Top Ten Novels

A little insight into my literary diet. I think I have listed on here "enjoys reading", or something or another; I don't recall ever telling you what it is I read.

These are some of my favorite books; books that I will read more than once over the years. Filled with memorable characters, brilliant plots, witty dialogue, ect, these are the books that I definitely took something from after reading. Granted, all of these books have flaws. There is only one perfect book in the cosmos, and that is the Bible, the Inspired Word of God. The rest of literature is expected to be faulty. Use discretion when picking up a new book.

10. Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott. A coming-of-age story centered around the four March sisters. Father is off fighting in the War Between the States, leaving Marmee, Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy to hold down the fort at home. Each of the girls has her own trials to overcome, from Jo's temper and wild habits, to Amy's finicky and selfish nature. Tracing from girlhood to womanhood, the story follows the March girls up and down their different paths in life to a satisfying ending. Certain parts of this book do make me cry, yes, and I'm not exactly the most sentimental individual on the earth. Louisa Alcott had a sort of romanticist worldview, so keep that in mind as you read. The writing is clean, as far as I remember, and the characters solid.

9. Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. Welcome to the world of Dickens! If you've never read him before, this book is a good place to start. Young Phillip "Pip" comes unexpectedly under a benefactor's eye and is whisked off to London to be trained as a fashionable young man of society. The question is, who has sent him from his quiet country home to the teeming capitol, and why? The only person he can think of is Miss Havisham, a jilted bride who sits aging in her crumbling mansion, with all the clocks set to the very hour when, on her wedding day long ago, her fiancee failed to show up. She's only slightly deranged, of course, so why not? And perhaps she intends for Pip to become a gentleman so he can marry her ward, the proud and beautiful Estella. But what if Pip is wrong? What if someone else is his mysterious benefactor? What if Miss Havisham takes interest in him for a different reason? And how on earth is he going to get on in this gentleman business? Smacking with Dickens' bright sense of humor, this book had me wondering until the end. Usually I can have a plot all unraveled before the climax, but not so in this case. I actually was shocked by the turnout. Unique and memorable characters throughout.

8. Ishmael, by E.D.E.N. Southworth. The story of a young man who, though born into wretched circumstances, unwanted and nearly alone in the world, strives for the highest of goals. Though faced with serious trials, Ishmael Worth's honesty, integrity, and willingness to work shine through and bring him to the attention of those around him. Will sacrifice and grit, honor and courage be enough to get him through the barriers that cage him in? Highly recommended read for everyone, young and old.

7. The Giver, by Lois Lowry. Masterfully but simply and subtly written, The Giver focuses on a boy, Jonas, that lives in a so-called utopian society. Everything seems perfect, until Jonas, as Receiver of Memories, starts to notice things that the others are not allowed to see. What really happens when the children won't conform to normalcy, and the aged are too old to be kept anymore? What exactly does it mean to be "released"? This is about a society that tried to achieve utopia---and wove a web of nightmares instead. Can Jonas escape, and is there anything out there in the world for him to escape to? Lowry is not a Christian, so there is no mention of God in this story. As I said before, her writing is subtle, but chilling. It's an easy read, but should be reserved for stronger thinkers because of the worldview.

6. Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. I had only just finished Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte, so I had frightening expectations from this book. But Charlotte Bronte surprised me. The heroine is a strong, intelligent woman with a solid grip on good morals. She comes out of a rough, cold childhood as a poor, though independent young lady. On a recommendation of Jane's school, the housekeeper of wealthy Mr. Rochester hires her to be a governess to Adele, Mr. Rochester's ward. Jane thinks the situation will be good and takes it, little knowing of the events to follow. From nearly achieving the heights of her dreams to being dashed into the lowest of depths, Jane keeps a clear head and ultimately does what is right, even when it costs her home, happiness, and love. Mild swearing (white out!), if I remember correctly, so caution is advised for younger readers.

5.  The Hidden Hand, by E.D.E.N. Southworth. A remarkable book, indeed! Probably the most cliche plot devices know to man, but the characters are so life-like and lovable that it lifts the book to a high and favorable position on my list. Old Hurricane is called out of his warm bed on a nasty evening by a insistent clergyman. After witnessing a most remarkable last confession of a dying woman, Major Warfield (that would be Old Hurricane) hustles off to New York in search of an heiress who, by the way, doesn't know that she is an heiress. He finds her running lose in the streets, posing as a newsboy and looking after herself! Miss Capitola Black is a rather remarkable young woman, with sharp temper and wit, and a tongue to match. When she takes up residency in Major Warfield's Virginian mansion, life in the area is changed for good. She has enemies at every turn, and she doesn't know it! But she deals with them all soundly, whether it be conniving uncles, unwanted suitors, or dastardly outlaws. Probably our most flawed heroine, but there are plenty of strong, godly characters to help her on the way. The hidden hand of God is seen working all throughout this story!

4. The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, by C.S. Lewis. I suppose I could have listed all the Narnia books here, but I decided to pick my favorite of the series and list it instead. Lucy and Edmund Pevensie are called back to Narnia, but, unfortunately, they are forced to take their rather horrible cousin Eustace with them. They really couldn't help it, seeing as they were all washed through the painting and into the sea! The ship The Dawn Treader picks them up, and there the Pevensies meet old friends. Caspian X, king of Narnia, Reepicheep the talking mouse, and others. The Narnians are on their way out to the eastern islands to search for seven lords that went missing long ago. The children join them in their quest of danger, sailing out into the unknown. Trouble is encountered along the way, and only Aslan, son of the great Emperor Over the Sea, can pull them through. Will their journey be successful? And, also, what will happen to the miserable, whining Eustace? Do dragons enjoy curried brat? A delightful allegory for all ages. Some of Lewis' doctrine is questionable, but for the most part the story is sound. It does contain magic, mythical creatures, magicians, and the like, so use your own discretion.


3. The Complete Canon of Sherlock Holmes, by Arthur Conan Doyle. Includes all thirty-six short stories and four novels. Enter the world's greatest detective! From the grotesque to the impossible to the dangerous to the hilarious, follow Holmes and his chronicler Dr. Watson from one end of Great Brittan to the other as they solve mysteries of the most unusual sort. Using the "art of deduction", Sherlock Holmes is able to foil some of the most clever and dangerous criminals in the world by noticing things that nobody else notices---and then piecing together the origins of these commonplace things.
"Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by the help of my knowledge of the history of crime, to set them straight."
Some mild swearing, and, of course, we're looking into the world of crime. Not for younger audiences.

2. Mr. Standfast, by John Buchan. I have only just discovered Buchan's Richard Hannay series, beginning with The Thirty-Nine Steps and ending with The Island of the Sheep. Mr. Standfast is the third book in the series of British spy novels, and by far my favorite. Set during World War I, the story is narrated by General Richard Hannay, who first got involved in the spying business by accident (The Thirty-Nine Steps). A disgruntled General Hannay is called from the battlefront by old friends of his, men involved in the political sphere. They tell him that information that could not possibly be accessed is being leaked to the Germans, and they want him to figure out how. Now Hannay is sent to the North disguised as a dissenter, something that he certainly never wanted to be though of as. While being chased around Scotland by the police, he comes across the spy and his "mailbox". Case closed.
Not quite. The spy is someone who was supposed to have been executed years ago; a master actor, one of the most dangerous men in Europe. Hannay feels certain that he can recognize him in any situation now, but can he really? Back to France for the final showdown---ending in a cataclysmic aerial dogfight. Heavy shelling from the German side and a no-show French reinforcement make the scene seem hopeless. How are our heroes going to pull through? Enter Mr. Standfast. They're not all going to walk away this time.
Mild swearing, again. Use whiteout, if you happen to have a paper copy.


1. The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien. You might have guessed this one. Yes; this strange, whismical tale is one of my absolute favorites. I try not to geek out over Tolkien stuff, but...yeah.
The Bagginses are a respectable family of hobbits, never doing anything unexpected or out of the ordinary. Bilbo Baggins is like all the others, except that his mother was a Took---well, people tend to forget that bit. But when thirteen dwarves and a wizard show up for tea the next afternoon, Bilbo isn't so sure that he can keep clear of adventures after all. Especially since they seem to have come of their own accord. He doesn't really want to be enlisted as a burglar for a treasure-hunting quest, or does he? One way or another, and with a little help from the wizard, Gandalf, he ends up charging out the door the next morning (without a single pocket handkerchief!) to meet up with this strange company of dwarves. And so begins the beginning of all the adventures. What starts out as, in Bilbo's mind, a simple treasure-hunt, turns into a strange, wonderful, and epic journey across Middle Earth. Maybe they won't all live to see the end of it, and certainly none of them will ever be the same, even our invariable master hobbit. Don't miss this wonderful prequel to Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. Elements of magic and all that comes with it are present in the book, and our aged mentor happens to be a wizard, but it is written in such a way that most people don't encounter roadblocks. My family enjoys The Hobbit highly.

Poetry for Thought

When marshalled on the nightly plain
The glitt'ring host bestud the sky,
One star alone of all the train
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks
From ev'ry host, from ev'ry gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,--
It is the Star of Bethlehem!

Once on the raging seas I rode;
The storm was loud, the night was dark;
The ocean yawned, and rudely blew
The wind that tossed my found'ring bark.
Deep horror then my vitals froze;
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem,
When suddenly a star arose,--
It was the Star of Bethlehem!

It was my guide, my light, my all;
It bade my dark forebodings cease;
And through the storm and danger's thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moored, my perils o'er,
I'll sing first in night's diadem,
Forever and forever more,--
The Star, the Star of Bethlehem!

~Henry Kirk White

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

The Glad, Golden Days of Summer

We’re halfway through summer already, and it feels like I haven’t gotten anything done. School, my very last few months of school, is threateningly close (the last time, though. Ha!) and auditions are coming up. Not only do I have to audition, but three of my siblings do, too. So they have to be prepared. 

What have I been doing all summer? Laundry, mostly. I’ve moved mountains of it, trying to catch up by doing six or seven loads a day. The wasps and I have a slight disagreement over the clothesline zone, so hanging up the wash is a little dangerous. I’ve finally gotten the endless stream from my brother’s room under control (oh, and something wet just flew up against the window. I wonder what they’re doing with their spare time?). 

I’ve also been making stuff to sell at the Farmer’s Market, and playing violin at our table. I actually got my first “gig” there, as somebody among the listeners asked me to play at an event in August. 

The other day, one of my brothers managed to step on a rusty nail and drive the thing right to his bone. After letting off a railway-style shriek, he booked it for the house and got a nice trip to the ER. Funny how my brothers can scream at a pitch higher than I. Needless to say, he got several days off from chores and sat in the living-room like a little tyrant, ordering his siblings around. One of his subjects rebelled and gave him a nice earful of dishwater. I won’t say who, though it wasn’t me. 

I’ve been trying to do a lot of writing this summer, but haven’t really accomplished much. I’m still polishing up my Nano novel, Tempered, which had to be renamed The Listeners because of major, unexpected plot developments. When I finish up that, I’m going to start working on a story that I made up for my siblings, called The Motley Four. It was inspired by Edith Nesbit’s The Story of the Treasure Seekers and the sequels, The Wouldbegoods and The New Treasure Seekers. Those books always had me shaking with laughter when I was younger. Also in the works is a collection of short stories, only a few of which I have mapped out. “Survival of the Fittest”, “The Glass Heart”, “Weaving Words”, “The Paperback City”, and “The King’s Champion” are the only ones I’ve got typed up. If anyone’s interested, I could stick some up one of these days. Most of them are written for my siblings’ amusement. 

I actually want to be reading a bit more this summer. It seems like I haven’t gotten my hands on much, though I did read quite a few classics earlier in the year. Wuthering Heights (which, I thought, was kind of ridicules. All of the characters were downright nasty people, and there was no redemption or character-reformation involved), Jane Eyre, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, re-read Pride and Prejudice, The Cat of Bubastes, all of the Anne of Green Gables books that I have, snagged a bit of Shakespeare, and worked through everything that I have of Edith Nesbit’s, which amounts to nine books. I also re-read The Hobbit because Jesse had gotten it from the library and I caught it lying around. Also stole some of Dad’s commentaries. 

I suppose that the last few months haven’t really been uneventful, but they felt quieter than they usually are. There’s been plenty of time to play violin, read, think, and do housework. The garden is coming along nicely, the cow is about ready to calf, and the stupid goats snapped one of our apple tree saplings in half. I tried to tie it upright to a bar, so hopefully it will just grow back together. I’ve heard of grafting branches, so maybe this will work, too. 

And now, I really need to get off this thing so I can finish the day’s laundry.

Dia, mo chara

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 

Character Survival Guide

This is something that has been done before, just for kicks, and I wanted to have my own. How I would act if I were a character in a story:

 

Character Survival Guide

1.       I will not be an unnamed guard. 

2.       I will not be the protagonist’s aged mentor who is killed right before the climax.

3.       I will try my hardest not to be the antagonist.

4.       If I must be a villain, and if I capture the hero, I will not sit down with him and tauntingly tell him my entire plan for world dominion. No; I will give him tea, lock him in a cell, and walk away. 

5.       If I am the antagonist, I will try my hardest to reform.

6.       I will not enrage people by killing the protagonist’s pet dog or something.

7.       In fact, it would be best if I were the protagonist. They usually survive to the end.

8.       If there is ever an expedition into a dark, unknown place, I will be neither the first nor the last member of the party. I will be safely in the middle, and not be eaten from behind or blunder blindly into a death-trap to be made an example of for the other characters. 

9.       I will not wander off from the campsite to gather sticks. 

10.   I will not leave my weapon lying on a log while I’m off doing something.

11.   I will not pick up mysterious objects from the protagonist’s dresser and then be eaten by the antagonist.

12.   I will not be the protagonist’s school rival, or anything like that. 

13.   I will not go downstairs in the dark of the night to investigate some strange noise from the kitchen. 

14.   I will not be a slimy traitor that everyone wishes would die.

15.   I will not be a loudmouth, rebellious child and go my own way. No, I will stay were I’m told, not try to go after people on my own, not sneak out the window after dark, and not open the door for strangers. 

16.   I will show strange and magical objects to my parents or mentors.

17.   I will inform adults if I am being stalked by strange individuals in trench coats and sunglasses. 

18.   I will always keep my cell phone charged, and not forget it or drop it into the river. 

19.   I will always grab a jacket, shoes, and a waterbottle before jumping into another world. 

20.   I will take some form of martial arts. 

21.   I will not say that the eerie sound coming from outside is just the wind. 

22.   I will not say that the strange creatures seen around the house are just imaginings. 

I was in a funny mood. There are many more, if only you have the time to think of them. ^.^

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