Unriled Joy after James Whitcomb RILEY When the Frost is on the Punkin
Unriled Joy
When the current links computer screen to internet online,
when the 'Royal Crown' is fairly set upon fair features fine,
Then her sweetness sempiternal needs no coffee to invent
pure parody from paradise, no syllables misspent.
Far from ice and snow know Florida is haven of the Gods -
It even switched Obama which upset some Harris clods,
and all praise her peerless poems their true laurel leaves assign
When the current links computer screen to internet online.
4 January 2009
after When the Frost is on the Punkin James Whitcomb RILEY 1849_1916
and My Life of Riley Joy BURKI-WATSON 1950_20xx
When the Frost is on the Punkin
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here —
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock —
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries — kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below — the clover overhead! —
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse saussage, too! ...
I don't know how to tell it — but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on ME —
I'd want to 'commodate 'em — all the whole-indurin' flock —
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
James Whitcomb RILEY 1849_1916
RILEY James Whitcomb 1849_1916 rile1_0004 PXX_NXX When the Frost is on the Punkin_When the Frost is on the Punkin
My Life of Riley
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face,
I am adding cubes to coffee as I dream of breathing space.
‘Cause I know I’m in the tropics and it’s time to plan my day,
‘Fore the sun gets any hotter, with its radiant display.
There is somethin’ quite instinctive ‘bout the way I just accept
How my mind slips quick to thinkin’ ’bout that place that’s cool and wet.
It’s a Southern sort-of posture that is met with Southern grace,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.
There’s a beach that’s surely waitin’ with white sand and standin’ seas,
Where the wind is surely playin’ in the arms of swayin’ trees.
So I’m packin’ up my cooler, with six-packs of Royal Crown
Stackin’ up the bread with fixins’, then I’m icin’ them all down.
Grab my beach bag from the table, where it parks right handily
Grab a towel, and grab some lotion - don’t forget the MP 3.
I can leave behind my troubles - send my frown to outer space,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.
There is somethin’ kinda steamy ‘bout the weather we have here,
Not exactly like a sauna - ‘cause it’s saltier than there.
All the orange trees seem to love it as do lemons and key limes,
And the many bloomin’ flowers - Spanish moss and clingin’ vines.
At the beach the coolin’ breezes tease my senses all day long,
While I sit ‘neath my umbrella with my too-cool Raybans on.
I can dream that I am sailin’, leave behind that old home place,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.
There’s no point in belly achin’ ‘bout the rain that’s overdue
I just wipe my brow and ponder all that Northern folks go through.
They’re shovelin’ snow and scrapin’ ice - and a’missin’ all this bliss
Where warmin’ winds kiss cooler seas, there is naught to find amiss.
I can think of nothin’ finer than the joy of surf and sand,
All my senses stand elated - sated by this promised land.
Florida the land of sunshine - holds me in its warm embrace,
When the beads form on my forehead, ‘fore the sun displays its face.
http: //allpoetry.com/poem/4891765
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes
When The Frost Is On The Punkin
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey cock
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below the clover over-head!
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!
I don't know how to tell it but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me
I'd want to 'commodate 'em all the whole-indurin' flock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Liz Town Humorist
Settin' round the stove, last night,
Down at Wess's store, was me
And Mart Strimples, Tunk, and White,
And Doc Bills, and two er three
Fellers o' the Mudsock tribe
No use tryin' to describe!
And says Doc, he says, says he--,
'Talkin' 'bout good things to eat,
Ripe mushmillon's hard to beat!'
I chawed on. And Mart he 'lowed
Wortermillon beat the mush--.
'Red,' he says, 'and juicy-- Hush--!
I'll jes' leave it to the crowd!'
Then a Mudsock chap, says he--,
'Punkin's good enough fer me--
Punkin pies, I mean,' he says--,
Them beats millons--! What say, Wess?
I chawed on. And Wess says--, 'Well,
You jes' fetch that wife of mine
All yer wortermillon-rine--,
And she'll bile it down a spell--
In with sorghum, I suppose,
And what else, Lord only knows--!
But I'm here to tell all hands
Them p'serves meets my demands!'
I chawed on. And White he says--,
'Well, I'll jes' stand, in with Wess--
I'm no hog!' And Tunk says--, 'I
Guess I'll pastur' out on pie
With the Mudsock boys!' says he;
'Now what's yourn?' he says to me:
I chawed on-- fer-- quite a spell
Then I speaks up, slow and dry--,
Jes' tobacker!' I-says-I--.
And you'd ort o' heerd 'em yell!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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A Gustatory Achievement
Last Thanksgivin'-dinner we
Et at Granny's house, an' she
Had--ist like she alluz does--
Most an' best pies ever wuz.
Canned _black_ burry-pie an' _goose_
Burry, squshin'-full o' juice;
An' _roz_burry--yes, an' plum--
Yes, an' _churry_-pie--_um-yum_!
Peach an' punkin, too, you bet.
Lawzy! I kin taste 'em yet!
Yes, an' _custard_-pie, an' _mince!_
An'--I--_ain't_--et--no--pie--sin ce!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Thoughts Fer The Discuraged Farmer
The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin'
locus' trees;
And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,
And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the
sly,
Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.
The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his
wings
And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;
And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,
And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.
You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the
plow--
Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not
a-carin' how;
So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the
wing--
But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:
And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,
She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;
And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin'
right,
Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!
They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,
And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,
And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener
still;
It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.
Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded
out,
And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;
But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,
Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!
Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and
dry
Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,
Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?
Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?--Does he walk, er does
he run?
Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare just like they've
allus done?
Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er
voice?
Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice?
Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;
The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.
Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,
And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!
Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,
Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;
Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me
and you.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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On Most Surfaces
The frost hits me in the eye
and wakes me
these are blury winters
and I cannot see
I walk into the white light of the snow
when the sun comes
I break it with my shadow
which tales me where I go
The frost hits me in the eye
and wakes me
I am the snow falling down on you
I tear up your face with my frost
And make you run to somewhere warm
When I come I see you get away
I burst out about your emptyness
The frost hits me in the eye
and wakes me
these are blury winters
and I cannot see
song performed by by The Gathering from Nighttime Birds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Brave Refrain
When snow is here, and the trees look weird,
And the knuckled twigs are gloved with frost;
When the breath congeals in the drover's beard,
And the old pathway to the barn is lost;
When the rooster's crow is sad to hear,
And the stamp of the stabled horse is vain,
And the tone of the cow-bell grieves the ear--
O then is the time for a brave refrain!
When the gears hang stiff on the harness-peg,
And the tallow gleams in frozen streaks;
And the old hen stands on a lonesome leg,
And the pump sounds hoarse and the handle squeaks;
When the woodpile lies in a shrouded heap,
And the frost is scratched from the window-pane
And anxious eyes from the inside peep--
O then is the time for a brave refrain!
When the ax-helve warms at the chimney-jamb,
And hob-nailed shoes on the hearth below,
And the house-cat curls in a slumber calm,
And the eight-day clock ticks loud and slow;
When the harsh broom-handle jabs the ceil
'Neath the kitchen-loft, and the drowsy brain
Sniffs the breath of the morning meal--
O then is the time for a brave refrain!
ENVOI
When the skillet seethes, and a blubbering hot
Tilts the lid of the coffee-pot,
And the scent of the buckwheat cake grows plain--
O then is the time for a brave refrain!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Hoodoo
Owned a pair o' skates onc't.--Traded
Fer 'em,--stropped 'em on and waded
Up and down the crick, a-waitin'
Tel she'd freeze up fit fer skatin'.
Mildest winter I remember--
More like Spring- than Winter-weather!--
Did n't _frost_ tel bout December-
Git up airly ketch a' feather
Of it, mayby, 'crost the winder--
Sunshine swinge it like a cinder!
Well--I _waited_--and _kep_' waitin'!
Couldn't see my money's w'oth in
Them-air skates and was no skatin',
Ner no hint o' ice ner nothin'!
So, one day--along in airly
Spring--I swopped 'em off--and barely
Closed the dicker, 'fore the weather
Natchurly jes slipped the ratchet,
And crick--tail-race--all together,
Froze so tight cat couldn't scratch it!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Climatic Sorcery
When frost's all on our winder, an' the snow's
All out-o'-doors, our 'Old-Kriss'-milkman goes
A-drivin' round, ist purt'-nigh froze to death,
With his old white mustache froze full o' breath.
But when it's summer an' all warm ag'in,
He comes a-whistlin' an' a-drivin in
Our alley, 'thout no coat on, ner ain't cold,
Ner his mustache ain't white, ner he ain't old.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Seaside At Winter
It's amazing to watch the frost's work.
It made the sea side a fairy tale.
The frost's quirk made the sea not for a sail.
The silence is all around.
For a while the time stands still.
The seagulls can't swill.
Like in the realm of Antarctica
Throughout the frost, snow and ice
I see the beauty of a paradise.
But! In the next few moments
The spring will come spelling the frost.
The nature's fulfillment will be the most.
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Frosted Glass
Frost flowers on my windowpane.
Jack Frost has visited again.
I always know when he's been here.
Because pretty patterns appear
As if by magic overnight.
A tracery of sparkling white.
A sight that sure to satisfy.
The most discerning artist's eye.
It's beautiful though transient.
Frost paintings can't be permanent.
It will last for an hour or two.
Before it melts as it's sure to.
Frost flowers bloom beneath the moon.
‘til morning comes alas too soon.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Winter With a Question
The aging trees will creak and groan
To find themselves ringed by frost in sleep
And snow by the wind already blown
Cast upon snow already deep.
The cold is echoed only by silence all,
And the leaves of Autumn entombed in white
At the place where leaves fall
And passing time, vanish from sight.
Who is it that judges these—
Sends leaves beneath the snow
And trees to shiver alongside trees? —
And where do they go?
poem by Ronny Self
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Frost
Frost covers fallen bridges,
As it does the ones that stand.
The whiteness settles overywhere.
It's gone when I touch your hand.
The morning is when we see the frost,
Yet we know it came the night before.
I've been awake, still it has come;
Quiet and cold to our locked door.
We have watched frost go.
Have you ever seen it start,
As it wanders up the gulch
And slinks into our hearts?
Then there's always morninig,
Or you suppose ther'll always be.
The sun the frost is melting
As we go on, you and me.
We need to talk more when it's forming,
Not just be glad when it's gone,
For, unlike flowers, we seen to wither,
Warmed only by the dawn.
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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A Song of the Road
O I will walk with you, my lad, whichever way you fare,
You'll have me, too, the side o' you, with heart as light as air;
No care for where the road you take's a-leadin' anywhere,--
It can but be a joyful ja'nt whilst you journey there.
The road you take's the path o' love, an' that's the bridth o' two--
An' I will walk with you, my lad -- O I will walk with you.
Ho! I will walk with you, my lad,
Be weather black or blue
Or roadsides frost or dew, my lad --
O I will walk with you.
Aye, glad, my lad, I'll walk with you, whatever winds may blow,
Or summer blossoms stay our steps, or blinding drifts of snow;
The way thay you set face an' foot 's the way that I will go,
An' brave I'll be, abreast o' ye, the Saints and Angels know!
With loyal hand in loyal hand, an' one heart made o' two,
Through summer's gold, or winter's cold, It's I will walk with you.
Sure, I will walk with you, my lad,
A love ordains me to,--
To Heaven's door, an' through, my lad.
O I will walk with you.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Killing Frost
There is an enchantment in the Killing Frost
It's the most magical night of the year
When the abundant blooms of Summer
Are put to sleep by Frost's frozen tears.
The Killing Frost arrives here silently
Flying in ahead of Winter's incoming wrath
Covering all things that are of the earth
Putting to sleep all flora in her path.
As the late Autumn sun sinks below the horizon
On this Special Night of the year
Plants which were all alive this past morn will be no more
It's time to make way for Winter's Cheer.
Everything Frost kisses will be put to eternal repose
Adorned by Frost's magical breath during the night
All will be dripping in Diamonds in the Morn
With which to dazzle by soft Morning's light.
Winter will be arriving shortly now
And Frost will take her leave
To make way for fluttering snowflakes
Which will come to dance during the long Winter's Eve.
poem by Christine A Kysely (29 December 2010)
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On Receiving News of the War
Snow is a strange white word.
No ice or frost
Has asked of bud or bird
For Winter's cost.
Yet ice and frost and snow
From earth to sky
This Summer land doth know.
No man knows why.
In all men's hearts it is.
Some spirit old
Hath turned with malign kiss
Our lives to mould.
Red fangs have torn His face.
God's blood is shed.
He mourns from His lone place
His children dead.
O! ancient crimson curse!
Corrode, consume.
Give back this universe
Its pristine bloom.
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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Hurricane Watch
Green. Green the leaves,
and waves gray on the forehead of the beach.
As easy as breeze tensing lengths of hair
waves lift, then snap back like springs.
Trees bend and kneel, fling out brown arms
to catch their running children.
Green. Green the leaves, and wind
pours on the forehead of the beach.
See how sand wrinkles in the lee,
and anchors part like lovers
from invisible chains. Ships break
then run their length to freedom.
Green. Green the weeds,
and sea foams on the forehead of the beach.
Women’s names swim to greet the waves.
And sea sings, “Eve. Eve. Eve.” Mermaid
who set her cap for them, she beckons each
figurehead to her pale and smiling reach.
Green. Green the waves,
and spray glistening on the forehead of the beach.
Her arms catch and embrace hulls like shoulders.
Bold as dolphins they leap to her lips before she
slaps away the face of any sailor so foolish.
Gray. Gray the waves, and flotsam
in pieces grinding on the wet stones of the beach.
poem by Val Morehouse
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My Winter Season
The calm after the storm
A beautiful thing
Orange autumn sky
Wet green grass
Dead brown leaves
A few little birds still sing
The temperature is low
Im not complaining
This atmosphere makes me happy
I can wear all my warm clothes
The people are calm
My energy is no longer draining
The parks are all empty
The rivers start to ice
Cars frost over
Day turns to night
The season is bad but the mood nice
The frost now covers the ground
The trees with leaves no more
Its always mellow now a day
The cold has set in to stay now
My mind starts to go astray
This season is my own
The year is almost over
It won't be long now until its over
I don't want it to end
Spring will come soon with the first little clover
My love for this time has no reason
I just don't want it to do
All year around I've looked forward to now
Its my time right now
My beautiful season
poem by Daniel Laurence
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Elizabeth
_May 1, 1891_.
I.
Elizabeth! Elizabeth!
The first May-morning whispereth
Thy gentle name in every breeze
That lispeth through the young-leaved trees,
New raimented in white and green
Of bloom and leaf to crown thee queen;--
And, as in odorous chorus, all
The orchard-blossoms sweetly call
Even as a singing voice that saith
Elizabeth! Elizabeth!
II.
Elizabeth! Lo, lily-fair,
In deep, cool shadows of thy hair,
Thy face maintaineth its repose.--
Is it, O sister of the rose,
So better, sweeter, blooming thus
Than in this briery world with us?--
Where frost o'ertaketh, and the breath
Of biting winter harrieth
With sleeted rains and blighting snows
All fairest blooms--Elizabeth!
III.
Nay, then!--So reign, Elizabeth,
Crowned, in thy May-day realm of death!
Put forth the scepter of thy love
In every star-tipped blossom of
The grassy dais of thy throne!
Sadder are we, thus left alone,
But gladder they that thrill to see
Thy mother's rapture, greeting thee.
Bereaved are we by life--not death--
Elizabeth! Elizabeth!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Frost
It's amazing to watch the frost's work.
It made the sea side a fairy tale.
The frost's quirk made the sea not for a sail.
The silence is all around.
For a while the time stands still.
The seagulls can't swill.
Like in the realm of Antarctica
Throughout the frost, snow and ice
I see the beauty of a paradise.
But! In the next few moments
The spring will come spelling the frost.
The nature's fulfillment will be the most.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 8th of February,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Right Here At Home
Right here at home, boys, in old Hoosierdom,
Where strangers allus joke us when they come,
And brag o' _their_ old States and interprize--
Yit _settle_ here; and 'fore they realize,
They're 'hoosier' as the rest of us, and live
Right here at home, boys, with their past fergive!
Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess,
Fer me and you and plain old happiness:
We hear the World's lots grander--likely so,--
We'll take the World's word fer it and not go.--
We know _its_ ways aint _our_ ways--so we'll stay
Right here at home, boys, where we know the way.
Right here at home, boys, where a well-to-do
Man's plenty rich enough--and knows it, too,
And's got a' extry dollar, any time,
To boost a feller up 'at _wants_ to climb
And 's got the git-up in him to go in
And _git there_, like he purt'-nigh allus kin!
Right here at home, boys, is the place fer us!--
Where folks' heart's bigger 'n their money-pu's';
And where a _common_ feller's jes as good
As ary other in the neighborhood:
The World at large don't worry you and me
Right here at home, boys, where we ort to be!
Right here at home, boys--jes right where we air!--
Birds don't sing any sweeter anywhere:
Grass don't grow any greener'n she grows
Acrost the pastur' where the old path goes,--
All things in ear-shot's purty, er in sight,
Right here at home, boys, ef we _size_ 'em right.
Right here at home, boys, where the old home-place
Is sacerd to us as our mother's face,
Jes as we rickollect her, last she smiled
And kissed us--dyin' so and rickonciled,
Seein' us all at home here--none astray--
Right here at home, boys, where she sleeps to-day.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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