Life Lessons

Here is a quote from one of my favorite poems.  I believe it sums up life quite perfectly!

“I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” ~T.S.Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Have a great weekend, everyone!

A Something in a Summer’s Day

Here’s one of my favorite poems written by Emily Dickinson that represents the waning days of summer.  I hope you enjoy this poem as much as I do.

Everyone have a good weekend!

A SOMETHING in a summer’s day,

As slow her flambeaux burn away,

Which solumnizes me.

A something in a summer’s noon,--

An azure depth, a wordless tune,

Transcending ecstasy,

And still within a summer’s night

A something so transporting bright,

I clap my hands to see;

Then veil my too inspecting face,

Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace

Flutter too far forme.

The wizard-fingers never rest,

The purple brook within the breast

Still chafes its narrow bed;

Still rears the East her amber flag,

Guides still the sun along the crag

His caravan of red,

Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,

But never deemed the dripping prize

Awaited their low brows;

Or bees, that thought the summer’s name

Some rumor of delirium

No summer could for them;

Or Artic creature, dimly stirred

By tropic hint, --some travelled bird

Imported to the wood;

Or wind’s bright signal to the ear,

Making that homely and severe,

Contented, known, before

The heaven unexpected came,

To lives that thought their worshipping

A too presumptuous psalm.

A Poem for Hope

I saw this poem and thought it was a good one to post for the week.  As always, but especially at this time of year, I want to thank you for your support.  It is a time to reflect and prepare myself for the final push of the semester, and as all of you know, this is my last!  Your readership means the world to me, so thank you for investing your time and effort in this.  It means so much!  And now for the poem!

An Inspirational Thought, 

Motivational Thought Poem for Hope 

by Catherine Pulsifer 

As long as we have hope, we have direction, 

the energy to move, and the map to move by. 

We have a hundred alternatives, a thousand paths and infinity of dreams. 

Hopeful, we are halfway to where we want to go; Hopeless, we are lost forever. 

Hope is the anticipation of an event or an occurrence. 

Our own individual hopes are our own desires,

or could be considered our wish for the future. 

Hope can give us a feeling of optimism when we are feeling discouraged. 

As Diogenes once said, "Hope is the dream of a waking man." 

Hope is one of the prime differences between successful people and those who can only see failure.

Successful people have hope because they can clearly see their goals. 

People who only see failure have no hope because they see no light,

they set no goals, and they see nothing accomplished. 

Successful people see alternatives and are willing to try different ways.

People who only see failure are unable to see another way and give up to easily. 

With hope you are halfway to where you want to go; by setting your goals, and taking the action to achieve them,

you will see your hope turn into your reality! 

A Book

I thought I share this little poem written by Emily Dickinson entitled A Book.  I thank all of your support as I go into these last few of college.  It really bolsters my morale!

Have a great weekend, everyone!

A Book

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands await

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry—

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll—

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul—

Dreams

I came upon this poem by Langston Hughes and thought it relevant to my current mindset.  Coincidently, he is also one of my favorite poets.

I hope you all enjoy this and have a fabulous weekend!

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Langston Hughes

Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight

Today, I wanted to share my favorite poem written by Vachel Lindsay.  Although I was introduced to the piece several years ago, it reveals a fresh prospective every time I read it. As I re-visit it, I’m in awe of this poem’s power to paint poignant images in my mind, and certainly in others.  I hope you enjoy this poem as much as I do.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight

 

(In Springfield, Illinois)

It is portentous, and a thing of state

That here at midnight, in our little town

A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,

Near the old court-house pacing up and down.

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards

He lingers where his children used to play,

Or through the market, on the well-worn stones

He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.

A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,

A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl

Make him the quaint great figure that men love,

The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.

He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.

He is among us:—as in times before!

And we who toss and lie awake for long

Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.

His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.

Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?

Too many peasants fight, they know not why,

Too many homesteads in black terror weep.

The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.

He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.

He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now

The bitterness, the folly and the pain.

He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn

Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free;

The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth,

Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,

That all his hours of travail here for men

Seem yet in vain.   And who will bring white peace

That he may sleep upon his hill again?

Winter's Trek

Below is a poem I wrote a few years ago.  Although it’s old, I think it’s fitting for the season.  I hope you all had a great Christmas, and wish you the best for an amazing start to 2014!

         I

As the winter winds begin to blow,

and as the trees casts shadows on the newly fallen snow,

I feel the wintry gusts fill my very heart and soul.

Is it the wind I fear, or something much more near?

I wonder. 

         II

I walk along the snow-laden path,

thinking of the fire in the hearth at home

and my heart fills with glee at the prospect of a warm bed,

dispelling everything of fear of menace, leaving warmth.

Oh yes, the winter winds blows near, but I am safe and that has made all the difference.

         III

When I was a child, I think, I was simple-minded,

as I walk through the snow.

Life and death seemed like a game to me,

as if handling a ball of fire and never getting burned.

I laugh at my ignorance and self-absorbance as make my way along the snowy path.

The feeling of comfort fades, but its light is still dimly seen through the bows of the trees.

IV

Again, my fear grows.  Old fears and suspicions rise.

Home is nowhere in sight.

I gasp, faltering to the ground.

Is it ever going to end, I wonder.  Is this unceasing cold all I am ever going to know.

“No, I tell myself.  The light of home is just around the corner.  Keep pressing and you’ll find it.”

I get up and walk a few more paces. 

V

There it is!  Home at last.

My joy soars.

I run towards the glittering lights in the windows.

Yes, I am truly home.  Let the winter winds blow,

for I am home…Fears and self-doubts melt away, 

leaving me with a joyful feeling of

home and family.

Don't Quit

Hi All,

We made it through another week--Yippy skippy!  You all know my fascination with poetry, but since I don't time to write my own these days I've been finding inspirational ones with my friend, Alta.  This is a poem that speaks to me during these final weeks of my fall semester.  Thank you for your continuing support.  Love you all!

Don't Quit

 

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,

When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,

When the funds are low and the debts are high,

And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,

When care is pressing you down a bit-

Rest if you must, but don't you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns,

As every one of us sometimes learns

And many a fellow turns about

When he might have won had he stuck it out.

Don't give up though the pace seems slow -

You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than

It seems to a faint and faltering man;

Often the struggler has given up

When he might have captured the victor's cup;

And he learned too late when the night came down,

How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out -

The silver tint in the clouds of doubt,

And you never can tell how close you are,

It might be near when it seems afar;

So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit -

It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.

It Couldn't Be Done

A friend recently read this to me and I thought it blog material.  As always, I hope you had a good week.  Thank you for your continuing support.  It bolsters me as I go through these college days :)  I hope you enjoy the poem by Edgar Albert Guest.

Everyone have a good weekend!

It Couldn't Be Done

 Somebody said that it couldn't be done,
 But he with a chuckle replied
 That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
 Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried. 

 So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
 On his face. If he worried he hid it.
 He started to sing as he tackled the thing
 That couldn't be done, and he did it.

 Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;
 At least no one ever has done it;"
 But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
 And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.

 With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
 Without any doubting or quiddit,
 He started to sing as he tackled the thing
 That couldn't be done, and he did it.

 There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
 There are thousands to prophesy failure;
 There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
 The dangers that wait to assail you.

 But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
 Just take off your coat and go to it;
 Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
 That "cannot be done," and you'll do it. 

 

Hold On

Hi all.  It’s Friday again!  T.G.I.F.  This week, a friend read a poem I found very inspiring, so much I thought I’d share with you all.  It’s a feel-good piece.  I hope you find it as moving as I did.  If you feel the urge, please comment.  Everyone have a wonderful fall weekend!  And without further ado—the poem.

Hold on my heart

Hold on, my heart, in your believing—

Only the steadfast wins the crown;

He, who when stormy winds are heaving,

Parts with his anchor, will go down;

But he who Jesus holds through all,

Will stand, though Heaven and earth should fall.

Hold on!  An end will come to sorrow;

Hope from the dust will conquering rise;

The storm foretells a summer’s morrow;

The Cross points on to Paradise;

The Father reigns!  So cease all doubt;

Hold on, my heart.  Hold on. hold out.

If

Today, I read this poem by Rudyard Kipling and it somewhat exemplifies my feelings as I embark on my final fall semester.  I hope this speaks to you as it does me!  Thank you for your continuing support.  It really means a lot as I prepare to embark on another leg of my unending journey.

If—

By Rudyard Kipling

(‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)

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 impostors 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 worn-out 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 breathe 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!

Complements of http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175772

A Critique of Monet

As a follow-up on last Friday’s commentary on Monet, I thought I’d post one of my favorite poems I’ve written over the years about him.  Trying to capture the beauty of Monet’s brushstrokes is very difficult, in my estimation, but this is my young attempt to do so.  I hope you all enjoy!

How precisely his movement of brush glided over the canvas as he worked.

The beauty of the objects which he saw captures the entire being.

A sparkling lake, a bubbling spring, and a garden filled with colorful, but

Delicate flowers.  Red roses, white lilies and purple asters create a sense of utopia.

It is intense, yet subtle.

The masterpieces transport one to another time and place.  To another century.

It is a place where only beauty remains, though tempered by the reality of the world.

A pastoral, sweet existence for which one yearns.

The man fades, but the image remains of pictorial visions in the sky.

A little girl sitting on a bench in the park, a flower covered wall and a cornfield are

All familiar objects in his imagery.

One is left to wonder if that sense of pastoral passion will every be captured

again.

Or is the spirit too wistful, too unique?

Emily’s Garden

As you all know, the enigma of Emily Dickinson always fascinated me, even as a young child.  Like her poetry, her love of her garden is certainly a well-known aspect of her life.  During these hot, summer days; I always wonder about the poetic musings she had while she worked in her garden; planting and pruning over a hundred years ago.  She certainly experienced the hot, blazing sun at her back while she tended lovingly to her plants.  Today, as I re-read some of her poetry, I marveled at how she captured nature’s beauty and described it on paper.  I feel honored to see the same sun’s brightness as she and to witness God’s great beauty every ephemeral summer day that passes.  It is comforting in a way to know some things change, while others stay the same; that we can always see and feel God’s unending love in His magnificent creations, knowing our journey does not end, only changes in its form.

Carolinian Land

Today, I rummaged through my old writings, and found this poem I thought you all would enjoy.  In it, I try to capture the land’s beauty.  Feel free to post any comments.  Again, thanks for tuning in every week and I hope you all have a marvelous weekend! 

Carolinian Land

How barren are you, 

The wind sweeping across your surface. 

Remnants of grass toss to and fro,

Making you a never-ending sea of shining, flexible, delicate thread. 

Nothing but that whimsical grass is seen playing in the soft breeze;

Evoking an enigma of your quiet, yet effervescent presence. 

You will forever be loved as my own,

Even though you are miles away.

A barren land that is so honored and

Cherished that you will never be forgotten or discarded.

May your beauty remain throughout

Eternity. 

Holiday Poem

Hi All,

Today, in my travels, I came across the poem below and thought it fitting for this time of year.  I hope you all had a blessed week as we draw closer to the holiday season.  It was a good one for me as another successful semester ended, and a period of rest and relaxation began.  Let the holidays proceed!

There's More to Christmas

There's more, much more to Christmas
Than just candle-lights and cheer;
It's the spirit of sweet friendship
That brightens all the years;
It is thoughtfulness and kindness,
It is hope that is reborn again,
For peace, for understanding
And for goodwill to humans!

~ Unknown Author

Goals

Hello,

I hope all of you had a good week.  Five minutes ago, something inspired me to write this poem.  Again, I thank you for visiting my blog on a weekly basis, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!  Have a good weekend, and survive the storm!

There’s a goal within my reach—

which I have waited

With baited breath,

Sighs,

Tears

and laughter—

A goal—

Only a reflection in my mind—

A goal I held so dear

no one knew my silent dream—

And now, now, it is here—

Here, never to be relinquished—

Never to be mind again; never to

Dwell in the darkness of my soul—

Never to take refuge in my innermost heart—

A goal, which the entire world will see;

To hear and heed—

I only hope I have the strength to confront

That goal.

Will it swallow me with its great with enthusiasm—

Or will it lap at my heels—

Friendly and kind?

Only time will tell—

Only time will tell!

My Voice

I hope everyone had a good week.  I've decided to post a newly written poem I created for my English class this week.  I hope you all enjoy and comments are welcome.  Have a fantastic weekend! 

My Voice

It was summer; the summer after high school graduation,

all the fanfare gone,

all the anticipated success gone—

There I sat in my bedroom—

Waiting for what was to come—

Waiting to hear my voice—

A voice that could not be heard

Over the static of my own inhibitions—

Lost in a crowd of my mind,

I reached out to find my own voice—

A single, solitary voice that was mine. 

Diminished by imaginary voices, I reached towards my authentic being—

My real voice—

Traveling to that place, I felt in awe of my power—

My own rhythm—

My own sense of myself—

It was a new world—

A new, uncharted land.

At first, I was afraid,

Afraid to unleash that voice inside.

I knew was always there,

Like a friendly apparition—

Looking at a blank slate—

I fervently prayed for my voice to come—

To free itself from self-imposed chains—

It finally came, to my astonishment and relief.

And, oh, did it come in a torrent of thoughts and feelings—

Of those I did not know existed and they swam in my soul—

As I let the words flow,

I felt a release—

A release of my inner self that asked to be revealed

Throughout my life—

The friendly ghost finally freed—

Never to be held captive again.

To the surprise of all, that voice has remained to this day—

Strong in its desire to be heard and acknowledged—

That has a new thought to impart everyday—

My authentic voice is now audible—

For the world to heed!

A Touch of Emily…Again

I hope you all had a good week.  It’s becoming my favorite part of the year: Autumn.  Seeing leaves flutter to the ground or smelling smoke during a walk are great comforts to me.  Today, I stumbled upon a poem by, guess who?  Emily Dickinson.  I felt compelled to share and hope you enjoy.  Wishing all a good weekend!

Besides the Autumn poets sing

Besides the Autumn poets sing
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze—

A few incisive Mornings—
A few Ascetic Eves—
Gone—Mr. Bryant's "Golden Rod"—
And Mr. Thomson's "sheaves."

Still, is the bustle in the Brook—
Sealed are the spicy valves—
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The Eyes of many Elves—

Perhaps a squirrel may remain—
My sentiments to share—
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind—
Thy windy will to bear!

Hemmingway and Me

Below is a part of an essay I wrote a few years ago for a writing class.  Although it’s been in my archives for years, I think it signifies life’s journey: not only for me, but also for all.  Enjoy!

                                                                                                                      July 19, 2008

Dear Diary,

        Today is a day I think I will remember for the rest of my life.  Imagine me—a published poet!  It’s a great milestone for my 27^th year.  It’s hard to believe my thoughts and emotions are packaged with those of other poets in a book for the entire world to see.  It’s hard to wrap my mind around the magnitude of it all—and to think the poem was borne out of my spirit’s despair!

        I vividly recall how the poem first took seed in my mind.  About a month or two ago, I was feeling really low about my life, and about how it seemed I had made little progress.  The pace of my journey seemed so slow.  I pondered my fate as a writer, a college student, and as a human being in general.  “Where will this journey ultimately end up,” I asked myself.  I wondered if my trials and hard work would count for nothing and lead nowhere.

        Then, I began to remind myself of how very far I had come, just in the past two years.  Why was I in such of a hurry trying to accomplish my goals in such a short period of time?  I still have time. I have the rest of my life!

        Right now, the last stanza of my newly published poem echoes in my mind:

Hemmingway failed in

Life’s adventure.

Not Me.

Never me.

It was another awakening—just the beginning.  This summer has added another layer to my spirit.   I guess I’m ready and eager for life’s next adventure—no matter what it may hold and where it leads.

The Ghost of Amherst

Today, I decided to post another poem.  Although The Ghost of Amherst appeared in the summer \ fall edition of UCP’s Life Without Limits, I like the poem so much that I decided to post it.  For those who have already read it, I apologize.  As I said before, I feel affinity towards Emily Dickinson because her mind was a whirl with thoughts and words: such as mine.  The old poem reminds me if we are not careful, we all create mental prisons for ourselves; ones in which we cannot break free.  Without further ado, here’s the Ghost of Amherst.

The Ghost of Amherst

The ghost of Amherst she will always be—

Who walks the shores and swims the seas.

There is a ghost of Amherst, you know.

When all is dark and only moonlight glows—

She prowls her haunts and wishes she could be free,

But a slave to destiny she always will be—

For the universe ignores her plea.

The ghost of Amherst she will always be—

Who walks the shores and swims the seas.

She wrings her hands in despair,

Knowing death is always there—

An invisible prison that

Deprives her of the life she once knew.

The ghost of Amherst she will always be—

Who walks the shores and swims the seas.

Her white dress flows and casts a shadow

across the land she once loved—only a

Faint memory to her now.

She pledges a solemn vow to break her unending

Chain of unhappiness.

The ghost of Amherst she will always be—

Who walks the shores and swims the seas.

She visits the grave she knows so well,

where she reads her own name

And grieves eternally.

The ghost of Amherst she will always be—

Who walks the shores and swims the seas.