Biography of T.A. Rosenbaum
So, biography, to write down the life to try and tell about the who. But, on a real and important level, what is the 'who.' Who are you? Who am I? Are we a collective of our desires, experiences, likes, and loves? Or are we something deeper, something more tangible than those things that wash away when we sleep and when we die. Pretentious to write this in the bio, perhaps, but I have always pondered it deeply, and perhaps that tells you more about me than if I did this;
I love opera, poetry, movies, philosophy (classical and eastern mainly) , nature, and learning.
I grew up on a farm and lived in a small town. I grew up with the animals and forests and books as my friends. I was bored in school and often got myself into trouble in a wide range of ways. I don't tell many people I know that I really love to write poems.
You be the judge.
T.A. Rosenbaum Poems
We oft' will share those soft spun lores 'neath the care of that starry dome Oh! The place our heart most adores Far removed from those sundering shores
It’s you I miss And I promise this A part of me lives in you Tho’ never said, it’s true
Lantern In A Cold Winter's Night
The sun was setting deep and fast With it cold air blowing A chill that sank straight to bone Winter nights are growing
Good Morning/Good Night
Lovely, in a tired sort of way and there, today, she stood Watching, as always, the Dawn along the way How many a day had she stood?
Tale Of The Dancers
Never touching, always bending, swaying, without refrain Dance and hope, our swirling figures brush The rush, so simple, a temple, you and I Why is it never embrace? No trace, of time gone by
Then, like an autumn leaf upon the wind, As if she'd never been, and as angels often tend,
When I Die
One day, when I die and pass away I may then fly, in my form no more to stay Where the sun is warm and a score of flowers sway And play, as they, a lifetime never to stray
The Days They Fly
Hark! The sun it rises But the mourning dove cries As morning it dies Lo, high sun's rise
Sages Thoughts, Lovers Hearts
Spoken words may tell a lie Often found, more often hidden Words that are left unspoken Often lost, less often bidden
The Mariner's Wife
Salty spray upon wondering prow How fast the Dauntless cuts a wake! For the men that give her life sake The Captain wonders the distance now
Sonnet Of The Candlewood
The Vespers light the way in the eve Carried by fey creatures To the near and far reaches Through bough, vine, and tree
The Fox And The Grove
The field glitter'd Golds, unfettered greens, hidden browns between Though I was loath to disturb that swaying hoard That fire'y opulence, earth forged bounteous sheen
Triplets For A Dying Old Man
Oh Brian, my Brian, come again to me I'm lying in this prison here My pain hidden from thee
Behold the man who is less then a man By virtue of what he craves Inglorious fare upon his tables when bare By instinct this animal behaves!
Good Morning/Good Night
Lovely, in a tired sort of way
and there, today, she stood
Watching, as always, the Dawn along the way
How many a day had she stood?
Wishing to capture if she could
That opposing of her endless gray
But the toll of that way, a tired sort of way
That she walked from day to day