Poetry for Thought

The Writer On the Wall

Stand and demand

A change for the better

Take or forsake

But do not forget her

Chide and deride

Make eyes open wide

Shake and remake

The minds deep inside

Change, rearrange

The disguised memory callers

Shake and awake

The slumbering scholars

Hold in the cold

‘Til old Time comes to tell

Strife up your life

On the wall where you fell

Breathe and receive

As you give up your last

Fall and recall

That your sufferings are past.

Poetry for Thought

—A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. "Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be." Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree." "You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. "And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. "So in the churchyard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply, "O master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"   ~William Wordsworth

Poetry for Thought

Oh, you who read some song that I have sung, What know you of the soul from whence it sprung?

Dost dream the poet ever speaks aloud His secret thought unto the listening crowd?

Go take the murmuring sea-shell from the shore: You have its shape, its color and no more.

It tells not one of those vast mysteries That lie beneath the surface of the seas.

Our songs are shells, cast out by-waves of thought; Here, take them at your pleasure; but think not

 

You've seen beneath the surface of the waves, Where lie our shipwrecks and our coral caves.

~Emma Wheeler Wilcox 

Poetry for Thought

To fight aloud, is very brave—
But gallanter, I know
Who charge within the bosom
The Cavalry of Woe—

Who win, and nations do not see—
Who fall—and none observe—
Whose dying eyes, no Country
Regards with patriot love—

We trust, in plumed procession
For such, the Angels go—
Rank after Rank, with even feet—
And Uniforms of Snow.

 

~Emily Dickinson

 

 

 

Poetry for Thought

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

Aisha Patterson

Poetry for Thought

Oh, summer has clothed the earth In a cloak from the loom of the sun! And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue, And a belt where the rivers run. And now for the kiss of the wind, And the touch of the air's soft hands, With the rest from strife and the heat of life, With the freedom of lakes and lands. I envy the farmer's boy Who sings as he follows the plow; While the shining green of the young blades lean To the breezes that cool his brow. He sings to the dewy morn, No thought of another's ear; But the song he sings is a chant for kings And the whole wide world to hear. He sings of the joys of life, Of the pleasures of work and rest, From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art; 'T is a song of the merriest. O ye who toil in the town, And ye who moil in the mart, Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong Shall renew your joy of heart. Oh, poor were the worth of the world If never a song were heard,— If the sting of grief had no relief, And never a heart were stirred. So, long as the streams run down, And as long as the robins trill, Let us taunt old Care with a merry air, And sing in the face of ill.   ~ Paul Dunbar

Poetry for Thought

An interesting find from an old English book of mine, though I don't agree with everything he writes:

When Earth’s last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it---lie down for an eon or two,

Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!

And those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair;

They shall find real saints to draw from---Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;

They shall work for an age at sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;

But each for the joy of working, and each, in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are! 

~Rudyard Kipling 

Poetry for Thought

The poem that I promised so long ago:

*cough*

Purpose

A blind man heard an echo

A song from some unseen entity

And he knew not where it came from

So he thought to call it, “Destiny.”

A deaf man felt a tremor

That crumpled his heart to shattered state

Since he could see no reason for it

Quickly tagged it, “Fate.”

How weary is the personage

Who measures with these rods

For each is always changing

Though giv’n sceptres of the gods

Forlorn-tossed and heartless

Is the man who bows to these

For Nature is impersonal---

Fate, Destiny, and she---are impossible to please

If Time is void and shapeless

Every soul has cause for dread

Then every future is faithless

And nowhere rest the dead

If the sun has always burned

And the universe churned as well

Then the stars all sing for nothing

And have no tales to tell

If the world would keep on racing

And forget the souls long past

Between Destiny, Fate, and Certainty

I would choose the last

For life with no purpose is worthless

Every joy is a cruel facade

If my life is not a full symphony

Composed and conducted by God

So think not that your souls are forgotten

Or your footprints are washed away

Each moment is part of a grand symphony

And your mark on the page is to stay.

Poetry for Thought

Reluctance

Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
 And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
 No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

~~~~Robert Frost 

 

Aren't I a Genius?

Forgo the grammar issue for a moment, dear Reader. Yes, my genius self has discovered a new way through which to obtain a concussion. No, I didn't actually get a concussion when I did it, just a bit of a head-smack. But it is possible, and I'm thoroughly convinced of it, to actually crack one's head open performing the following stunt.

You're probably thinking, "Kayla, your head already is cracked," and I won't deny the statement. But my most recent episode unfolded in the following manner:

I've always liked to go down stairs in a unique way. Sort of bound down them with a dotted-sixteenth rythm, and then skip the last two steps, hanging onto the railing and sort of sliding epically into the laundry room. Well, this time, everything went absolutely normal until the last bit. I was wearing wool socks, you see, and they slide gloriously well on a hardwood floor. They slid a little bit too well on the concrete when I made my triumphant leap off the steps, and, well, you can imagine the rest. Because I was still holding onto the rail, I didn't hit very hard at all. But I spent a few moments thinking of how much worse it could have been.

Will I learn from my crash, and change the method in which I traverse the steps? Not a chance. I will, however, not be so cocky when flinging myself off of them.

Oh, and the real reason for this blog post is actually my newest poem. Enjoy:

Journey

Midway through the tread of time
I stepped onto the road
With eyes cast down to mind the ruts
Precariously forward strode

Though scanned with mortal perception
Some pit would catch a hold
My cloak, though black and heavy
Did not fend off the bitter cold

A little further onward
And did my eyes perceive
A strange and stately figure
Hastening to meet me

We had but spoken little
When he suddenly took hold
And changed my blackened garment
For a dripping crimson robe

From that moment forward
Though still toiling up the road
His hand anchored when I stumbled
His presence made me bold

When at length, and weary-worn
I came to the shore of the sea
I left the sands of Time behind
And turned toward Eternity

I could not see the distant shore
My feet no longer felt the ground
I kicked my tattered shoes off
And He pulled me, safe and sound

And carried me up the opposite shore
And I, with awestruck delight
Looked down upon my garment
To see it gleam the purest white.

Poetry for Thought

Maestro, Please

Sit back now, O Listeners;
But shortly you will not be
The breathing wood of the framework here,
Scarcely can strive to contain you!

The curtains ascend and the silence unbends;
The Maestro has ordered a rally!
The bows fling you forward into unfathomed sea,
Bring you out of your close-minded alley

Harp strings sing golden, piccolos ebony
Brass scatters pearls, percussion hard diamonds;
String section pours out cascades of sapphires
That rise to sweep blazing 'cross Heaven's empire!

The oboes reach deeper to lead you down under
To forests of emerald waves;
Streams of quicksilver from woodwinds do quiver
And guide you upward to behold:

Sun's blazing chorus, burns right o'er the surface;
You touch it as you break from the sea!
Fortissimo astounds you, fermata swells 'round you,
And the orchestra returns you to your seat.


~One of my recent projects.

Poetry for Thought

Misgivings

When ocean-clouds over inland hills

Seep storming in late autumn brown,

And horror the sodden valley fills,

And the spire falls crashing in the town,

I muse upon my country’s ills---

The tempest bursting from the waste of Time

On the world’s fairest hope linked with man’s foulest crime.

Nature’s dark side is heeded now---

(Ah! Optimist-cheer disheartened flow)---

A child may read the moody brow of yon black mountain lone.

With shouts the torrents down the gorges go,

And storms are formed behind the storm we feel:

The hemlock shakes in the rafter, the oak in the driving keel.

~~~~Herman Melville

Poetry for Thought

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not take them 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, just as fair,
Ad having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really just the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden back.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads 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.

~~~Robert Frost

Poetry for Thought

The Children's Hour

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
 Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
 And Edith with golden hair.
 
 A whisper, and then a silence:
 Yet I know by their merry eyes
 They are plotting and planning together
 To take me by surprise.
 
 A sudden rush from the stairway,
 A sudden raid from the hall!
 By three doors left ungaurded
 They enter my castle wall!

 They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
 If I try to escape, they surround me;
 They seem to be everywhere.

 They almost devour me with kisses,
 Their arms about me entwine,
 Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
 In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

 Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
 Because you have scaled the wall,
 Such an old mustache as I am
 Is not a match for you all!

 I have you fast in my fortress,
 And will not let you depart,
 But put you down into the dungeon
 In the round-tower of my heart.

 And there I will keep you forever,
 Yes, forever and a day,
 Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
 And moulder in dust away!

 ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Poetry for Thought

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm,
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

~E. Dickinson

Feeling the Brightness of the Season

Yes, I am. And the Inspiration. I've always loved singing carols under the stars in the crisp, icy air. Last night I think that it was the stars themselves that were singing, and if only the world could get quiet enough it would hear them.

Christmas Song

The Stars are ringing

Hear them singing

Rehearse the ancient words in verse

Each beam is bringing

In its singing

Stories of the Heavens’ glories

Snow is glistening

And is listening

Both reflecting and directing

To believers

Glad receivers

Bright eternal light.

Poetry for Thought

The Touch of Master's Hand

 

'Twas battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people", he cried,
"Who starts the bidding for me?"
"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?"
"Two dollars, who makes it three?"
"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,"

But, No,
From the room far back a gray bearded man
Came forward and picked up the bow,
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet
As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?"
As he held it aloft with its' bow.

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?"
"Two thousand, Who makes it three?"
"Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone", said he.

The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
"We just don't understand."
"What changed its' worth?"
Swift came the reply.
"The Touch of the Masters Hand."

And many a man with life out of tune
All battered with bourbon and gin
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters' Hand.

~~~Myra Brooks Welch

Poetry for Thought

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
  Weep, and you weep alone.
For the old sad earth must borrow its mirth,
   But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
  Sigh, it is lost in the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
   But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
   Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
   But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
  Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
  But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
   Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
  But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
  For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
  Through the narrow aisles of pain.

~Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Poetry for Thought

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us---don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

~~~ Emily Dickinson

Oi, I'm still alive!

Yes, I have returned from the edge of the universe. Nice place, that is. Lots of people like to hang out there.

Anywho, I figured that since I haven't posted in such a long time, I might as well make this a long post, filled with lots of stuff. (Stuff? Can't I be more descriptive than that?)


First off, I joined a new orchestra and choir this year. Quit interesting. I recently found out that the choir is going on tour this spring, and that the end destination is Niagara Falls.


I have been there once before with my family, and the view is absolutely stunning.

Thousand of gallons of water rushing over the cliff with a chorus of thunderous roars. Quite a beautiful piece of God's creation, eh?

Add that to the fact that we get to travel through Ohio, Pennsilvania, and New York singing the entire way (okay, maybe not the entire way) and you've got quite the exciting tour. (Not to mention that the band and orchestra people are coming too. They'll make it really interesting)

Secondly, NaNoWriMo is coming up. The title, if you know what it means, explains itself. I am busy dreaming up outlines and preparing for this thirty-day adventure of writing.

Thirdly, I am typing this entire thing with one hand, as I am holding the baby with the other.

D. Er, fourthly. I have been doing a bit of writing lately, some for school and some just because. I wrote a cause-effect type essay a little while back, which I will show you in a moment. First, I must explain that I Do Not like to write these types of essays, being as I'm not very good at arguing in a logical manner. Please bear with me.

*Ahem* 

The thing:

Cause-Effect Essay:

Ripping out our Roots: The Result of Evolution

In 1859 Charles Darwin published a book with the title “On the Origin of Species”. This book contained Darwin’s thoughts on the beginning of life. He explained why he thought it possible for the creatures of the Earth to have descended from a common ancestor, and that it was logical for life to exist on its own, without the presence of an intelligent designer. He revoked his belief in the Creator on behalf of his studies. This book struck society as an atomic bomb would. Over the years the scientific circle came to accept the hypothesis of evolution as plausible; society decided that they were better off without a creator. However, when they shut their eyes to God, they also lost the foundation that held life as they knew it together: the moral law.

The moral law is something that makes everything from business transactions to everyday interactions work. Morality instructs us not to steal, lie, cheat, etcetera. It gives us the ability to put our trust in one another, because each of us is under the same obligation to hold up our end of the deal. The moral law insists that justice be served, corruption snuffed out, hypocrisy prodded into the light. When the Creator was undermined, so was the moral law that He put into place. If God is a product of the imagination, then doesn’t that make the definitions of “right” and “wrong” subject to the imagination as well?

Humans lose their obligation to even try to stay in line. Society, with a little smidgen of Christian influence, may as a whole try to cling to “do not lie, do not steal, etcetera.” But when a majority of their members begin to slide downwards at a devastating rate, the rest can’t help but follow. It becomes everyone for himself in the mad dash for a pleasurable, satisfying lifestyle. Why throw yourself out by trying to do what’s “right”?

With right and wrong on the fritz, things like abortion can become acceptable in society’s eyes. God tells us that an unborn baby is a precious life form. “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you.” But since God has been dethroned in the hearts of the people, they can slide around with excuses. 

“It isn’t convenient for me.” 

  “It’s my body, I can do what I like with it.” 

“It hasn’t passed a certain stage in development. It isn’t really alive.” 

Wholesale murder for the sake of pleasure and convenience is now acceptable. Other destructive things like homosexuality, substance abuse, and prostitution are easily able to find a fashionable place in society. 

When they gave up God, people also gave up the moral law and ripped out the cornerstone that held their known world together. They relinquished their souls, murdered their consciences, and poisoned their minds. Every new generation that sprouts up is submerged even deeper in filth than the last. Without God, they have nowhere to go but down. Charles Darwin undoubtedly did not foresee these things when he first drafted “On the Origin of Species”, but they still occurred as a result of his and others’ handiwork. Without God, there is no true “right and wrong”, and society can only continue to plunge.

Now, I'm not sure that I put 'the moral law' across as I should have. But, ehe, as I explained before, I stink at arguing.

Now, something else that I wrote on an out-of-the-blue inspiration:

Awaken Life

Bring in the thunder

Rush my senses

Fill the empty depression

Give me more than impression

I’m tired of dreaming

I want to live

Cast me into dark despair

Flush me through the fire

I want more than thrilling tales

That spin my eager head

Don’t tickle my desires

Thrust the sword into my hand

Let me breathe the stable air

Of foreign, far-off lands

I’m tired of lilting fancies

I want to live

More dark than I imagined

Let the water start to run

Make the questions chill my blood

And my answers dangerous ones

No outcome that my eyes can see

Each path is terribly twisted so

Folded up in some embrace

A captor I could never know

Turn my head with bursts of fright

Fling me to the solid earth

Bring alive my deepest nightmares

Matches that I’ve ne’er faced

I’m tired of seeing masks

I want to live

Make Death my one companion

I’m apace with all the time

Bring alive the passionate feeling

That was breathless for so long

Make me see behind the glass

Explore the soul beyond the face

Catch distortions in the song

Give to love its wanting grace

Make all things eternal blaze

Make insight mine, not the naïve

Make mercy spill in silver drops

Tears that cover all disgrace

Mold my soul to spring and soar

Inspire my voice to take on wings

Reflect the stars across my path

Instruct me to live

I want to live.

Strange things abound in my head, I suppose. Well, there you have it.