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  1. TopTop #1291
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    What Is Bounty Without A Beggar?



    What is bounty without a beggar? Generosity without a guest?
    Be beggar and guest; for beauty is seeking a mirror, water is crying for a thirsty man.
    Hopelessness and need are tasteful bezel for that ruby.


    Your poverty is a Burak;* don't be a coffin riding on other men's shoulders.
    Thank God you hadn't the means or you may have been a Pharaoh.


    The prayer of Moses was, "Lord, I am in need of Thee!"
    The Way of Moses is all hopelessness and need and it is the only way to God.
    From when you were an infant, when has hopelessness ever failed you?


    Joseph's path leads into the pit; don't flee across the chessboard of this world, for it is His game and we are checkmate! checkmate!


    Hunger makes stale bread more delicious than halvah.
    Your spiritual discomfort is spiritual indigestion; seek hunger and passion and need!


    A mouse is a nibbler. God gave him mind in proportion to his needs.
    Without need God gives nothing.


    How will you impress God? You are a hundred thousand dinars in His debt!
    A beggar shows his blindness and palsy,
    he does not say, "Give me bread, O, people! I am a rich man with granaries and palaces!"


    Bring a hundred sacks of gold and God will say, "Bring the heart."
    And if you bring a dead heart carried like a coffin on your shoulder,
    God will say, "O, cheat! Is this a graveyard? Bring the live heart! Bring the live heart!"


    If you haven't any knowledge and opinions,
    have good opinions about God. This is the way.
    If you can only crawl, crawl to Him.
    If you can not pray sincerely, offer your dry, hypocritical, agnostic prayer; for God in His mercy accepts bad coin.
    If you have a hundred doubts of God,
    make them into ninety doubts. This is the way.


    O, Seeker! Though you have broken your vows a hundred times,
    come again! Come again!
    For God has said, "Though you are on high or in the pit consider me, for I am the Way."


    - Jelaluddin Rumi
    (Translated By Daniel Liebert)
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  2. TopTop #1292
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Second Spring

    All day she sweats over griddles
    feeding whoever shows up
    pies roll from her fingers
    birds and fish roast
    she goes home and cools off in the shower

    at dusk she comes to the other side of the courtyard
    vines curl around tables
    glass and silver shine like fruit
    the fountain gathers her in song
    a young man smiles and hands her a menu

    she sips ice water and reviews her choices
    around her people talk and flirt
    their voices float like green tiles in the evening’s design
    of savor and candles, kindness and flowers

    suffering gave its blessing
    sweat turned into wine
    she dips her bread in oil and toasts the night
    some grace we say alone


    - Gwynn O’Gara
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  4. TopTop #1293
    Bird Watcher's Avatar
    Bird Watcher
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    I love, love, love this poem. Gwynn, I hope you see/know our appreciation!
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  5. TopTop #1294
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Family Reunion


    The divorced mother and her divorcing
    daughter. The about-to-be ex-son-in-law
    and the ex-husband's adopted son.
    The divorcing daughter's child, who is


    the step-nephew of the ex-husband's
    adopted son. Everyone cordial:
    the ex-husband's second wife
    friendly to the first wife, warm


    to the divorcing daughter's child's
    great-grandmother, who was herself
    long ago divorced. Everyone
    grown used to the idea of divorce


    Almost everyone has separated
    from the landscape of childhood.
    Collections of people in cities
    are divorced from clean air and stars.


    Toddlers in day care are parted
    from working parents, schoolchildren
    from the assumption of unbloodied
    daylong safety. Old people die apart


    from all they've gathered over time,
    and in strange beds. Adults
    grow estranged from a God
    evidently divorced from history;


    most are cut off from their own
    histories, each of which waits
    like a child left at day care.
    What if you turned back for a moment


    and put your arms around yours?
    Yes, you might be late for work;
    no, your history doesn't smell sweet
    like a toddler's head. But look


    at those small round wrists,
    that short-legged, comical walk.
    Caress your history—who else will?
    Promise to come back later.


    Pay attention when it asks you
    simple questions: Where are we going?
    Is it scary? What happened? Can
    I have more now? Who is that?


    - Jeredith Merrin
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  6. TopTop #1295
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Walking the Limantour Spit

    Audacious purple lupine bushes block my path,
    but who could be angry with bushes so fragrant
    I feel as if I am walking through a cloud of scent

    Over the dunes to the beach,
    rest stop in the warm sand
    vest off, long sleeve shirt shed
    short-sleeve shirt too
    just my tank top and rolled up red pants
    I am soaking in sun and wave sound
    like a thirsty plant

    Later, I walk the beach barefoot
    a man walks by, bare chest and shorts
    smartphone clutched in his left hand
    like some portable umbilicus
    with wireless umbilical cord to the mother net
    I think of my own insatiable desire for more and more knowledge
    what fierce longing does this plastic and the virtual web assuage?
    Facebook, twitter, youtube, myspace
    our longing to feel a part of everything and everyone
    always turned on, always tuned in

    my bare feet speak to me of wet, warm sand
    the tiny hairs on my face and arms dance with cool wind, warm sun

    Is all this electronic connection an attempt to re-enter the womb?
    our substitute for tribe and village?
    Our new religion:
    one part ethers, one part technology,
    one part love?

    What is the meeting place of mother earth and mother net?
    does the net nurture me as wind and sky, and the sand
    that collects in my Vibram 5 finger shoes?

    as I reach the path back to the parking lot
    a woman asks - is it always this cold at the beach?
    I tell her of the sheltered bay and a beach named Heart's Desire
    and another named Ho'okena - we speak of dolphins
    and I remember what its like to meet up with their sleek grey bodies
    swimming in and out of view - calling me to a sweet, fierce love that facebook has yet to match

    She tells me she is a bodyworker,
    recently moved from Connecticut to Fairfax
    she tells me she has great hands
    that she is so good because she is able to listen to body-speak and follow body flow
    I take her card
    she writes down directions to Heart's Desire
    I feel the vibrancy of our chance meeting and service to one another
    if my ear or face had been absorbed in the electronic ethers I would have missed this moment

    I love the internet - I have spiritual experiences and re-connect with long lost loves
    I love this planet - I have spiritual experiences and chance meetings with lizards and fragrant bushes and sometimes human beings
    may I always have the wisdom and heart to know when to be present to life
    when to lay down the plastic and take up flesh and breath and being

    I believe the emerging unexpected can appear in either world,
    let me be open always to its calling -
    always aware of the difference between distraction
    and interaction -
    habit and love

    - Monnie Reba Efross
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  7. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  8. TopTop #1296
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Fighting Words

    Long the rich have been protected
    By the walls that can’t endure;
    By the walls that they erected
    To divide them from the poor.
    Crumbling now, they should not trust them,
    For their end is drawing near;
    Walls of Cant and walls of Custom,
    Walls of Ignorance and Fear.

    Tyrants, grip your weapons firmer,
    Grip them firmly by the helves;
    For the poor begin to murmur
    Loudly now among themselves.
    Hear us dare to say that Heaven
    Gave us equal rights with you,
    Dare to say the world was given
    Unto all and not the few.

    - Henry Lawson (1902)
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  9. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  10. TopTop #1297
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Traveling Through the Dark


    Traveling through the dark I found a deer
    dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
    It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
    that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.


    By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
    and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
    she had stiffened already; almost cold.
    I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.


    My fingers touching her side brought me the reason --
    her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
    alive, still, never to be born.
    Beside that mountain road I hesitated.


    The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
    under the hood purred the steady engine.
    I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
    around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.


    I thought hard for us all -- my only swerving --
    then pushed her over the edge into the river.


    - William Stafford
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  11. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  12. TopTop #1298
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Science of Life


    You can in the first place
    not be born


    failing that
    you can be buried
    or be cremated
    give your body up for bone
    skin organ various tissue
    transplants
    be stuffed
    go down in water and never be found
    die in the desert and be eaten
    by small animals
    or failing all these
    live forever


    - Miller Williams
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  13. TopTop #1299
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Moon Over Laguna de Santa Rosa


    It is a rueful moon that drifts over
    Laguna de Santa Rosa tonight--
    River that flows both ways carrying
    History heavy on its back. Those who
    First recorded what they saw were in awe
    Of the wooded plain, ripe with water and
    Animal life. But change was drastic. First, the cattle ranchers cleared and burned the Live Oaks
    Leaving their ominously blackened bodies girdling the golden tule fields.
    Then the Gold Rush increased the price of game--
    white and grey geese, ducks, deer antelope, elk
    Even the few grizzlies that had survived
    Were caught and sold for outrageous prices
    on docks of the Petaluma river.
    The remaining oaks were split and corded,
    or reduced to charcoal. Then channels dug
    To drain the cattle farms. Then the sewage ponds
    Dug and filled. Today, the moon hangs low in
    The sky. Not full, just a thin fingernail
    Illuminating a single path back
    past the remaining oaks, past forgetting.


    - Iris Jamahl Dunkle
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  14. Gratitude expressed by 4 members:

  15. TopTop #1300
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Relax


    Bad things are going to happen.


    Your tomatoes will grow a fungus


    and your cat will get run over.


    Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream


    melting in the car and throw


    your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.


    Your husband will sleep


    with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling


    out of her blouse. Or your wife


    will remember she’s a lesbian


    and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat –


    the one you never really liked — will contract a disease


    that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth


    every four hours for a month.


    Your parents will die.


    No matter how many vitamins you take,


    how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,


    your hair and your memory. If your daughter


    doesn’t plug her heart


    into every live socket she passes,


    you’ll come home to find your son has emptied


    your refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,


    and called the used appliance store for a pick up — drug money.


    There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.


    When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine


    and climbs half way down. But there’s also a tiger below.


    And two mice — one white, one black — scurry out


    and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point


    she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.


    She looks up, down, at the mice.


    Then she eats the strawberry.


    So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse


    in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,


    slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel


    and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.


    Oh taste how sweet and tart


    the red juice is, how the tiny seeds


    crunch between your teeth.


    - Ellen Bass
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  16. Gratitude expressed by 4 members:

  17. TopTop #1301
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    It Was A Pretty Big Year


    It was a pretty big year for predators.
    The marketplace was on a roll.
    And the land of opportunity,
    Spawned a whole new breed of men without souls.
    This year, notoriety got all confused with fame.
    And the devil is downhearted,
    Because there’s nothing left for him to claim.
    He said, “it’s just like home,
    “It’s so low-down, I can’t stand it,
    “I guess my work around here has all been done.”
    And the fruit is rotten,
    The serpent’s eyes shine,
    As he wraps around the vine.
    In the Garden of Allah.


    - Don Henley
    (“The Garden of Allah” - 1995)
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  18. Gratitude expressed by 5 members:

  19. TopTop #1302
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Unwritten Note


    The news is on everyone's lips
    like flies gathering on excrement:
    President Roosevelt has ordered


    our removal. Will we be
    taken from our homes like vermin?
    I know it must be a misunderstanding,


    gossip spread in these
    harsh times. I choke
    on acrid laughter.


    It is not possible.
    After all, I served
    my chosen country in the Army,


    in the Great War. So I go to see
    my longtime friend and sheriff
    of Monterey County.


    It is no joke, Hideo. You'll have to go.
    He can't look me in the eyes.
    When he finds my body hung


    in this rented room, with
    my certificate of honorary citizenship
    expressing honor and respect


    for your loyal and splendid
    service to the country,
    he will understand why


    I could not allow
    this noble country to tarnish
    its honor, or mine.


    - Jodi Hottel
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  21. TopTop #1303
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    On Prayer


    You ask me how to pray to someone who is not.
    All I know
    is that prayer constructs a velvet bridge
    And walking it we are aloft, as on a springboard,
    Above
    landscapes the color of ripe gold
    Transformed by a magic stopping of the sun.
    That bridge
    leads to the shore of Reversal
    Where everything is just the opposite and the word is
    Unveils a meaning we hardly envisioned.
    Notice: I say we; there, every one, separately,
    Feels
    compassion for those tangled in the flesh
    And knows that if there is no other shore
    We will walk
    that aerial bridge all the same.


    - Czeslaw Milosz
    (translated by Robert Hass)
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  22. Gratitude expressed by 4 members:

  23. TopTop #1304
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    This Ecstasy


    It’s not paradise I’m looking for
    but the naming I hardly gave a thought to.
    Call it the gift I carried in my loneliness
    among the animals before I started
    listening to the news. Call it the hint
    I had about the knowledge that would explode.
    In the meantime, which is real time
    plus the past, you’re swishing your skirt
    and speaking French, which is more
    than I can take, which I marvel at
    like a boy from the most distant seat
    in the Kronos Dome, where I am one
    of so many now I see the point
    of falling off. There’s not enough seats
    for us all to attend the eschaton.
    This ecstasy that plants beauty
    on my tongue, so that if it were
    a wing, I’d be flying with the quickness
    of a hummingbird and grace of a heron,
    is so much mercy in light of the darkness
    that comes. Who would say consolation?
    Who would say dross? Not that anyone
    would blame them. All night I hear
    so many echoes in the forest I’m tempted
    to look back, to save myself in hindsight,
    where all I see is the absence of me.
    Where all I hear is your voice,
    which couldn’t be more strange.
    How to go on walking hand in hand
    without our bodies on the path
    we made for our feet, talking, talking?


    - Chard deNiord
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  25. TopTop #1305
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Of The Empire


    We will be known as the culture that feared death
    and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity
    for the few and cared little for the penury of the
    many. We will be known as a culture that taught
    and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke
    little if at all about the quality of life for
    people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. All
    commodity. And they will say that this structure
    was held together politically, which it was, and
    they will say also that our politics was no more
    than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of
    the heart, and that the heart, in those days,
    was small, and hard, and full of meanness.


    - Mary Oliver
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  26. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  27. TopTop #1306
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Before The Men's Retreat




    She asks: “What is it?”
    And I say: “100 men naked in the woods.”
    She wrinkles her nose and says: “No clothes?”
    And I say: “Sometimes.”
    And she says: “What do you do?”
    I say: First we removed the coat of corporate soldier, of worker
    bee, of boss, of coach, of business owner.
    Then we pull off the jacket of marriage.
    Toss aside the shoes of parenthood.
    The umbrella of son.
    The backpack of friend.
    The helmet of hero, savior, tough guy.
    We pull from our pockets the mantle of lady’s man, lover,
    slayer of the weaker sex.
    We check in our charm and toss away the pants of romance.
    All the roles and expectations we carry about in our
    lives, we leave behind like a pile of clothes on the floor.”
    She says: “On the floor? That’s what I thought. Then you’re naked?”
    Says I: “Not yet. We promise not to engage in physical violence,
    then we strip off unnecessary civilization. Toss it in the
    pile with all the rest.”
    She: “Then you’re naked.”
    I: “No. We still hold onto our tattered dysfunctions and
    threadbare beliefs like a 10 year old pair of bikini briefs.
    That’s the last thing, but we hold fast, because, you know,
    those stinking little lies and truths, that stained and
    shredded pair of underwear held our life together for 10,
    20, 40 years. And only when we can toss that old thing away
    are we truly naked”
    She blinks and says: “So it’s 100 men in the woods in tattered
    underwear.”
    I say: “Yes. But over the course of the week, it washes away in
    the realm of ritual. Blown away by the breath of spirit.
    Cracked open under the scrutiny and support of men. Pried
    off by the power of story.”
    She stares at me, silent, and then: “Why? ... Why do you do it?”
    I say: “So we can see what’s left. That’s us. Naked. We can
    hardly recognize ourselves, but that’s who we are. It’s
    blinding. Dazzling. Beautiful. Very painful, but very real.
    We walk with it. Work with it. Sing songs to honor and
    protect it. Wounds are revealed, healed, become our
    strength and our shield. Internal lands are explored.
    Monsters are banished. And in the end, we bring some
    of all this back into life, even as we put our clothes back on.”
    She shifts and settles, ponders and pads about the room, then
    smiles and says: “Well have a good time then.”


    - Greg Kimura
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  28. Gratitude expressed by 5 members:

  29. TopTop #1307
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Parable of the Old Man and the Young


    So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
    And took the fire with him, and a knife.
    And as they sojourned both of them together,
    Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
    Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
    But where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?
    Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
    And builded parapets and trenches there,
    And stretchčd forth the knife to slay his son.
    When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,
    Saying, Lay not they hand upon the lad,
    Neither do anything to him, thy son.
    Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,
    A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.


    But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
    And half the seed of Europe, one by one.


    - Wilfred Owen
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  30. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  31. TopTop #1308
    Attic
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Parable of the Old Men and the Young is a poem by Wilfred Owen which compares the ascent of Abraham to Mount Moriah and his near-sacrifice of Isaac there with the start of World War I. It had first been published by Siegfried Sassoon in 1920 with the title The Parable of the Old Man and the Young, without the last line "And half the seed of Europe, one by one".[1]

    The poem is an allusion to a story in the Bible, Genesis 22:1-18.

    In the poem, the biblical patriarch Abraham (significantly called by his former name, Abram, in the poem) takes Isaac—his only begotten son by his wife Sarah—with him to make a sacrificial offering to God. The offering, though Isaac does not know this, is to be Isaac himself. "Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps", which suggests imagery relating to a young soldier being sent, possibly against his will, in a uniform to fight. When he makes to sacrifice his son, an angel calls from heaven, and tells Abram not to harm Isaac. Instead, he must offer the "Ram of Pride". Then follow the last two lines of the poem diverges from the Biblical account, set apart for greater effect: "But the old man would not so, but slew his son, / and half the seed of Europe, one by one."

    "The Parable of the Old Man and the Young" is written loosely in iambic pentameter. It does not use traditional rhyme; instead, the lines are bound together by assonance, consonance, and alliteration.

    As the title mentions, the poem is a parable. It is generally accepted that the old man, Abram, represents the European nations or more probably their governments. Another less common opinion is that he represents Germany or Kaiser Wilhelm II, whom some would claim started the war. However, Owen does not blame any individual nation or person in any of his other poems, so there is no reason to believe that he does so in this one. Rather, he condemns all those in power who took their countries to war.

    According to the poem, the rulers of Europe believed that sacrificing their nations' (Ram of) Pride was too high a price, yet the irony is that the real cost of this Pride was millions of dead—the seed of Europe.

    The last two lines are the only ones that rhyme, and the image they paint is chilling: an old man methodically killing the seed of Europe. It is mainly the power of this image, set out in the poem and culminating in the last two lines, that makes it haunting.

    The poem is among those set in the War Requiem of Benjamin Britten.

    Quote Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson: View Post
    The Parable of the Old Man and the Young


    So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
    And took the fire with him, and a knife.
    And as they sojourned both of them together,
    Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
    Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
    But where the lamb, for this burnt-offering?
    Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
    And builded parapets and trenches there,
    And stretchčd forth the knife to slay his son.
    When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,
    Saying, Lay not they hand upon the lad,
    Neither do anything to him, thy son.
    Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,
    A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.


    But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
    And half the seed of Europe, one by one.


    - Wilfred Owen
    Last edited by Barry; 05-29-2012 at 02:45 PM.
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  32. Gratitude expressed by 4 members:

  33. TopTop #1309
    "Mad" Miles
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson


    Larry,

    I rarely, pretty much never, intrude on this thread of yours. And I prefer that others resist the urge as well (with the proximate exception of Attic who provided very informative information!).

    But since I shared your referral of Wilfred Owen's poem on my FB today, and have taught, and hope to teach again, his nonpareil poem, "Dulce et decorum est".

    Here it is:

    Wilfred Owen



    Dulce Et Decorum Est


    Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
    Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
    Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
    And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
    Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
    But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
    Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
    Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

    GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
    Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
    But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
    And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
    Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
    As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

    In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
    He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

    If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
    Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
    And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
    His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
    If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
    Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
    Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
    Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
    My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
    To children ardent for some desperate glory,
    The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
    Pro patria mori.


    _____________________________________________________________________

    How do we honor fallen Warriors? Stop fighting wars. Especially ones of choice based on lies and selfish interest. Truly defensive wars? That's a more difficult question. Most wars, are not defensive. Especially, but not exclusively, modern American (U.S.) ones. They're aggressive.

    https://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html


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  34. Gratitude expressed by:

  35. TopTop #1310
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Point Reyes—wild oats in the wind
    for JQ

    As if it were the holy spirit
    engulfing me,
    as if I even knew
    the nature of such a thing,
    as if I might even be able to tell you
    the mystery of a moment that pushed me
    to the very edge of . . . of . . . something,
    calling loudly without words for me to simply open up—all the way . . .

    We stood together in silence,
    in the midst of things,
    on the headlands, high above the surf,
    a dusty trail beneath our feet
    crisscrossed from time to time
    by slow moving, shinny black beetles,
    while stationery, high above our heads
    a hawk lay just beneath the cold gray blanket
    that covered everything on this tiny slip of land
    sliding northward, sliding always northward.
    And everywhere it was wind—
    the air moved, ruffled clothes and tousled hair,
    made soft staccato pops and flutters in our ears
    that almost hid from them
    an exquisite, near silent song.

    Had we not seen the wild oats dancing,
    delicately dangling their tiny, hull-covered seeds,
    atop straight golden stalks,
    that bent down in the wind,
    as if to say, namaste, to everything,
    lightly touching one another, then,
    like bows and strings—
    had we not seen them dancing so,
    we would have missed their music,
    their heavenly music,
    the intricacy of which,
    the joy of which
    went well beyond
    what human hand
    could make
    or these human words
    describe.

    Oh, the wind and the song of the wild oats!
    - Bill Denham
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  36. Gratitude expressed by:

  37. TopTop #1311
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    WAVING GOOD-BYE

    A new suitcase in one hand,
    car keys in the other and finally
    off to college for the first time.

    Looking back past the walnut tree
    a last glance at the old house
    his family still waving good-bye
    good-bye from behind
    the screened-in porch.

    Shifting gears on Main Street,
    thinking of things left behind
    his old room and a medal from track
    closet full of memories and old clothes
    all still too good
    to give away.

    Homecoming for the thanksgiving feast
    stunned at the bareness of his room
    just one change of socks and underwear remaining
    in the top right drawer of the otherwise
    empty chest.

    Staring down the hallway at Christmas,
    past the presents and the lighted tree
    he saw his room was gone.
    the doorway and the door...
    across from his little brother's room.

    At spring break under the walnut tree
    staring again at the screened-in porch
    he was certain
    the house was gone.

    Trying one last time in June
    the porch was gone
    the tree was gone
    Main Street no where
    to be found.

    Driving away past his disappearing high school
    he wondered was there a medal?
    Had he ever had a brother?

    Clutching the wheel in front
    he knew he'd better hurry
    his road disappearing,
    his town disappearing, and
    was that his life
    slowly waving good-bye
    good-bye
    in his rear view mirror?

    - Doug von Koss
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  38. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  39. TopTop #1312
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Healing From Cancer


    She lay still in the broken water of her tenderness.
    In every way the Cloud of Unknowing swept about her.
    With all due haste, waves of wholeness broke over her, blue and softly,
    Organ notes of roses papering surfaces all around her.
    Leaves whispered her name.
    With no fear and all trembling, she fell deep into wellness
    Coming finally back into her own life polished and fine
    Much as a babe enters into the bright world blinking
    from her cave of sustenance.



    - Kalia Mussetter
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  40. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  41. TopTop #1313
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Salt

    I thought of kneeling. I thought of cold
    monastery stone and the red velvet cushions
    at the communion rail -- a reverence
    history could not contain.

    What is history? -- the bones of a dead mouse.
    His scarred face was the first mystery. Six
    veils to reach the dark pulse of his arm --
    Salome dancing for John the Baptist’s head.

    I have found God in the least likely places --
    the dog sleeping beside my chair
    is inhabited by God. I could go into the street
    and tell everyone God sleeps in my house

    in the body of a dog! Who would believe me?
    You have your own moments.
    I too have lain in the night
    beside my lover and heard God breathing.

    Intention was the second mystery.
    When my father died
    his skin was like Michelangelo’s marble,
    his veins the hidden rivers that sustained him

    through five children, two wives, deaths, wars
    even prison. Under the skin
    where the blue vein pulsed, I saw
    my grandmother’s heart flutter.

    I leaned toward the pale gate
    of the scarred stranger’s elbow, my tongue
    reverent to the taste of salt.
    The impulse to worship is always there.

    It is the diamond in the water, the deer
    last night, dreamily over the fence in the fog
    for the shimmering lick in the field.

    - Elizabeth Herron
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  42. Gratitude expressed by 4 members:

  43. TopTop #1314
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    A Scientist's Acrostic

    Scientists are like beetles
    Crawling over the earth, antennae twitching,
    In tune with the mysteries
    Einstein whispered under a star-polished
    Night sky. He chose the celestial playground by
    Convention-even logic, as beetles know, can be
    Enhanced by beauty.

    Illumination dawns after years of
    Scratching through dark leaves, dirt.

    Lying on one's back, legs flailing,
    Is temporary, and not, as some imagine
    Fundamental failure or
    Even such a bad thing.


    - Jennifer Gresham
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  44. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  45. TopTop #1315
    Dixon's Avatar
    Dixon
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Nice one, Larry (and Ms. Gresham)! For those who don't know what an acrostic is, it means a message "hidden" in a poem (or other writing) such that you read it by reading DOWN the page rather than across. So in the poem above, reading down the first letter of each line says "SCIENCE IS LIFE". Acrostics are fun, and I recommend that those of you who enjoy such things try writing some, but it's difficult to write a good one, especially a poem containing two (or, heathen forbid, even more) acrostics, and more especially if you're making the lines rhyme too. I wrote a double-acrostic sonnet once for the Wergle Flomp poetry contest (a fun contest which gives cash prizes for the poems deemed most wonderfully bad!). My entry was about "vanity" poetry websites--sites that tell everyone their crappy poem is wonderful as a way to get them to buy collections of that crappy poetry and other stuff. My poem contains two acrostics ridiculing the vanity sites. These hidden messages are in the first letter and fourth letter of each line:

    Sonnet with Two Acrostics

    What drek is this? Who published it, and why?
    Hath not the editor performed his task?
    And is this not some kind of scam, I ask,
    This poet’s purse to open with a lie?

    Raise glasses for a toast, or to your eyes,
    And imitate the doggerel you’ve heard.
    Now there’s another literary turd.
    Knee-deep in excrement, we seek a prize.

    Diss not the hack the windmills of whose mind,
    Rent thus asunder, quest yet for the Muse,
    In simple rhymes like Eminem might use,
    Vain verses which, like rotten grain, they grind.
    Ere kaching! go registers of cash,
    Let’s see this website print and sell this trash!

    -- Dixon Wragg
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  46. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  47. TopTop #1316
    Chris Dec's Avatar
    Chris Dec
    Supporting Member

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    That post was enjoyeD
    How much...lots, say I
    And throw into the miX
    No shortage of wry.. humor, and O
    Know you’re read daily, maN
    So Dixon, dear poet, write on, wragg on!


    Quote Posted in reply to the post by Dixon: View Post
    Nice one, Larry (and Ms. Gresham)! For those who don't know what an acrostic is, it means a message "hidden" in a poem (or other writing) such that you read it by reading DOWN the page rather than across. So in the poem above, reading down the first letter of each line says "SCIENCE IS LIFE". Acrostics are fun, and I recommend that those of you who enjoy such things try writing some, but it's difficult to write a good one, especially a poem containing two (or, heathen forbid, even more) acrostics, and more especially if you're making the lines rhyme too. I wrote a double-acrostic sonnet once for the Wergle Flomp poetry contest (a fun contest which gives cash prizes for the poems deemed most wonderfully bad!). My entry was about "vanity" poetry websites--sites that tell everyone their crappy poem is wonderful as a way to get them to buy collections of that crappy poetry and other stuff. My poem contains two acrostics ridiculing the vanity sites. These hidden messages are in the first letter and fourth letter of each line:

    Sonnet with Two Acrostics

    What drek is this? Who published it, and why?
    Hath not the editor performed his task?
    And is this not some kind of scam, I ask,
    This poet’s purse to open with a lie?

    Raise glasses for a toast, or to your eyes,
    And imitate the doggerel you’ve heard.
    Now there’s another literary turd.
    Knee-deep in excrement, we seek a prize.

    Diss not the hack the windmills of whose mind,
    Rent thus asunder, quest yet for the Muse,
    In simple rhymes like Eminem might use,
    Vain verses which, like rotten grain, they grind.
    Ere kaching! go registers of cash,
    Let’s see this website print and sell this trash!

    -- Dixon Wragg
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  48. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  49. TopTop #1317
    Dixon's Avatar
    Dixon
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Very nice indeed, Christine--but I might be biased ;^D

    Quote Posted in reply to the post by [email protected]: View Post
    That post was enjoyeD
    How much...lots, say I
    And throw into the miX
    No shortage of wry.. humor, and O
    Know you’re read daily, maN
    So Dixon, dear poet, write on, wragg on!
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  50. Gratitude expressed by:

  51. TopTop #1318
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Greed


    Hope is the deaf man who has often heard of our dying,
    but hasn't heard of his own death or contemplated his own end.

    The blind man is Greed: he sees the faults of others,
    hair by hair, and broadcasts them from street to street,


    but of his own faults his blind eyes perceive nothing.
    The naked man fears his cloak will be pulled off,


    but how could anyone take the cloak of one who is naked?
    The worldly man is destitute and terrified:


    he possesses nothing, yet he dreads thieves.
    When death comes, everyone around him is lamenting,


    while his own spirit begins to laugh at his fear.
    At that moment the rich man knows he has no gold,
    and the keen-witted man sees that talent does not belong to him.


    - Jellaludin Rumi


    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


    Kar Amal-râ dân keh marg-e mâ shenid
    marg-e khvod na-shenid va naql-e khvod na-did
    Hers nâ-biyânast binad mu be-mu
    `ayb-e khalqân va be-guyad ku be-ku
    `Ayb-e khvod yek zarreh cheshm-e kur-e u
    mi na-binad garcheh hast u `ayb ju
    `Ur mi tarsad keh dâmânesh be-ranad
    dâman-e mard-e barahneh kay darand
    Mard-e donyâ mofles ast va tars-nâk
    hich u-râ nist az dozdânesh bâk
    Vaqt-e margesh keh bovad sad nawheh pish
    khandeh âyad jânesh-râ zin tars-e khvish
    n zamân dânad ghani kesh nist zar
    ham zaki dânad keh bod u bi honar


    -- Mathnawi III:2628-2635
    Version by Camille and Kabir Helminski
    "Rumi: Jewels of Remembrance"
    Threshold Books, 1996
    (Persian transliteration courtesy of Yahyá Monastra)
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  52. Gratitude expressed by:

  53. TopTop #1319
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Falcon Moon



    From the glow of dawn a moon appeared
    It swept from the sky—speared me with its eyes

    With me in its talons, to the sky it soared--
    Like a hawk which snatches a songbird by force

    I glanced at myself--no me to be seen
    The moon of mercy pared my body to a soul

    Formless I flew, just seeing the moon--
    The moon, and the world lit in its gleam

    In the soul I traveled, with the moon as my beacon
    Lay bare the secret of the time before time

    Sky, and then sky, all merged with the moon
    The raft that is me was drowned in the sea

    Without the force of that Sunburst of Shams
    Neither the moon nor the sea can be seen.


    - Jelalludin Rumi
    Ghazal 19
    (Translation by Shantanu Phukan)






    Falcon Moon

    Dar Charkh-e sahargah yaki mah ayan shud
    Vaz charkh bazer amad o bar ma nigran shud

    Chun baz ke birbayad murghi ba-gahe said
    Birbud mara an mah o bar charkh ravan shud

    Dar khud chun nazar kardam, khud ra banadidam
    Zeera ke dar an mah tanamaz lutf chun jan shud

    Dar jan chun safar kardam juz mah nadidam
    Ta sirr-e tajalliye azal jumle bayan shud

    Na charkh-e falakjumle dar an mah firo shud
    Kashtiyye vujudam hame dar bahr-e nihan shud

    An bahr bazad mauj o khirad baz bar amad
    V-avaz dar afgand, chunin gasht o chunan shud

    An bahr kafi kard ba har pareh az an kaf
    Naqshi zi falan amad o jismi zi fulan shud

    Be daulate makhdumiye shams al haqi tabrez
    Nai mah tavan didan, o nai bahr tavan shud
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  54. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  55. TopTop #1320
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Fern Hill

    Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
    About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
    The night above the dingle starry,
    Time let me hail and climb
    Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
    And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
    And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
    Trail with daisies and
    barley
    Down the rivers of the windfall light.

    And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
    About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
    In the sun that is young once only,
    Time let me play and be
    Golden in the mercy of his means,
    And green
    and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
    Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
    And the sabbath rang slowly
    In the pebbles of the holy streams.

    All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
    Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
    And playing, lovely and watery
    And fire green as grass.
    And nightly under the simple stars
    As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
    All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
    Flying with the ricks, and the horses
    Flashing into the dark.

    And then to
    awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
    With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
    Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
    The sky gathered again
    And the sun grew round that very day.
    So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
    In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm

    Out of the whinnying green stable
    On to the fields of praise.

    And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
    Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
    In the sun born over and over,
    I ran my heedless ways,
    My wishes raced through the house high
    hay
    And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
    In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
    Before the children green and golden
    Follow him out of grace.

    Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would
    take me
    Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
    In the moon that is always rising,
    Nor that riding to sleep
    I should hear him fly with the high fields
    And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
    Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
    Time held me green and dying
    Though I sang in my chains like the sea.


    - Dylan Thomas
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  56. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

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