Laughter And Tears Ix

As the Sun withdrew his rays from the garden, and the moon threw cushioned beams upon the flowers, I sat under the trees pondering upon the phenomena of the atmosphere, looking through the branches at the strewn stars which glittered like chips of silver upon a blue carpet; and I could hear from a distance the agitated murmur of the rivulet singing its way briskly into the valley. When the birds took shelter among the boughs, and the flowers folded their petals, and tremendous silence descended, I heard a rustle of feet though the grass. I took heed and saw a young couple approaching my arbor. The say under a tree where I could see them without being seen.

The Star Splitter

`You know Orion always comes up sideways. Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains, And rising on his hands, he looks in on me Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something I should have done by daylight, and indeed, After the ground is frozen, I should have done Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney To make fun of my way of doing things, Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.

No, You Be A Lone Eagle

I find it very hard to be fair-minded About people who go around being air-minded. I just can't see any fun In soaring up up up into the sun When the chances are still a fresh cool orchid to a paper geranium That you'll unsoar down down down onto your (to you) invaluable cranium. I know the constant refrain About how safer up in God's trafficless heaven than in an automobile or a train

Thinking For Berky

In the late night listening from bed I have joined the ambulance or the patrol screaming toward some drama, the kind of end that Berky must have some day, if she isn't dead. The wildest of all, her father and mother cruel, farming out there beyond the old stone quarry where highschool lovers parked their lurching cars, Berky learned to love in that dark school.

On Death, Without Exaggeration

It can't take a joke, find a star, make a bridge. It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming, building ships, or baking cakes. In our planning for tomorrow, it has the final word, which is always beside the point. It can't even get the things done that are part of its trade:

A Dogs Life

In an attempt to lighten up my poem site I offer this doggeral style ditty about my neighbor's dog- I used to range those farming fields, It became my daily habit; And oft when roaming far and wide, I'd catch a big fat rabbit. Every possum, skunk and cat I saw Were always under siege.

Here Died

There's many a schoolboy's bat and ball that are gathering dust at home, For he hears a voice in the future call, and he trains for the war to come; A serious light in his eyes is seen as he comes from the schoolhouse gate; He keeps his kit and his rifle clean, and he sees that his back is straight. But straight or crooked, or round, or lame – you may let these words take root; As the time draws near for the sterner game, all boys should learn to shoot, From the beardless youth to the grim grey-beard, let Australians ne'er forget,

Millenial Hymn To Lord Shiva

Earth no longer hymns the Creator, the seven days of wonder, the Garden is over — all the stories are told, the seven seals broken all that begins must have its ending, our striving, desiring, our living and dying,

Monadnoc

Thousand minstrels woke within me, "Our music's in the hills; "— Gayest pictures rose to win me, Leopard-colored rills. Up!—If thou knew'st who calls To twilight parks of beech and pine, High over the river intervals, Above the ploughman's highest line, Over the owner's farthest walls;— Up!—where the airy citadel

How Beautiful Is

How beautiful is the Belief, when we belief in the God How beautiful are the Creatures, when we belief in the Creator How beautiful is the Motherhood, when we belief in the Sacrifices How beautiful is the Fatherhood, when we belief in the Battles How beautiful is the Childhood, when we belief in the Innocence How beautiful is the Dream, when we belief in the Ambition How beautiful is the Contentment, when we belief in the Simplicity How beautiful is the Life, when we belief in the dead

I'M Sorry For The Dead—today

529 I'm sorry for the Dead—Today— It's such congenial times Old Neighbors have at fences— It's time o' year for Hay. And Broad—Sunburned Acquaintance Discourse between the Toil— And laugh, a homely species

The Never-Never Country

By homestead, hut, and shearing-shed, By railroad, coach, and track -- By lonely graves of our brave dead, Up-Country and Out-Back: To where 'neath glorious the clustered stars The dreamy plains expand -- My home lies wide a thousand miles In the Never-Never Land. It lies beyond the farming belt,

Earth Day 2023

April 22, Earth Day, who cares? Government's don't, The politicians don't, Big business don't, The fossil fuel industry don't, The global mining industry don't Those using inorganic pesticides don't, War mongers don't.

A Study In The 'Nood'

He was bare—we don’t want to be rude— (His condition was owing to drink) They say his condition was nood, Which amounts to the same thing, we think (We mean his condition, we think, ’Twas a naked condition, or nood, Which amounts to the same thing, we think) Uncovered he lay on the grass That shrivelled and shrunk; and he stayed Three hot summer days, while the glass

I Have Trouble Living

I have some trouble living. My wife found out that her friends were more affluent than us, they had posher cars, bigger houses in bigger cities, costlier maids; engaged drivers

By Hut, Homestead And Shearing Shed,

By hut, homestead and shearing shed, By railroad, coach and track- By lonely graves where rest the dead, Up-Country and Out-Back: To where beneath the clustered stars The dreamy plains expand- My home lies wide a thousand miles In Never-Never Land. It lies beyond the farming belt,

Never, Never Land

By hut, homestead and shearing shed, By railroad, coach and track- By lonely graves where rest the dead, Up-Country and Out-Back: To where beneath the clustered stars The dreamy plains expand- My home lies wide a thousand miles In Never-Never Land. It lies beyond the farming belt,

The Peter-Bird

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter, And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter, Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. So let me tell you the tale, when, where, and how it all happened, And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson. Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky One that was reckoned a witch--full of strange spells and devices; Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for charms voodooistic--

But What's The Use

But what’s the use of writing ‘bush’— Though editors demand it— For city folk, and farming folk, Can never understand it. They’re blind to what the bushman sees The best with eyes shut tightest, Out where the sun is hottest and The stars are most and brightest. The crows at sunrise flopping round Where some poor life has run down;

Prince Harming

She was always searching for a 'Prince Charming' Who can use his tool for skillful farming But the one she found was expert in farting That too at the rate explosive and alarming Which contributed to the global warming So she eschewed 'C' and named him 'Prince Harming'.