celebrating poetry

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands,

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,

Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,

And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,

Growing among black folks as among white,

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same,
I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,

It may be you transpire from the breasts of you men,

It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,

It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps,

And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,

Darker than the colorless beards of old men,

Dark to come from under the faint red roof of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,

And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?

And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,

And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,

And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,

And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.

I love this poem by Walt Whitman.

April is National Poetry Month.

Share your favorite.

spring has sprung

Let the song begin

Did you think

spring would

never come?

Did you think

rain could

overpower the sun?

Did you think

suffocating snows

would deny

The earth

bursting forth,

could the crocus die?

Would grey

always mask

the dawn?

Could silence

always quiet

the song

Of a songbird

alone

on a limb

One bud

bursts forth

let the song

begin.

s.k.lindeman

friends

Some people come into our lives and quickly go.

Some people move our souls to dance.

They awaken us to new understanding

with the passing whisper of their wisdom.

Some people make the sky

more beautiful to gaze upon.

They stay in our lives for awhile,

leave footprints on our hearts,

and we are never ever the same.

~ Flavia Weedn

click on 'I AM' to write your own poem...

I Am

I am quietly waiting

to know how many stars are in the sky

I hear butterflies whispering

I see peace hanging from the trees

I want love to conquer

I am quietly waiting

I pretend to hear only the good

I feel as though I am part of the wind

I touch the leaves and feel their tears

I worry that kindness will never be enough

I cry to know I will never see you again

I am quietly waiting

I understand what will be will be

I say give peace a chance

I dream a smile will melt the sun

I try to be happy even when I am sad

I hope children keep singing

I am quietly waiting

Simplicity

How happy is the little stone

That rambles in the road alone,

And doesn't care about careers,

And exigencies never fears;

Whose coat of elemental brown

A passing universe put on;

And independent as the sun,

Associates or glows alone,

Fulfilling absolute decree

In casual simplicity.

by Emily Dickinson

daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

by William Wordsworth

poem in your pocket

Thank you Kimberly for sharing this great idea for today! I'll be around to visit blogs in the evening and read all the great poetry everyone is sharing. This poem I am sharing has always struck a chord with me. I have the book and it is full of wonderful poems by "older women"...wisdom and life touch every page.....enjoy.

Warning
by Jenny Joseph

WHEN I AM AN OLD WOMAN I SHALL WEAR PURPLE
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people's gardens

And learn to spit
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

This is a good site to find current poems

by new and established artists

http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/

a poem to share...

Uncounted Blessings

Whenever we gather together,

The words are not easy to find,

But love speaks a common language

When people have ties that bind.

We don't always say what we're feeling

As often as families should;

We don't count our blessings out loud,

But somehow they're understood.

We know that we're thankful for living

With the comfort of each other's care;

We're grateful for memories and stories,

And the jokes that our family shares.

We might leave a promise unspoken,

But we know that we're loyal and true;

We can count on companions through life,

In the sunshine and shadows, too.

We might show some special attention

To a stranger, acquaintance, or guest,

But we never forget in our hearts

About those that we really love best.

These blessings can never be counted

Like money or gold dividends;

They can only be shared as the love

That exists when families are friends.

by Jill Wolf