After Sunset by William Allingham
Around the Sun’s death, lit, incarnadined,
Cool into ashy wan; as Night enshrouds
The level pasture, creeping up behind
Through voiceless vales, o’er lawn and purpled hill
And hazéd mead, her mystery to fulfil.
Cows low from far-off farms; the loitering wind
Sighs in the hedge, you hear it if you will,–
Tho’ all the wood, alive atop with wings
Lifting and sinking through the leafy nooks,
Seethes with the clamour of a thousand rooks.
Now every sound at length is hush’d away.
These few are sacred moments. One more Day
Drops in the shadowy gulf of bygone things.
21st Century Rodin -Mark L. Lucker
The upper right-hand
corner of my desk blotter;
a fresh, stark canvas
this morning, now a sepia
montage of concentric
sip sip sip
sip sip sippppp.
Final sip, cup down.
still life of a Slinky.
Another day late. Maybe I didn’t have enough coffee yesterday. Or maybe not enough ambition. Still no photo taken at 5:30 pm and walking out of the library. I was first in line at the traffic light. My coffee shop sits at the corner. The light is long. The light outside was just right. My camera was beside me. So I shot the coffee shop. And it felt good….
From a Railway Carriage by Robert Louis Stevenson
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And here is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart runaway in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill, and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone forever!
A Fallen Leaf by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
A bold audacious frost;
A rendezvous, a kiss or two,
And youth for ever lost.
The bitter, bitter cost.
A flaunting patch of vivid red,
That quivers in the sun;
A windy gust, a grave of dust,
The little race is run.
Were that the only one.
Dream Land by Christina Rossetti
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep:
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.
Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.
Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.
Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;
Rest, rest at the heart’s core
Till time shall cease:
Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.
Aprons of Silence by Carl Sandburg
And I kept my mouth shut.
So many times I was asked
To come and say the same things
Everybody was saying, no end
To the yes-yes, yes-yes, me-too, me-too.
The aprons of silence covered me.
A wire and hatch held my tongue.
I spit nails into an abyss and listened.
I shut off the gabble of Jones, Johnson, Smith.
All whose names take pages in the city directory.
I fixed up a padded cell and lugged it around.
I locked myself in and nobody knew it.
Only the keeper and the kept in the hoosegow
Knew it—on the streets, in the postoffice,
On the cars, into the railroad station
Where the caller was calling, “All a-board,
All a-board for .. Blaa-blaa .. Blaa-blaa,
Blaa-blaa .. and all points northwest .. all a-board.”
Here I took along my own hoosegow
And did business with my own thoughts.
Do you see? It must be the aprons of silence.
They are the throngs
Of the poet’s songs,
Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs,
The sound of winged words.
This is the cry
Of souls, that high
On toiling, beating pinions, fly,
Seeking a warmer clime.
From their distant flight
Through realms of light
It falls into our world of night,
With the murmuring sound of rhyme.
From Birds of Passage by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Night 115 – As I was out tonight taking my photo(s) of the night, it was humid, it was hot, it was not 15 degrees below 0. I hear everyone complain about the heat and I am thankful for it. I can go outside without 3 layers of clothing, I can walk on a sidewalk without slipping around on patches of ice, I can get into my car and drive down any road and there isn’t an ounce of black ice, my face isn’t chapped from the cold, my heating bill is non-existent, I can jump into water and let the water sluice down my skin, cooling it, I can enjoy a nice fire outside and listen to the crickets and night birds, there is no frostbite in my summer.
Summer just does not last long enough.