POETIC EXPRESSIONS
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Poetry updated weekly. Email your poem, it may get posted. lasted post 2/2/10
All Original Photography by Tracey L. Fuller
YOUR MISSION
If you cannot on the ocean
Sail among the swiftest fleet,
Rocking on the highest billows,
Laughing at the storms you meet,
You can stand among the sailors,
Anchored yet within the bay;
You can lend a hand to help them,
As they launch their boats away;
If you are too weak to journey
Up the mountain, steep and high,
You can stand within the valley,
While the multitude go by.
You can chant in happy measure,
As they slowly pass along;
Though they may forget the singer,
They will not forget the song.
If you have not gold and silver
Ever ready to command,
If you cannot toward the needy
Reach an ever-open hand,
You can visit the afflicted,
Over the suffering you can weep;
You can be a true disciple
Sitting at the Saviour's feet.
If you cannot in the conflict
Prove yourself to a soldier true,
If where the fire and smoke are thickest,
There's no work for you to do,
When the battlefield is silent,
You can go with a careful tread;
You can carry away the wounded,
You can cover up the dead.
DO NOT STAND IDLY WAITING
FOR SOME GREATER WORK TO DO;
FORTUNE IS A LAZY GODDESS,
SHE WILL NEVER COME TO YOU.
GO AND WORK IN ANY PLACE,
DO NOT FEAR TO DO OR DARE;
IF YOU WANT A FIELD OF LABOR,
YOU CAN FIND IT ANYWHERE.
(E. Gates---by Herb)
Dec 6, 2009
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T H E T W O G L A S S E S
There sat two glasses filled to the brim
On a rich man's table, rim to rim
One was ruddy and red as blood,
And one as clear as the crystal flood.
Said the glass of wine to the paler brother:
"Let us tell the tales of the past to each other;
I can tell of banquets and revel and mirth,
And the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch as though struck by blight,
Where I was king, for I ruled by might,
From the heads of kings I have torn the crown,
From the heights of fame I have hurled men down;
I have blasted many an honored name;
I have taken virtue and given shame;
I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste,
That has made their future a barren waste.
Greater, far greater than king am I,
Or than any army beneath the sky.
I have made the arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from the iron rail.
I have made good ships go down at sea,
And the screams of the lost were sweet to me,
For they said, "Behold how great you be!
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before you fall,
For your might and power are over all."
Ha! ha!, pale brother," laughed the wine,
"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"
Said the water glass: "I cannot boast
Of a king dethroned or a murdered host;
But I can tell of a heart once sad,
By my crystal drops made light and glad;
Of thirst I have quenched, of brows I have laved,
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.
I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain,
Flowed in the river and played in the fountain,
Slept in the sunshine and dropped from the sky,
And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye.
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain;
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain;
I can tell the powerful wheel of the mill,
That ground out the flour and turned at my will.
I can tell of manhood debased by you,
That I have lifted and crowned anew.
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid;
I gladden the heart of man and maid
I set the chained, wine-captive free;
AND ALL ARE BETTER FOR KNOWING ME.
These are the tales they told each other;
The glass of wine and the paler brother,
As they sat together filled to the brim,
On the rich man's table, rim to rim.
(E. Wilcox---by Herb)
Nov 17, 2009
VAGABOND *+
Ginger and syrup in quaint stone jars,
Almonds and figs in tinseled bars,
Astrakhan caviar, highly prized,
And citron and orange peel crystallized,
Anchovy paste and poha jam,
Basils and chili and marjoram,
Pickles and chesses from every land,
And flavors that come from Samarkand;
And hung with a string from a handy hook
Will be a dog-eared, well-thumbed book
That is pasted full of recipes
From France and Spain and the Caribees-----
Roots and leaves and herbs to use
For curious soups and old ragouts.
I'll have a cook that I'll name Oh Joy,
A sleek, fat, yellow-faced Chinese boy
Who can roast a pig or mix a drink.
On the gray-stone hearth, there will be a mat
For a scrappy, swaggering yellow cat
With a war-scarred face from a hundred fights
With neighbors' cats on moonlight nights;
A wise old Tom who can hold his own
And make my dogs leave him alone.
I'll have a window seat broad and deep
Where I can sprawl to read or sleep,
With windows placed so I can turn
And watch the sunsets blaze and burn
Beyond high peaks that scar the sky
Like bare white wolf fangs that defy
The very gods. I'll have a nook
For a savage idol that I took
From a ruined temple in Peru,
A demon chaser named Mang-Chu,
To guard my house by night and day
And keep all evil things away.
Pewter and bronze and hammered brass,
Old carved wood and gleaming glass,
Candles in polychrome candlesticks,
And peasant lamps in floating wicks,
Dragons in silk on a Mandarin suit,
In a chest that is filled with vagabond loot;
All of the beautiful, useless things
That a vagabond's aimless drifting brings.
Then when my house is all complete,
I'll stretch me out on a window seat
With a favorite book and a cigarette,
And a long, cool drink that Oh Joy will get,
And I'll look about my bachelor nest
While the sun goes zooming down the west,
And the hot gold light will fall on my face
And make me think of some heathen place
That I've failed to see----that I've missed someway---
A place that I had planned to find someday;
And I'll feel the lure of it drawing me,
Oh---damn, I KNOW WHAT THE END WILL BE.
I'll go. And my house will fall away.
While the mice by night and the moths by day
Will nibble the covers off all my books,
And the spiders weave in the shadowed nooks,
And my dogs----I'll see that they have a home
While I follow the sun, while I drift and roam
To the ends of the earth like a chip on the stream.
Like a straw on the wind, like a vagrant dream;
And the thought will strike me with a swift, sharp pain
That I probably never will build again
This house that I'll have in some far day.
Well---it's just a dream house, anyway.
(Don Blanding--by Herb)
Nov 2, 2009
VAGABOND HOUSE
(3rd Installment)
The picture I love the best of all
Will hang alone on my study wall
Where the sunset's glow and the moon's cold gleam
Will fall on the face and make it seem
That the eyes in the picture are meeting mine;
That the lips are curved in the fine, sweet line
Of that wistful, tender, provocative smile
That has stirred my heart for a wondrous while.
It's the sketch of a girl who loved too well
To tie me down to that bit of Hell
That a drifter knows when he finds he's held
By the soft, strong chains that passions weld.
It was best for her and for me, I know,
That she measured my love and bade me go,
For we both have our great illusion yet
Unsoiled, unspoiled by a vain regret.
I won't deny that it makes me sad
To know that I've missed what I might have had.
It's a clean, sweet memory quite apart,
And I've been faithful-------in my heart.
All these things I will have about,
Not a one could I do without,
Cedar and sandalwood chips to burn
In the tarnished bowl of a copper urn,
A paperweight of meteorite
That seared and scored the sky one night,
A Moro kris--my paper knife--
Once slit the throat of a Rajah's wife.
The beams of my house will be fragrant wood
That once in a teeming jungle stood
As a proud, tall tree where the leopards couched,
And the parrot screamed, and the native men crouched.
The roof must have a rakish dip
To shadow eaves where the rain can drip
In a damp, persistent, tuneful way;
It's a cheerful sound on a gloomy day.
And I want a shingle loose somewhere
To wail like a banshee in despair
When the wind is high and the storm gods race,
And I am snug by my fireplace.
I hope a couple of birds will nest
Around the house. I'll do my best
To make them happy so every year
They'll raise their brood of fledglings here.
When I have my house I will suit myself,
And Have what I will call my "Condiment Shelf"
Filled with all manner of herbs and spice,
Curry and chutney for meats and rice,
Pots and bottles of extracts rare-------
Onions and garlic will both be there-----
And soyo and sa(ffron and savory--goo
And stuff that I'll buy from an Old Hindu.
(To be Continued)
(Don Blanding---by Herb)
VAGABOND HOUSE
(2nd installment)
I'll have on a bench a box inlaid
With dragon-on plaques of milk-white jade
To hold my own particular brand
Of cigarettes brought from the Pharoah's land.
With a cloisonne' bowl on a lizards skin
To flick my cigarette ashes in.
And a squat blue jar for a certain blend
Of pipe tobacco. I'll have to send
To a quaint old guy I chanced to meet
In his frusty shop on a London street.
A long, low shelf of teak will hold
My best loved books in leather and gold,
While magazines lie on a bowlegged stand
In a polyglot mixture close at hand.
I'll have on table a rich brocade
That I think the pixies must have made
For the dull gold thread on blues and grays
Weaves the pattern of Puck-the Magic Maze.
On the mantelpiece I'll have a place
For a little mud god with a painted face,
That was given to me----oh, long ago,
By a Philippine maid in Olangapo.
Then--just in range of a lazy reach--
A bulging bowl of Indian beech
Will brim with things that are good to munch---
Hickory nuts to crack and crunch,
Big fat raisins and sun-dried dates
And curious fruits from the Malay Straits,
Maple sugar and cookies brown
With good hard cider to wash them down,
Wine-sap apples, pick of the crop,
And ears of corn to shell and pop,
With plenty of butter and lots of salt----
If you don't get filled, it's not my fault.
And there where the shadows fall, I've planned
To have a magnificent Concert Grand
With polished wood and ivory keys
For wild discordant rhapsodies,
For wailing minor Hindu songs,
For Chinese chants and clanging gongs,
For flippant jazz and for lullabies
And moody things that I'll improvise
To play the long gray dusk away
And bid good-bye to another day.
Pictures---I think I'll have but three;
One in oil, of a wind-swept sea
With the flying scud and waves whipped white--
(I know the person who can paint it right)
In lapis blue and a deep jade green---
A great big smashing fine marine
That will make you feel the spray in your face---
I'll hand it over my fireplace.
The second picture---a freakish thing--
Is gaudy and bright as a macaw's wing--
An impressionistic smear called "Sin,"
A nude on a striped zebra skin
By a Danish girl I knew in France
My respectable friends will look askance
At the purple eyes and the scarlet hair,
At the pallid face and the evil stare
Of a sinister, beautiful vampire face.
I shouldn't have it around the place,
But I like-----while I loathe----the beastly thing.
And, that's the way we feel about sin.
(Picture three in Part 3--to be continued_
(Don Blanding---by Herb)
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VAGABOND HOUSE
(in installments)
When I have a house........as I sometime may......
I'll suit my fancy in every way.
I'll fill it with things that have caught my eye
in drifting from Iceland to Molokai
It won't be correct or in period style,
But......oh, I've thought for a long, long while
Of all the bookshelves and all the books,
The great big table, the deep, soft chairs
And the Chinese rug at the foot of the stairs;
It's an old, old rug from far Chow Wan
That a Chinese princess once walked on.
My house will stand on the side of a hill
By a slow, broad river, deep and still
With a tall lone pine on guard near by
Where the birds can sing and the stormwinds cry.
A flagstone walk with lazy curves
Will lead to the door where a Pan's head serves
As a knocker there like a vibrant drum
To let me know that a friend has come;
And the door will squeak as I swing it wide
To welcome you to the cheer inside
For I'll have good friends who can sit and chat
Or simply sit, when it comes to that,
By the fireplace where the fire logs blaze
And the smoke rolls up in a weaving haze.
I'll want a woodbox, scarred and rough,
for leaves and bark and odorous stuff
Like resinous knots and cones and gums
To chuck on the flames when the winter comes
And I hope a cricket will stay around
For I love its creaky, lonesome sound.
There will be driftwood powder to burn on logs,
And a shaggy rug for a couple of dogs--
Boreas, winner of prize and cup,
And Mickey, a lovable gutter pup
Thoroughbreds, both of them, right from the start,
One by breeding, the other by heart.
There are times when only a dog will do
For a friend---when you're beaten, sick and blue,
And the world's all wrong; for he won't care
If you break and cry, or grouch and swear;
For he'll let you know as he licks your hands
That he's downright sorry----and understands.
(To be continued)
(Don Blanding by Herb)
WATCH YOURSELF GO BY
Just stand aside and watch yourself go by;
Think of yourself as "he/she" instead of I".
Note, closely as in other people you note,
The bag-kneed trousers and the seedy coat.
Pick flaws; find fault; forget the person is you,
And strive to make your estimate ring true.
Confront yourself and look you in the eye-
Just stand aside and watch yourself go by.
Interpret all your motives just as though
You looked on one whose aims you did not know.
Let undisguised contempt surge through you when
You see you shirk, Oh commonest of men.
Despise your cowardice; condemn whatever
You note of falseness in you anywhere.
Defend not one defect that shames your eye--
Just stand aside and watch yourself go by.
And, then, with eyes unveiled to what you loathe,
To sins that with sweet clarity you'd clothe,
Back to your self-walled tenement you'll go
With tolerance for all who dwell below.
The fault of others then will dwarf and shrink,
Love's chains grow stronger by one mighty link,
When you, with the "he/she" as substitute for "I."
Have stood aside and watched yourself go by.
Herb (wise-owl)
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New Love
I have traveled many miles into the horizon
I have seen many faces in the mirror of my eyes
I have felt many hands down the middle of my back
I have listen to many tales in the midnight hour
I have believed many smiles with a heartbeat
I have learned many lessons from the stolen glances
I have lived many lies in the joyous moment
I have danced to many rhythms into the night
I have cried from the cruel charms of many men
I have yearned for the unknown treasures of love
I have wished to sway in the ocean breeze
I have lusted for the honesty of a passionate life
I have dreamed of a destiny fullfilled with an anchor
I have wanted to be tethered to a thoroughbreak
Donna M L Longmore
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I WANT TO TRAVEL THE COMMON ROAD WITH THE GREAT CROWD SURGING BY
WHERE THERE'S MANY A LAUGH AND MANY A LOAD
AND MANY A MILE AND SIGH
I WANT TO BE ON THE COMMON WAY
WITH ITS ENDLESS TRAMPING FEET
IN THE SUMMMER BRIGHT AND WINTER GRAY
IN THE NOONDAY SUN AND HEAT
IN THE COOL OF EVENING WITH SHADOWS HIGH
AT DAWN, WHEN THE SUN BREAKS CLEAR,
I WANT THE GREAT CROWD PASSING BY,
TO HEAR WHAT THEY SEE AND HEAR.
I WANT TO BE ONE OF THE COMMON HERD
NOT LIVE IN A SHELTERED WAY
WANT TO BE THRILLED, WANT TO BE STIRRED
BY THE GREAT CROWD DAY BY DAY;
TO GLIMPSE THE RESTFUL VALLEYS DEEP
TO TOIL UP THE RUGGED HILL
TO SEE THE RIVERS WHCH SHYLY CREEP
TO HAVE THE TORRENTS THRILL.
I WANT TO LAUGH WITH THE COMMON MAN
WHEREVER HE CHOOSES TO BE
I WANT TO AID HIM WHEN I CAN
WHENEVER THERE IS NEED OF ME
I WANT TO LEND A HELPING HAND
OVER THE ROUGH AND STEEP
TO A CHILD TOO YOUNG TO UNDERSTAND
TO COMFORT THOSE WHO WEEP
I WANT TO LIVE AND WORK AND PLAN
WITH THE GREAT CROWD SURGING BY
TO MINGLE WITH THE COMMON MAN
NO BETTER OR WORSE THAN I.
HERB (WISE-OWL)
LIVING A LIE Photo Tracey Fuller
I'M LIVING A LIE DON'T KNOW WHY
I'M HERE IN BODY NOT IN MIND,
MY SPIRIT NEEDS UPLIFTING
WHEN LIVING A LIE
YOU START TO LOSE YOURSELF
YOU CAN'T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND
THE HAND YOUR DEALT
AS TIME GOES ON AS YOU KNOW IT WILL
THE LIE BUILDS AND BUILDS
AND THEN KILLS YOU INSIDE
LIVING A LIE IS NO JOKE
YOU LOSE ALL SENSE OF HOPE
FOR TURE LOVE, PEACE AND HAPPINESS
UNTIL YOU CONFESS YOUR HEART,
YOUR TRUE FEELINGS
THAT THIS MAY NOT BE THE BEST
AND CLEAR UP ALL THE MESS
YOU CAN'T BE BLESSED WITH TRUE
LOVE PEACE AND HAPPINESS
AND YOU WIND UP BEING JUST THERE
LIVING A LIE TAKES IT'S TOLL ON YOU
AND EVERYONE THAT'S AROUND
YOU THINK YOUR DEALING BUT
ONLY STEALING FROM YOURSELF
TRACEY FULLER 1998
Photo Tracey L. Fuller
INDULGING
IT'S SO MUCH FUN WHEN WE INDULGE
THE LAUGHING THE GAMES THAT WE PLAY
TIME JUST SLIPS AWAY
IT MAKES US FEEL LIKE ADULTS
IT'S SO MUCH FUN WHEN WE INDULGE
WE DON'T EVEN THINK OF THE RESULTS
IT'S UP TO US TO KNOW IT CAN BUST
AND THAT AN ALTERNATIVE IS A MUST
IT'S OUR LIFE THAT WERE LIVING
OUR PARENTS ARE GRATEFUL FOR THE
BLESSING THEY WERE GIVEN
IT'S YOU, ITS ME
IT'S ANYONE WHO THINKS IT WON'T HAPPEN TO THEE
CAN'T HAPPEN WILL SEE
IT'S SO MUCH FUN WHEN WE INDULGE
THE RESULTS ARE NOT WHAT WE THINK OF
Tracey Lygeria Fuller 1997
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