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If I Could But Forget

If I could but forget
The fullness of those first sweet days,
When you burst sun-like thro' the haze
Of unacquaintance, on my sight,
And made the wet, gray day seem bright
While clouds themselves grew fair to see.
And since, no day is gray or wet
But all the scene comes back to me,
If I could but forget.

If I could but forget
How your dusk eyes look into mine,
And how I thrilled as with strong wine
Beneath your touch; while sped amain
The quickened stream thro' ev'ry vein;
How near my breath fell to a gasp,
When for a space our fingers met
In one electric vibrant clasp,
If I could but forget.

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poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Golden Glow

Amid the golden glow he gazed,
His golden mane aflame,
A mighty lion, highly praised,
Deserving of his fame,
Triumphant in his claims to power,
Majestic to a fault
And when I saw him in that hour,
My search came to a halt...

My camera caught his royal stare,
His glory at that time,
His dignity beyond compare,
So handsome, so sublime...
As conqueror by tooth and claw,
I thought, how could he fail?
Perhaps he'd live ten years or more,
This wondrous alpha male...

To think, he stood there all at ease,
As if there were no harm,

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poem by Denis Martindale
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Pope John Paul II (A Biography Poem Sequence-2)

Faith of the Millennial Pope:

To him, his faith and God were prime –
‘Man needs God’s help in every clime.’
A Godless world would never thrive;
The Almighty was man’s sole (soul’s) drive!

His heart with faith queries aflame,
The Shepherd didn’t put sheep to blame
His faith to him was much real –
Panacea that could all heal.

The God of goodness yearned to love
The man, He made and to him prove,
That without Him, no man could live,
And God would graces amply give.

He went across the globe often
To meet his sheep, to hearts soften;
He raised queries of faith candid,

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poem by John Celes
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The King’s Beard

There lived a king with beard so long
And scalp with scarcely hair!
He used a comb and sang a song
And groomed it with great care.

The king was proud of his long beard
That made him look so wise!
The queen, his wife knew he looked weird
And cursed him for its size!

The queen was therefore always sad;
His lip got hid by hair!
But one day, she was rather glad;
She told him, she couldn’t bear!

One day, the king slept while he read
A book that was folklore!
He had a dream asleep in bed;
“His beard had grown some more! ”

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poem by John Celes
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To dance in love's flame

Where to start?
How do I begin to put my thoughts into words?
I feel, ache, long for… I hide inside

I long to let it out, shout it out… sing my heart out… dance
Would all this articulation be in vain?
Would it be worth my while?

I would love to give… but would my offering be futile?
Would it be rejected?
Would I be scorned?
Worse & painfully, would I be ignored?

All these wondrous gifts… all yours for the taking
Genuine fervor… mind blowing intentions desiring to be unveiled
Wanting to be given, dying to reach out, to nurture, and to heal
This love in the open hand, it remains hindered… ‘tis a paradox

What response is at hand?
Is it worth discerning?

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poem by Paula Tugas
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Over the hills and far away

Over the hills and far away,
A little boy steals from his morning play
And under the blossoming apple-tree
He lies and he dreams of the things to be:
Of battles fought and of victories won,
Of wrongs o'erthrown and of great deeds done -
Of the valor that he shall prove some day,
Over the hills and far away -
Over the hills, and far away!

Over the hills and far away
It's, oh, for the toil the livelong day!
But it mattereth not to the soul aflame
With a love for riches and power and fame!
On, 0 man! while the sun is high -
On to the certain joys that lie
Yonder where blazeth the noon of day,
Over the hills and far away -
Over the hills, and far away!

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poem by Eugene Field
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A Spoonful Of Sugar

Once and often, my mother said
Don't let flattery fill your head
A spoon of sugar is scarce enough
To give for free, such special stuff

Words are words, and nothing more
No reason to unhinge the door
Take heed and never give in haste
Else passion wilts and goes to waste

Day by day and night by night
Arriving with the speed of light
Slather spills across the wires
A rage contrived to flame the fires

But fire's just fire and flame just flame
If nothing more than foolish games
And nothing aches more than the burn
Of a heart aflame, and left to yearn

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poem by Leria Hawkins
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Golden--of the selkirks

A trail upwinds from Golden;
It leads to a land God only knows,
To the land of eternal frozen snows,
That trail unknown and olden.

And they tell a tale that is strange and wild--
Of a lovely and lonely mountain child
That went up the trail from Golden.

A child in the sweet of her womanhood,
Beautiful, tender, grave and good
As the saints in time long olden.

And the days count not, nor the weeks avail;
For the child that went up the mountain trail
Came never again to Golden.

And the watchers wept in the midnight gloom,
Where the canyons yawn and the Selkirks loom,
For the love that they knew of olden.

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poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Passing On Pain To The Next One In Line 5.17.2008

Pain is a strange companion, according to Charlotte
Bronte pain is a scorpion to be squeezed in the hand
until it goes numb so as to deaden the pain that does
not go away by itself

Doesn’t matter how I order my life, I have to traverse
cycles of pain, for energy we have to eat, when I eat
I am ill, when I don’t the pain goes away, as well as
the power to survive

Balancing between waxing and waning cycles of pain,
we chose our lives before we were born, my soul chose
suffering to understand life, the pain of people who seem
so arrogant

But underneath hearts are burning with feelings aflame,
emotions sprouting from scarring thoughts destroying
perspective and life, bewildered eyes chilling my soul,
hardened mouths

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poem by Margaret Alice
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When It Clears Up

The lake is like a giant saucer;
Beyond-a gathering of clouds;
Like stern and dazzling mountain-ranges
Their massif the horizon crowds.

And with the light that swiftly changes,
The landscape never stays the same.
One moment clad in sooty shadows,
The next-the woods are all aflame.

When, after days of rainy weather,
The heavy curtain is withdrawn,
How festive is the sky, burst open!
How full of triumph is the lawn!

The wind dies down, the distance lightens,
And sunshine spreads upon the grass;
The steaming foliage is translucent
Like figures in stained-window glass.

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poem by Boris Pasternak
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