women and Roses
I.
I dream of a red-rose tree.
And which of its roses three
Is the dearest rose to me?
II.
Round and round, like a dance of snow
In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go
Floating the women faded for ages,
Sculptured in stone, on the poet’s pages.
Then follow women fresh and gay,
Living and loving and loved to-day.
Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,
Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
III.
Dear rose, thy term is reached,
Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached:
Bees pass it unimpeached.
IV.
Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb,
You, great shapes of the antique time!
How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,
Break my heart at your feet to please you?
Oh, to possess and be possessed!
Hearts that beat ‘neath each pallid breast!
Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,
Drink but once and die!—In vain, the same fashion,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
V.
Dear rose, thy joy’s undimmed,
Thy cup is ruby-rimmed,
Thy cup’s heart nectar-brimmed.
VI.
Deep, as drops from a statue’s plinth
The bee sucked in by the hyacinth,
So will I bury me while burning,
Quench like him at a plunge my yearning,
Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips!
Fold me fast where the cincture slips,
Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure,
Girdle me for once! But no—the old measure,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
VII.
Dear rose without a thorn,
Thy bud’s the babe unborn:
First streak of a new morn.
VIII.
Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear!
What is far conquers what is near.
Roses will bloom nor want beholders,
Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders.
What shall arrive with the cycle’s change?
A novel grace and a beauty strange.
I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her,
Shaped her to his mind!—Alas! in like manner
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
– Robert Browning
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Lilacs
The Hardest Part of Work
The hardest part of work,
is to pretend you’re working hard.
You can only stack so many papers,
or shuffle so many business cards.
In one tab you’ll have your email.
And the other you’ll have your shows.
And you can switch between them so quickly
Your boss hardly knows.
Hulu shows the Office,
Youtube has dancing Dogs.
Amazon sells lots of books,
On Ebay you bought some Pogs.
An online game of Scrabble
Makes you think of many words.
But when nature calls you leave,
And beat angry birds.
But once you tire of Facebook,
And you’ve written too many Tweets.
You’ll stroll down to the breakroom,
And help yourself to treats.
And if there is a co worker,
with semi-engaging news
You’ll only stop and gossip,
for at least an hour or two.
Other times you’ll play ping pong,
your favorite company perk.
It’s amazing what you get done.
when you come to work.
– Evan James Griffin
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
Naps = Good
Napping isn’t so bad,
so you shouldn’t be sad.
You get to stop and dream,
and let off some steam.
You get to sleep and rest,
from life’s daily quest.
And before you wake?..
Thank goodness…
Mom gets a break.
– Evan James Griffin
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
If I were God
here I am a simple old man
attempting to search the path of life’s plan
events in this world I can clearly see
would change right now if it were up to me
If I were a God, I would have so much
I could reach out to every life to touch
wishes I heard would be answered so fast
if only most basic from first to last
If I were a God, no hunger in bed
would be food for all, full stomachs instead
provide clean cool water with every drink
a need so basic, I surely would think
If I were a God, everyone a home
place safe for children, never more to roam
warm in the winter, lock the cold outside
cool in the summer, a place to abide
If I were a God, all man would live free
to pursue his dreams, what ever they be
no fear of death for not joining the path
free from the worry of somebody’s wrath
If I were a God, hate of race not be
each color the most beautiful to see
each joining in love, what ever we are
racial hatred, never to leave a scar
If I were a God, religions rein free
honor and bless your chosen deity
tolerance and respect for not your own
with places for all to seek and atone
If I were a God and wishes were heard
to answer wishes, solutions conferred
war would be something never more to hear
man could live safely without hate or fear
let it clearly be known your wish’s are heard
to think them unworthy is just absurd
perhaps there’s reason, for the grief of man
I’m not a God, I’m just searching life’s plan
– Robert Gene Stoner Jr
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St David’s Day
At school they told us
that it was the day
on which Jesus
and a host of angels came to Wales.
There was sunshine
full of endless song
– and the soul of David was borne away
to heaven.
I thought,
‘He must have been
a good man for God’s Son
to come for him.’
Through the classroom window
we could see the late white
linger in patches,
and brave green blades
spearing through
the soggy carpet
of last Autumn’s leaves.
And the blades
proudly unfurled
their yellow banners
– their daffodil symbol
of St. David
and the heart
of Wales.
– David Watkins Price
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A Cold Night
A snowy icy night, painted hill tops all are white,
all the rivers flow like ice, and raindrops fall as hail,
from so very, very high, above.
Whispered breath, a smoky kind of grey,
as I wander in the coldness of my winter dreams,
trees stretching skywards hold distant memories
of rustled leaves and a lazy warming friendly breeze.
I so much love you and I want you by my side
in the coldness of this dark and lonely frozen hour.
Your lips are all I ever miss,
as I stand here cold and with a sense of helplessness
waiting for your kiss to bring back love and summertime
to the chilled and bitter darkness, that I often find.
On this snowy icy night of my winter dreams
please hurry, come back home to me
and bring that warm and gentle loving face,
the one that I do miss so very much.
How I wish that you were always here
then nothing would we ever fear
and even in the cold and dark
our love will keep us safe and warm
until the coming of the calm and gentle, warming, dawn.
– David Taylor
http://www.aromaticcoffees.co.uk
Friday
Friday.
The golden child of the weekdays.
The superhero of the workweek.
The welcome wagon to the weekend.
The famous F word we thank God for every week.
– Unknown
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Tommy
I went into a public- ‘ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
The publican ‘e up an sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls behind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy go away”;
But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins,” when the band begins to play-
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it’s “Thank you Mr Atkins,” when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian roo, but ‘adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
But when it comes to fighting’, Lord! They’ll shove me in the stalls!
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy wait outside”;
But it’s “Special train for Atkins,” when the trooper’s on the tide-
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s “Special train for Atkins,” when the trooper’s on the tide.
Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy ‘ow’s yer soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll-
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s ” Thin red line of ‘eroes,” when the drums begin to roll.
We aren’t no thin red ‘eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
Why single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;
While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy fall be’ind,”
But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind-
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind.
You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck ‘im out, the brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool – you bet that Tommy sees!
– Rudyard Kipling
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Summary Wednesday
Half the girls in this train car wear gold earrings, large and oval, bisected
by their names in script. They are yours because you name them,
your Lekenya, your Mirellie, your Yesenia.
Excessively ornate, almost illegible, like your grandmother’s cramped
handwriting in a Hallmark card with loopy golden cursive relaying
every detail of the rest home in Orlando
where her former pastor now resides—the year of establishment,
the founder’s name, what the food is like, how once someone moves in,
they have no plans of ever moving again.
Tomorrow, you settle on a plan for breakfast, you settle on banana. You are
not hungry. It sits there on the desk still in peel, nervous for inevitable
disrobing. Stare at Banana. You sit there. It is afraid.
– Matthew Pennock
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