ill dissembled,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,
In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit:
Thou art a symbol and a sign
To Mortals of their fate and force;
Like thee, Man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source;
And Man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence:
To which his Spirit may oppose
Itself–and equal to all woes,
And a firm will, and a deep sense,
Which even in torture can descry
Its own concenter’d recompense,
Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making Death a Victory.

~Lord Byron, 1816~

Poetry Friday – Some More Of My Own.

Today will be just a quick post for Poetry Friday. It has been a busy and somewhat lazy week for me. I know those words usually don’t go together but that’s how it feels. Worked several days this week, which is always wonderful, however, on the off days, there has been no motivation to do anything. At least the rain has stopped, which should have perked my mood up. That would have been the case if the temperature hadn’t sky rocketed into the 80s. I would like some happy medium please.

Anyway, today I am just going to put up a couple more of my own poems. Finally have my notebook in front of me again. Enjoy them and enjoy your weekend.

Untitled #1
I kick myself
when I think about
the time I lost
away from you.

And late at night
I close my eyes
and dream of you
by my side.

I wrap you up
inside my arms.
We snuggle close,
It keeps us warm.

Our fingers touch,
they interlock
and for a moment
my heart just stops.

You fall asleep,
I watch you there.
You take small breaths,
I stroke your hair.

Then I wake
and you aren’t there
All I am left with
is a memory and despair.

Untitled #2
The rain falls on me
out of the darken sky
The wind blows past me
like the days gone by.

Where is my life going
What does it mean?
Where is the water flowing
In its little stream?

To the sewer
To the ocean
Which one will it be
Which one will it be

For me.

~JMM~

Poetry Friday – Rudyard Kipling

I want to thank those who stopped by last week to read the poems that I posted. The positive response has given me confidence to post more. Unfortunately that won’t be today, as I’ve left my collection sitting on my desk at home. This is the problem with going out to write sometimes you just leave stuff behind. Don’t worry though I will post more next week.

This week I have decided to go with a poem by Rudyard Kipling. To be honest, I don’t know much about the writing of Kipling. In fact I was pretty convinced he had only written “The Jungle Book” and “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.” You can thank my K-12 education for that one, because I am sure those are the only two we read and it was probably only an excerpt of “The Jungle Book”. Don’t get me wrong, I knew he wrote more, just never read anything. It wasn’t until about 2 years ago that Kipling was reintroduced to me by a colleague of my mother who I knew pretty well. I was having a hard time with grad school, well life in general, and he sent me this poem as a kind of pick me up. I don’t know what it was about it that made me feel a bit better, but I am grateful for it. The poem was Rudyard Kipling’s “If” and it has been one of my favorites ever since. Enjoy.

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

~Rudyard Kipling 1910~

Well that is all for this week. One of these days I am going to get around to doing something other than Poetry Friday. I think I said that last week as well. If not I might just need to change the blog from “A bit of Randomness” to “A Bit of Poetry.” Looks like the rain is staying away for a day or two (at least in Ohio) I hope you all are able to get out and enjoy the sunshine. Have a great weekend everyone.

Poetry Friday – Some Of My Own

So after a couple of weeks of using different poets for Poetry Friday, I thought this week I would present a couple more of my own. It is only fair right. The whole reason I started Poetry Friday was to put a few of my works out there. As I’ve said, I am hoping to do this in order to build my confidence back up and possibly hear some reactions to the stuff that I write. Also, hoping that this might help with a dry spell that has lasted a year or so where nothing really has been written. Not sure why that is, but unfortunately it has been the case, just have not been inspired. Anyway, let’s get on to the poems for today.

The first one is one I wrote for a girlfriend senior year of college for Valentine’s Day. It was the best I could do being a poor college student headed off to grad school. Don’t worry, I also cooked her dinner. That was a little difficult considering I was living in a resident hall. I was lucky enough to have a little prep help from my father (much better cook than I am). But we ended up having a picnic in the middle of my dorm room.  I thought it was semi romantic.

Anyway, the next poem was written while I was in Luxembourg my Junior year. I was sitting in a church listening to an organ concert as this giant figure of Jesus dressed very ornately looked down upon me. It made me think a little, So when I got back to my room I wrote today’s second poem.

Finally, the last poem I am not really sure when I wrote. It is in my notebook that I got sophomore year of college so I am assuming it is around then. It is one of the first in the notebook so that is probably a good guess. Cannot remember why I wrote it, I was probably going through some seasonal depression or something. It is one of my favorites that I like when I look through the notebook, so I thought I would share.

All three poems are fairly short. Mine usually are. I have not mastered the long poem format yet.  I have one that is like 28 lines long but not sure how good it is. I might share that one down the line when I get desperate enough. I hope you all enjoy. One of these weeks I am going to have the time and motivation to write a post that isn’t poetry Friday for this blog. Need to read up on the news and find something to rant about or actually work on my short stories and put a piece of it up. We will see. Enjoy and I will see you all next week.

Two hearts
Two hearts unite
in the dark of night
Under a sea of blue.

Their hands clasp
deep breaths are grasped
my eyes completely on you.

A love to last
like the past
but a future burning bright

Which is why I’m glad
and not too sad
to be with you tonight.

In Church
I see you
Hanging up there
Head hung low
Staring back at me
Decorated in lace and gold.

But who were you
What did you live for
What did you die for
Are you not just a man
Just like me.

Thousands cry
Millions die
and there you are
Head hung low
Staring back at me.

Untitled for now
Lost in thought
The world surrounds me
In my dreams
I am drowning
Reality, reality hits me fast
Bringing me thoughts of the past
Leave me alone, let me be
Let me slip into another dream
Dreams are pleasant
Dreams can heal
But dreams can never…
Ever…
Be real.

Poetry Friday – Robert Service

The silence is broken after over a week of not posting anything. I was going to post a poem last Friday, but had a little incident while fishing that I was preoccupied with for most of Friday evening and the weekend. If you don’t read my other blog, which you should read (it can be found HERE), what happened was my phone took a dive into the lake while I was out fishing. I was able to retrieve said phone but unfortunately not before the screen fried itself. Luckily there was some type of insurance on it and I was able to replace it fairly cheap. I guess $168 is cheap right? None the less, this past Thursday I finally had a fully operational phone.

The other factor for not posting was work. I had a busy weekend helping with a few events at the VOALC. An amazing art exhibit opened and we had a wonderful reception Sunday afternoon. If you are in the West Chester area, you should check out the artwork. They are all works done by Joe Cox who is a Miami University alumnus and professor. There are an assortment of paintings, sketches, watercolors and sculptures. The exhibit is housed at The Miami University Voice of America Learning Center in West Chester, Ohio. The show should be up through June. Come check it out.  You can learn more about the art show and other events at the VOALC on the center’s website HERE.

Okay, I’ve complained about losing my phone, did some advertising for where I work, I guess I should get on to today’s poetry. Today is another favorite poet of mine, Robert Service. Service was introduced to me by my father back in high school when I was looking for a poem to memorize for my speech class. He handed me this giant anthology of Service’s work to look through. It probably wasn’t the first time I had seen some of his works. I remember reading “The Cremation of Sam McGee” at some point but this was the first time I put a name to the poem. At times his poems have the feel of Jack London. Although after a quick Wikipedia search it looks as if both lived about the same time. Service is actually a couple of years older. Anyway, back to my point, his poems often talk about the Yukon Territory and have that White Fang, Call of the Wild feel to them. Same region is what I am getting at I guess.

So I should probably stop rambling and just introduce the poem. Today’s Poem is called “Agnostic Apology.” It is the poem that I memorized for my speech class and one that I often tend to read several times a year. I would post “The Cremation of Same McGee” which is a wonderful poem, but it is fairly long. You can find it HERE and you can find a few more of his poems HERE. So without further stalling, here is “Agnostic Apology” by Robert Service.

Agnostic Apology

I am a stout materialist;
With abstract terms I can’t agree,
And so I’ve made a little list
Of words that don’t make sense to me.
To fool my reason I refuse,
For honest thinking is my goal;
And that is why I rarely use
Vague words like Soul.

In terms of matter I am sure
This world of our can be defined;
And so with theories obscure
I will not mystify my mind;
And though I use it more or less,
Describing alcoholic scenes,
I do not know, I must confess,
What Spirit means.

When I survey this cosmic scene,
The term “Creator” seems absurd;
The Universe has always been,
Creation never has occurred.
But in my Lexicon of Doubt
It strikes me definitely odd,
One word I never dare to flout,
One syllable the mountains shout,
Three letters that the stars spell out:
GOD.

~Robert Service ~

Well there you go. As always, if you have any artist you want to feature, let me know. If you yourself are a poet and want me to post one of your works I would be more than happy to do so. You can reach me at justinandzoe85@gmail.com. I hope that you all have a wonderful weekend and I will see you next week.

The Ignorance Of Some People.

Every once in awhile I head to the local Barns and Nobles to just browse and see what’s new. This often leads me in to trouble because I usually end up buying something. It is usually a magazine like Time or National Geographic, but something none the less. This past time I went in and picked up a copy of Archaeology. It is another magazine that I enjoy, being the history nerd that I am. The articles featured on the cover were about the “origins of art” and “lost ship wrecks in the Adriatic”. So it looked interesting and I picked it up. As with most magazines I get, I try to read them from cover to cover, sometimes skipping articles that just don’t interest me. However, I always start at the beginning with the editor’s notes and letters to the editor. It is always fun to see what people are saying even if I didn’t read the last issue or so of the magazine.

Anyway, I was appalled by one of the letters printed in this issue. I know magazines try to show both sides of the argument but this letter was downright full of just plain ignorance. It is not something I would expect in a semi scholarly magazine. I will retype the letter in a minute but first let me give you some context.

Apparently in the January/February issue of Archaeology an article was printed called “The Journey to El Norte.” Unfortunately, I can’t find a copy of this article online and the only thing I know about it, is from what I’ve read in a reply from the editor and from the little blurb found HERE. Basically it seems the article was talking about the journey which immigrants (most of them ending up being illegal immigrants) from South America, Central America, and Mexico take when trying to make it into the United States. The editor in response to the letter explains, “Jason De Leon’s Work is an example of how archaeology can provide a unique perspective on a modern issue.” The editor also states that it was a study on mass migrations. Now this is all I really know about the article. However, the following letter no matter what the article was on is ignorant on so many levels. Have a read…

I am appalled that you could even consider publishing an article like “The Journey to El Norte,” (January/February). It casts a romantic light on illegal immigration. To compare these criminals to the millions of Europeans who immigrated in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries is an insult to their memories and efforts to give their children better lives. My grandparents came to this country legally. They wanted no handouts, learned to speak English, and eventually owned their own company. To document the trash heaps of these current illegal immigrants as artifacts, as if they are sacred is beyond credibility. (Archaeology March/April page8)

To be honest I am not really sure where to start with this letter. Everything about it just makes my head hurt. How any rational person could ever write such nonsense I will never know? As I stated above the editor was very gracious in his response to this letter. However, I believed it should have been a little more like this.

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for taking the time to pick up our magazine on your way home to watch Fox News. We here at Archaeology are glad that you have taken an interest in branching out from the trash you probably usually read. However, when you picked up our magazine you should have probably also picked up a copy of any American history textbook to find out that not every European immigrant came to the US legally. You might also find in there the fact that back then there was just as much hate toward immigrants as there is now. Heck, I am sure the Tribes that were kicked off their land by the first immigrants, looking to make a better life for themselves, also weren’t too fond of immigration. And to think that those who immigrate today are just looking to get into the United States for fun is ridiculous. They too are looking for a better life for their family and children just like your grandparents were. The only difference is we live in such a xenophobic country now that it is 100 times more difficult to legally immigrate. Back when your grandparents came over it was probably more or less signing their name on a ledger, getting checked out and pledging allegiance to the country. Today it takes months if not years to find out if you will be rejected or let in. Who has that kind of time when you are trying to work several jobs to support your family? Once again, thank you for your business, but next time, please just leave the magazine for someone with half a brain.

Thank You

Management

This is how the letter back to said reader should have gone, because to be honest I am not sure how they got their hands on a copy of Archaeology. Probably picked it up for the pretty pictures and didn’t realize that they might be exposed to a point of view that reached way outside their tiny comfort zone. I don’t know this person and I don’t know their whole story. However, I am seeing more and more attitudes like this across the nation and in the news, people spouting off their points of views before checking the facts (says the man with the blog). As for calling the immigrants shrines “Trash heaps,” it is just like saying that all the artifacts left at the sites for the victims of 9/11 or the Virginia Tech Shootings were just trash as well. Shrines have been around since time began whether it was to honor a kill after a hunt, a family member who has died or even to a deity; they all hold some purpose to those who left them behind. They hold some special meaning.

I tend to try not to rant on this site but this letter just made my blood boil. The xenophobic and ignorant culture that continues to rear its ugly head in this country saddens me. We are supposed to be one of the greatest countries in the world. At least that is what we are taught and that is what everyone else is taught. Could be why they want to come here so bad. We are the land of the free, the land of opportunity, and a land where your grandparents could IMMIGRATE over and start a business and pull themselves up by the bootstraps. So if we are going to advertise ourselves this way, why can’t we live up to that standard? I keep hoping that as I grow older the world will start to change and people will see that we are all after the same goal. We all want to be happy and live our lives. Someday that reality will happen. Until then I will have to put up with morons writing letters they haven’t really thought about.

Poetry Friday – Shel Silverstein

Such a busy week, I can’t believe that it is already Friday. Not sure where the time went. This week was spend on getting taxes done, writing a bit on a short story and work. I also worked out 4 days this week and even had time to squeeze in seeing an old college friend I hadn’t seen in awhile. It also was a super nice outside, so I made sure to get out and walk a bit as well as read on the back patio. Even though it was busy, it felt productive and overall was a great week. The only drawback really was I didn’t get a chance to write other than the little bit on the short story.

So, I figured I would try to lighten up the mood on “Poetry Friday” this week. The last few weeks have either been love poems or darker poems, so for this week I thought I would try to find something that was a little more fun and light hearted. What did I settle upon you may ask? Well Shel Silverstein of course.

I grew up with my parents reading to me from Where the Sidewalk Ends, A Light in the Attic, and Falling Up. The poems from these books were what my parents would read to my brother and me before we went to sleep at night. This might explain my love of poetry, because I really was exposed to it at an early age. I also remember having a tape (yes a tape not a CD) of Shel Silverstein reading Where the Sidewalk Ends. It is one that I would play over and over again. I am surprised that I didn’t wear the tape out. So anyway, today I thought that I would share a couple of my favorites. I hope that you all have a great weekend.

Sick

“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more–that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut–my eyes are blue–
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke–
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is–what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

 

The Sitter

Mrs. Mctwitter the baby-sitter,
I think she’s a little bit crazy.
She thinks a baby sitter’s supposed
To sit upon the baby.

 

The Boa Constrictor

Oh, I’m being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I’m being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don’t like it–one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It’s nibblin’ my toe.
Oh, gee,
It’s up to my knee.
Oh my,
It’s up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,
It’s up to my middle.
Oh, heck,
It’s up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It’s upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .