I'm Nobody! Who Are You?

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you a nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us-don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
-Emily Dickinson

Dancing

Wide sleeves sway.
Scents,
Sweet scents
Incessantly coming.


It is red lilies,
Lotus lilies,
Floating up,
And up,
Out of autumn mist.


Thin clouds
Puffed, 
Fluttered,
Blown on a rippling wind
Through a mountain pass.


Young willow shoots
Touching, 
Brushing,
The water
Of the garden pool.
-Yang Kuei-Fei
Translated by Florence Ayscough and Amy Lowell

First Day of Fall

Autumn
The morns are meeker than they were,
     The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
     The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a grayer scarf,
     The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
     I'll put a trinket on.
-Emily Dickinson

The Lion and the Echo

The King of the Beasts, deep in the wood,
Roared as loudly as it could.
Right away the echo came back
And the lion thought itself under attack.


"What voice is it that roars like mine?"
The echo replied, "Mine, mine."


"Who might you be?" asked the furious lion,
"I'm king of this jungle, this jungle is mine."
And the echo came back a second time,
"This jungle is mine, is mine, is mine."


The lion swore revenge if only it could
Discover the intruder in the wood.
It roared "Coward! Come out and show yourself!"
But the fearless echo replied simply ". . .elf."


"Come out," roared the lion, "Enough deceit,
Do you fear for your own defeat?"
But all the echo did was repeat
"Defeat . . . defeat . . . "


Frightened by every conceivable sound,
The exhausted lion sank to the ground.
A bird in a tree looked down and it said,
"Dear lion, I"m afraid that what you hear
Is simply the voice of your lion-sized fear."
-Brian Patten

June

June is here, the month of roses, month of brides and month of bees,
Weaving garlands for our lassies, whispering love songs in the trees,
Painting scenes of gorgeous splendor, canvases no man could brush,
Changing scenes from early morning till the sunset's crimson flush.

June is here, the month of blossoms, month of roses white and red,
Wet with dew and perfume-laden, nodding whereso'er we tread;
Come the bees to gather honey, all the lazy afternoon;
Flowers and lassies, men and meadows, love alike the month of June.

Month of love and month of sunshine, month of happiness and song,
Month that cheers the sad wayfarer as he plods the road along;
Spreading out a velvet carpet, green and yellow, for his feet,
And affording for his rest hours many a cool and sweet retreat.
-Edgar A. Guest

The Elf and the Dormouse

It rained today, so I thought of this poem.

Under a toadstool crept a wee Elf,
Out of the rain, to shelter himself.

Under the toadstool sound asleep,
Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap.

Trembled the wee Elf, frightened, and yet
Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.

To the next shelter-maybe a mile!
Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile,

Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two.
Holding it over him, gayly he flew.

Soon he was safe home, dry as could be.
Soon woke the Dormouse-"Good gracious me!"

"Where is my toadstool?" loud he lamented.
-And that's how umbrellas first were invented.
                                              -Oliver Herford

Easter Song

Hear the bells ringing,
They're singing
That we can be born again!

Hear the bells ringing,
They're singing,
"Christ is risen from the dead!"

The angel upon the tombstone said,
"He is risen just as He said.
Quickly now, go tell his disciples,
That Jesus Christ is no longer dead!"

Joy to the world!
He is risen!
Alleluia!
     -Anne Herring

Rainy Day

It's been raining cats and dogs here. I was going to jog around our block, but when I woke up and saw how much it was raining, I decided to stay in bed, nice and dry. I think this poem is perfect for today:
Don't you just love those rainy days
They can be enjoyed in so many ways
Listening to the rain as it pitter patters
Calms you down, soon nothing matters

Pounding on roofs with deafening dins
Pausing momentarily then again it begins
While you lay there wondering
If the next lightning heralds even louder thundering

Look at your poor dog as he lies there quivering
He is not cold but still he is shivering
Remember as a child you too were scared of thunder
So you hug your dog while the clouds split asunder

You enjoy the change because rainy days are few
Rain cleans the air and washes everything everything anew
All smells fresh for the next sunny day
To wait again for the arrival of another rainy day.
- Barry Williams

(photo credit: eikaiwa-blog.blogspot.com)

"Litany" by Billy Collins

I like this poem, but I especially love how this little boy recites it. So cute :D.

Things I Love ....

This poem by P.K. Dufault:

Burden

I called you because I could not stand alone

looking north to that skyline --

tree globed with its yellow apples

balancing like a fountain of planets

in the bright light and the blue air.

And because on the way there

I looked at a smooth cirque

the brook had worn in a stone;

and nothing as soft as water

could, by taking care,

have so nestled and polished

that granite mortar; only

by a thousand years of indifference,

of aiming elsewhere.

I wish we might do -- or no,

look back and find we had done  --

some unadvertised thing,

overwhelming and un-self-aware

as water streamlining a stone,

or a tree's kindling in an empty meadow

its casual Hesperides.

~Mara      



The Other Fellow

Whose luck is better far than ours?
     The other fellow's.
Whose road seems always lined with flowers?
     The other fellow's.
Who is the man who seems to get
Most joy in life, with least regret,
Who always seems to win his bet?
     The other fellow.

Who fills the place we think we'd like?
     The other fellow.
Whom does good fortune always strike?
     The other fellow.
Whom do we envy, day by day?
Who has more time than we to play?
Who is it, when we mourn, seems gay?
     The other fellow.

Who seems to miss the thorns we find?
     The other fellow.
Who seems to leave us all behind?
     The other fellow.
Who never seems to feel the woe,
The anguish and the pain we know?
Who gets the best seats at the show?
     The other fellow.

And yet, my friend, who envies you?
     The other fellow.
Who thinks he gathers only rue?
     The other fellow.
Who sighs because he thinks that he
Would infinitely happier be,
If he could be like you or me?
     The other fellow.
                              -Edgar A. Guest

Bright Star

Bright Star is Qixi's favorite John Keats poem, so I thought I'd post it for you all to see.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art---
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors---
No---yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever---or else swoon in death.

Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,

And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;

For many a year he had gnawed it near,

For meat was hard to come by.

Done by! Gum by!

In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,

And meat was hard to come by.

Up came Tom with his big boots on.

Said he to troll: 'Pray, what is yon?

For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim,

As should be a-lyin in graveyard.

Caveyard! Paveyard!

This many a year has Tim been gone,

And I thought he were lyin' in a graveyard.'

'My lad,' said Troll,' this bone I stole.

But what be bones that lie in a hole?

Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,

Afore I found his shinbone.

Tinbone! Thinbone!

He can spare a share for a poor old troll,

For he don't need his shinbone.'

Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee

Without axin' leave should go makin' free

With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin; 

So hand the old bone over!

Rover! Trover!

Though dead he be, it belongs to he;

So hand the old bone over!'

'For a couple o' pins,' says Troll, and grins,

'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.

A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!

I'll try my teeth on thee now. 

Hee now! See now!

I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;

I've a mind to dine on thee now.'

But just as he thought his dinner was caught,

He found his hands had hold of naught.

Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind

And gave him the boot to larn him.

Warn him! Darn him!

A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,

Would be the way to larn him.

But harder than stone is the flesh and bone

Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.

As well set your boot to the mountain's root,

For the seat of a troll don't feel it.

Peel it! Heel it!

Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,

And he knew his toes could feel it.

Tom's leg is game, since home he came,

And his bootless foot is lasting lame;

But Troll don't care, and he's still there

With the bone he boned from its owner.

Doner! Boner!

Troll's old seat is still the same,

And the bone he boned from its owner!

Sam, recites this poem in The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien

A Baby in the House

A couple days ago I babysat my neighbor's 11 month old baby girl. She is the sweetest little thing who never cries and always goes right to sleep when I lay her down in her crib. While babysitting her, I thought about a little booklet of poems I have in my room entitled Rhymes of Childhood. It's by Edgar A. Guest and I love every poem. They're all so sweet and I go through and reread them every now and then.

A Baby in the House
Something to talk about, something to do,
Something to laugh at the whole day through,
Something to look at with pride and with glee,
Something for friends to come in just to see;
Oh, you can't sum up all the wonderful things
Of joy and delight which a new baby brings

There's a smile that is brighter than sunbeams of May,
A wave of farewell as you're starting away,
A glad time of frolic which no one can steal,
A thrill inexpressible, lovely to feel.
There's something to boast of and something to tell
When a baby has come to the lace where you dwell.

There's never an hour that is lonely and drear;
The days are filled up to the top with good cheer.
You have someone to play with and someone to sing to,
Someone to romp with and someone to cling to;
And always you're finding some pleasure that's new
When God has sent down a glad baby to you.
                                                           - Edgar A. Guest

Apples

I like apples. Crispy apples. I also like summer. I really like warm weather. The high this weekend was 14 degrees Farenheight. That's cold. And so, when I read this poem, it really struck a chord with me;

The apples are seasoned
And ripe and sound.
Gently they fall
On the yellow ground.

The apples are stored
In the dusky bin
Where hardly a glimmer
Of light creeps in.

In the firelit, winter
Nights, they'll be
The clear sweet taste
Of a summer tree!
                      - Frances Frost

Politeness

If people ask me,
I always tell them:
"Quite well, thank you, I'm very glad to say."
If people ask me,
I always answer,
"Quite well, thank you, how are you today?"
I always answer,
I always tell them,
If they ask me
Politely . . .
BUT SOMETIMES
                               I wish
                                              that they wouldn't.




- A. A. Milne

The Little Girl and the Turkey

I was reading some Thanksgiving poems and I came upon this one which I thought was too sweet to keep to myself;

The Little Girl and the Turkey

The little girl said

As she asked for more:

"But what is the Turkey

Thankful for?"

                                                                                       -Dorothy Aldis                                                      

A Poem

I was going through my journal today, and noticed a poem I had written awhile ago that I had completely forgotten about. I thought I'd jot it down here, even though it's nothing special. The reality is that I didn't know what to blog about, so I thought "Qixi, just write down the poem, and who cares what anyone thinks about it!"

I do things differently when I'm at home
Sometimes I pretend I'm visiting Rome

When close upon me there comes a menace,
I pretend I'm boating on the canals in Venice

To a friend who was leaving, I said "Goodbye"
Then to mask the pain, I pretended I was a caterpillar, turning into a butterfly

Once, someone gave me a rose,all pretty and red
But it died soon after I had gone to bed

When I wake up and the sky is gray,
I go back to bed and sleep until a sunny day