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The Raven:

 

 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more.'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you'- here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!'-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more.'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as 'Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown
before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'.'

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or
devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

'Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,' I shrieked,
upstarting-
'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!

 

The Road Not Taken:

the road not taken:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear,

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves

no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if I should ever come back.

 

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

By: Robert frost

 

Sick:

"I cannot go to school today," Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

"I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry, I'm going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I've counted sixteen chicken pox And there's one more--that's seventeen,

And don't you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut--my eyes are blue-- It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke, I'm sure that my left leg is broke—

My hip hurts when I move my chin, My belly button's caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,

My 'pendix pains each time it rains.

My nose is cold, my toes are numb. I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak

, I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,

My temperature is one-o-eight. My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear, There is a hole inside my ear. I have a hangnail,

and my heart is--what? What's that? What's that you say? You say today is. . .Saturday? G'bye, I'm going out to play!" –

 

A Shooting Star

 

A shooting star:

A shooting star

Makes it's way across the sky

A traveler in the placid night

Upon that star

Lay a million wishes

Waiting to become true

We hope

It will grant our wish

Like a genie in a bottle

We wish

And wish upon that
Incandescent ball of glowing dreams

All though

It's futile we still

Wish and hope and dream

 

Poem Haiku Autumn:

 

The leaves change color

Fall has fallen once again

The colors so bright

 

They fall to the ground

To make a bed of beauty

They fall with no sound

 

Their lives are complete

One more journey to their rest

Now wait for winter

 

Words:

Words words words
'His loquacity is sometimes overwhelming”
says a school report of long ago

But where are those words
Now that I need them
There is within me
A tremendous yearning to express
Myself 

Simple truths 
Born of experience
 Or intuition 
Are locked within
 Waiting
 For the key

 

Haiku Autumn Leaves:

The leaves of Autumn

lovely gold and brown colors

painting the landscape.

 

Home:

 

Home is the place your heart resides

Home is the place that you decide

Home is the womb that holds the soul

Home is the place where one is whole

Home is the glow you hold in your eye

Home is the emotion that makes you cry

Home is safe and a place of peace

Home is where all strivings cease

Home is protective against the others

Home is full of sisters and brothers

Home is where you find your rest

Home is where you feel your best

Home is a memory that follows your being

Home is a dream for those agreeing

Home is the place where reserves fall

Home is the place you yearn to call

Home is where the family meets

Home is a place of restful retreats

Home is the place you know you’ll be heard

Home is the pace where nothing blurs

Home is all these wonderful things

Home is the place you develop wings

Home is the place that you’ll find one day

Home is the place where your heart will stay

 

 

where the sidewalk ends:

 

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

and before the street begins,

and there the grass grows soft and white,

and there the sun burns crimson bright,

and there the moon-bird rests from his flight
to cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
and the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
we shall walk with a walk that is measured

and slow
and watch where the chalk-white arrows go
to the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

and we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

for the children, they mark, and the children, they know,
the place where the sidewalk ends.

 

 

A Walk In The Woods:

Overcast but warm,

The day dry, unusually.

Walking the woods with the dogs

As many times before.

Lucy and Tig, away in the rough dark deep,

Yipping with the scent of deer, excited.

Ruby, river scrambling, biting

At the bogwater, wagging, from the shoulders back

Along the old familiar track, into

The clearing where the roads diverge.

I stopped and stood. Which way to go?

Think of another Poet, and roads not taken.

Yes, I’ve been here before.

This way I came.
That way I saw a squirrel once.

And down that way a badger
Straight on,

the Mill Pond where ducks dabble.

Behind me then a stag, stares my way,

and
Startled, slips into the wood.

I think again of Robert Frost and look a different way

.
I stand a while. I turn, retrace my steps, recall, relive,

I’ll write this down, and this will be
The road I’ve taken.