If I look at light (Un-wreathed quatrains) (in answer to John Milton)
If I look at light in this world of darkness
the starkness of a moonless starless night
brings nothing bright to my own consciousness
with only a flickering kind of strange sight,
the light is dim in a world of bickering,
existing is a bad reflection of Him
and the brim decline is in every thing
while we as is due act proper and prim,
in everything it still stays very true,
in what we do that the Supreme Being
who's everlasting somewhere beyond the blue,
does indeed from us not need a thing
and at His behest many thousands speed
in each deed, in nothing that we suggest,
but to His request even existence heed,
to bring constant joy, happiness and rest.
[Reference: Sonnet xix "On his Blindness" by John Milton.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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On His Blindness
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."
poem by John Milton
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Sonnet XIX: When I Consider How my Light is Spent
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."
poem by John Milton
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Sonnet 19
XIX
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask; But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
poem by John Milton
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At times it might look (in answer to W. B. Yeats)
At times it might look and feel if the young
are truly living, are really happy,
as if to them the whole world does belong
in their bliss, even in iniquity;
some call ageing trifling, even paltry,
but in the eyes of the honest true love,
age brings a kind of great maturity
and nothing can the loveliness remove
which in each word and deed selfless express
the greatest kind of sheer loving kindness
when a heart does unwavering love possess
and love has a own unique blindness
that does overreach everything else,
a deep thing about which any poet tells.
[Reference: "Sailing to Byzantium" by W.B. Yeats.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Light.
Light me a light any kind of light,
Just shine its beam into my darkest night,
For like a child I stay up in fright,
So light me a light any light tonight.
Candlelight, moonlight any light is just right,
For in that light I might find my might!
Don’t sing me a song, don’t hold me tight,
Just light me a light, any light tonight.
Light me a light to assist my sight,
Just my naked eye darkness cannot fight,
So before darkness gets a chance to bite,
Light me a light any kind of light.
Flickering, glaring or outright bright,
I don’t care what kind just light me a light,
All I need is darkness away tonight,
So light me a light any kind of light.
poem by Barak Al'Mondia
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No Letters From Home!
A stranger lies ill, in a distant city,
With no - - letters from home!
The glances that meet him, in lieu of pity,
Are querring, "Why does he roam?"
"Oh, heed my request," says he, "else 'twere better
I slept in this gold-dusted loam;
Dismiss the physician, and bring a letter--
A flock of kind letters from home."
"Oh, heed my request," says he, "else 'twer better I
I slept in this gold-dusted loam;
Dismiss the physician, and bring a letter--
A flock of kind letters from home."
Like messenger doves, from across the mountains,
Cream tinted and golden and white?
Like the clouds that have sipp'd at the Eastern fountains
For thirsty land to take flight;
So come the dear missives--but ah! the stranger
Receives none to lighten his gloom;
In this time of sickness, this hour of danger,
Not ever one letter from home!
He moans in his slumber "Why did I ever
So far - - westwardly roam;
Oh, must I lie down must I sleep forever
With no loving letters from home?
My bones you may bury where winds are lifting
Pacific's broad billows in foam;
Or there on Lone Mountain, where sands are drifting,
But first, bring a letter from home."
"From the 'Golden' up to the portals pearly,"
He murmurs, "Oh can it be far?
On the sunset domain, in the morn how early
Will glimmer the Orient Star?
What light is the melting my shade like fetters?
What birds are those circling the dome?
Those messenger doves are my long sought letters
My flock of kind letters from home."
"They heed my request," says he, "best of debtors,
Their favors are whitening the dome!
Sweet messenger doves are my long sought letters,
My flock of kind letters from home."
poem by Henry Clay Work
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War and Peace
"This war is a terrible thing," he said,
"With its countless numbers of needless dead;
A futile warfare it seems to me,
Fought for no principle I can see.
Alas, that thousands of hearts should bleed
For naught but a tyrant's boundless greed!"
* * * *
Said the wholesale grocer, in righteous mood,
As he went to adulterate salable food.
Spake as follows the merchant king:
"Isn't this war a disgusting thing?
Heartless, cruel, and useless, too;
It doesn't seem that it can be true.
Think of the misery, want and fear!
We ought to be grateful we've no war here.
* * * *
"Six a week"--to a girl--"That's flat!
I can get a thousand to work for that."
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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A Meeting With Despair
AS evening shaped I found me on a moor
Which sight could scarce sustain:
The black lean land, of featureless contour,
Was like a tract in pain.
"This scene, like my own life," I said, "is one
Where many glooms abide;
Toned by its fortune to a deadly dun--
Lightless on every side.
I glanced aloft and halted, pleasure-caught
To see the contrast there:
The ray-lit clouds gleamed glory; and I thought,
"There's solace everywhere!"
Then bitter self-reproaches as I stood
I dealt me silently
As one perverse--misrepresenting Good
In graceless mutiny.
Against the horizon's dim-descernèd wheel
A form rose, strange of mould:
That he was hideous, hopeless, I could feel
Rather than could behold.
"'Tis a dead spot, where even the light lies spent
To darkness!" croaked the Thing.
"Not if you look aloft!" said I, intent
On my new reasoning.
"Yea--but await awhile!" he cried. "Ho-ho!--
Look now aloft and see!"
I looked. There, too, sat night: Heaven's radiant show
Had gone. Then chuckled he.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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A Motor Courtship
Into her presence he gaily pranced,
A very fat spark, and a bit advanced.
With a Samson tread on the earth he trod,
He was stayed and gaitered, and fifty odd.
And she was a tulip just unfurled,
The sweetest thing in the motor world.
Her body was one of which poets dreamed;
Eighteen -- twenty, or so she seemed.
Her air was haughty, her spirit proud,
But properly governed, as all allowed.
"Pity," he said, "my sad condition;
My heart's in a state of advanced ignition.
"Ask me to do some desperate deed,
And I'll do it at once at my topmost speed."
"Sir," said the maiden, "pray be seated;
I fear from your bearing you're somewhat heated.
"And I trust that a timely lubrication
Of throttle will cool your circulation."
As a well-made mixture she indicated,
With joy and gladness he radiated.
"Oh, come," said he, "in this soft spring weather,
Let us run over the world together!"
But she slipped his clutch with a gesture mocking,
"Your heart," she said; "I can hear it knocking.
"You haven't the gear at my pace to last;
Both men and motors -- I like them fast.
"And I think that in me you have missed your mission;
You are only an old-style tube-ignition!"
With a sidelong motion he left the place;
For weal or woe he was off his base.
He drove his car to the cliffs of Dover,
Made one short circuit and ran her over.
And the stormy Petrol her rest is taking,
Where only the wild waves do the "braking".
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Sonnet LIX: As Love and I
As Love and I, late harbor'd in one inn,
With proverbs thus each other entertain:
"In Love there is no lack," thus I begin;
"Fair words make fools," replieth he again;
"Who spares to speak doth spare to speed," quoth I;
"As well," saith he, "too forward as too slow";
"Fortune assists the boldest," I reply;
"A hasty man," quoth he, "ne'er wanted woe";
"Labor is light where Love," quoth I, "doth pay";
Saith he, "Light burden's heavy, if far borne";
Quoth I, "The main lost, cast the bye away";
"You have spun a fair thread," he replies in scorn.
And having thus awhile each other thwarted,
Fools as we met, so fools again we parted.
poem by Michael Drayton
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Let the Light Enter
"The dying words of Goethe."
"Light! more light! the shadows deepen,
And my life is ebbing low,
Throw the windows widely open:
Light! more light! before I go.
"Softly let the balmy sunshine
Play around my dying bed,
E'er the dimly lighted valley
I with lonely feet must tread.
"Light! more light! for Death is weaving
Shadows 'round my waning sight,
And I fain would gaze upon him
Through a stream of earthly light."
Not for greater gifts of genius;
Not for thoughts more grandly bright,
All the dying poet whispers
Is a prayer for light, more light.
Heeds he not the gathered laurels,
Fading slowly from his sight;
All the poet's aspirations
Centre in that prayer for light.
Gracious Saviour, when life's day-dreams
Melt and vanish from the sight,
May our dim and longing vision
Then be blessed with light, more light.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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To Lovers
Ho, ye lovers, list to me;
Warning words have I for thee:
Give ye heed, hefore ye wed,
To this thing Sir Chaucer said:
"Love wol not be constrained by maistrie,
When maistrie cometh, the god of love anon
Beteth his winges, and farewel, he is gon."
Other poets knew as well,
And the same sad story tell,
Hark ye, heed ye, while ye may,
What the worldly Pope doth say:
"Love, free as air, at sight of human ties
Spreads his light wings and in a moment flies."
This, Sir Hudibras, brave knight,
Faithful lover, constant wight,
From his lady's lips did hear;
Mark ye, eke, the warning clear:
"Love is too generous t'abide
To be against its nature ty'd,
For where 'tis of itself inclin'd,
It breaks loose when it is confin'd."
Ho, ye lovers, shall I tell
How through life with Love to dwell,
Spite of all the poets say?
Harken to the easy way:--
Strive to bind him not, but see
That the little god binds thee.
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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Sonnet 105: Let not my love be called idolatry
Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my belovèd as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love today, tomorrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
"Fair, kind, and true" is all my argument,
"Fair, kind, and true" varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.
Which three till now never kept seat in one.
poem by William Shakespeare
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At play
Play that you are mother dear,
And play that papa is your beau;
Play that we sit in the corner here,
Just as we used to, long ago.
Playing so, we lovers two
Are just as happy as we can be,
And I'll say "I love you" to you,
And you say "I love you" to me!
"I love you" we both shall say,
All in earnest and all in play.
Or, play that you are that other one
That some time came, and went away;
And play that the light of years agone
Stole into my heart again to-day!
Playing that you are the one I knew
In the days that never again may be,
I'll say "I love you" to you,
And you say "I love you" to me!
I love you!" my heart shall say
To the ghost of the past come back to-day!
Or, play that you sought this nestling-place
For your own sweet self, with that dual guise
Of your pretty mother in your face
And the look of that other in your eyes!
So the dear old loves shall live anew
As I hold my darling on my knee,
And I'll say "I love you" to you,
And you say "I love you" to me!
Oh, many a strange, true thing we say
And do when we pretend to play!
poem by Eugene Field
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The Hope Of My Heart
"Delicta juventutis et ignorantius ejus, quoesumus ne memineris, Domine."
I left, to earth, a little maiden fair,
With locks of gold, and eyes that shamed the light;
I prayed that God might have her in His care
And sight.
Earth's love was false; her voice, a siren's song;
(Sweet mother-earth was but a lying name)
The path she showed was but the path of wrong
And shame.
"Cast her not out!" I cry. God's kind words come --
"Her future is with Me, as was her past;
It shall be My good will to bring her home
At last."
poem by John McCrae
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What Are Your Priorities?
In these changing times I must ask,
What are your priorities my friends?
As great travail brings us all to task,
When the world as we know it ends
Is it money and possessions you need?
Or is it time to "Get it right with God"?
As time begins moving at light-speed,
On bended knees it's Him we must laud
Those who gnash their teeth and curse,
Shall be allowed their suffering and vices
For it's not God's will to compel or coerce,
He'd rather leave men to their own devices
At the "End of days" all shall be revealed
All is brought to light that was concealed
ROTMS
View ROTMS writings, images and video at;
rotms.blogspot.com
poem by Ray Lucero
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The night wind
Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"?
'T is a pitiful sound to hear!
It seems to chill you through and through
With a strange and speechless fear.
'T is the voice of the night that broods outside
When folk should be asleep,
And many and many's the time I've cried
To the darkness brooding far and wide
Over the land and the deep:
Whom do you want, O lonely night,
That you wail the long hours through?"
And the night would say in its ghostly way:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"
My mother told me long ago
(When I was a little tad)
That when the night went wailing so,
Somebody had been bad;
And then, when I was snug in bed,
Whither I had been sent,
With the blankets pulled up round my head,
I'd think of what my mother'd said,
And wonder what boy she meant!
And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask
Of the wind that hoarsely blew,
And the voice would say in its meaningful way:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"
That this was true I must allow -
You'll not believe it, though!
Yes, though I'm quite a model now,
I was not always so.
And if you doubt what things I say,
Suppose you make the test;
Suppose, when you've been bad some day
And up to bed are sent away
From mother and the rest -
Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?"
And then you'll hear what's true;
For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone:
"Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!
Yoooooooo!"
poem by Eugene Field
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I want to love you in all of my days (Italian sonnet)
(after Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
I want to love you in all of my days,
live with you a life that is true and right,
find you next to me in each solemn night,
bring to your humanity and beauty praise,
love you in all of my life's simple ways,
see you day by day smiling very bright,
find with you happiness with candlelight
and then by God's infinite kind of grace,
never a moment in your company loose,
in the hopes of life find a childhood faith
that our love will surpass the bonds of death,
that God's kindness in us, be put to use,
that in His great plan He will us both save,
I love you in every word, deed and breath.
[Reference: "How do I love Thee? Let me count the ways" by Elizabeth Barrett
poem by Gert Strydom
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After
"How fared you when you mortal were?
What did you see on my peopled star?"
"Oh well enough," I answered her,
"It went for me where mortals are!
"I saw blue flowers and the merlin's flight
And the rime on the wintry tree,
Blue doves I saw and summer light
On the wings of the cinnamon bee."
poem by Ralph Hodgson
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A Trembling Star
"There is my little trembling star," she said.
I looked; once more
The tender sea had put the sun to bed,
And heaven's floor
Was grey.
And nowhere yet in all that young night sky
Was any star,
But one that hung above the sea. Not high,
Nor very far
Away.
"I watch it every night," she said, and crept
Within my arm.
"Soft little star, I wish the angels kept
It safe from harm
Alway.
"I know it is afraid," she said; her eyes
Held a sweet tear.
"They send it all alone into the skies,
No big stars near,
To stay.
"They push it out before the sweet, kind moon
Lights up the sea.
They laugh because it fears the dark. `Soon, soon,
You'll braver be,'
They say.
"One night I climbed far up that high white tree
Beside the beach,
And tried to stretch my hand across the sea
And tried to reach
The grey.
"For something made me feel my heart would break
Unless that night
I in my hand my trembling star could take
And kiss its fright
Away.
"There only blew a strange wind chillily,
And clouds were swept.
The angels would not let my own star see
That someone wept.
I pray
"To Christ, who hears my little prayers each night,
That He will seek
Through all His skies for that sweet, frightened light,
And stoop His cheek
And say
"`My angels must not send so frail a thing
To light the West.
Lift up the little trembling star to cling
About my breast
Alway.'"
poem by Ethel Turner
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