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The Giant Puff-Ball

From what sad star I know not, but I found
Myself new-born below the coppice rail,
No bigger than the dewdrops and as round,
In a soft sward, no cattle might assail.

And so I gathered mightiness and grew
With this one dream kindling in me, that I
Should never cease from conquering light and dew
Till my white splendour touched the trembling sky.

A century of blue and stilly light
Bowed down before me, the dew came again,
The moon my sibyl worshipped through the night,
The sun returned and long abode; but then

Hoarse drooping darkness hung me with a shroud
And switched at me with shrivelled leaves in scorn.
Red morning stole beneath a grinning cloud,
And suddenly clambering over dike and thorn

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poem by Edmund Blunden
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Late Night with Fog and Horses

They were in the living room. Saying their
goodbyes. Loss ringing in their ears.
They'd been through a lot together, but now
they couldn't go another step. Besides, for him
there was someone else. Tears were falling
when a horse stepped out of the fog
into the front yard. Then another, and
another. She went outside and said,
'Where did you come from, you sweet horses?'
and moved in amongst them, weeping,
touching their flanks. The horses began
to graze in the front yard.
He made two calls: one call went straight
to he sheriff - 'someone's horses are out.'
But there was that other call, too.
Then he joined his wife in the front
yard, where they talked and murmured
to the horses together. (Whatever was
happening now was happening in another time.)
Horses cropped the grass in the yard

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poem by Raymond Clevie Carver
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The eternal story

Long before time its race began
or upon earth stepped the first man.
Before planets their circuits made
or light its virgin rays displayed.

The Council of the Triune One
Father, Holy Spirit and Son.
In eternity past did plan
to come and die for sinful man.

'Who shall I send' was the great cry.
'Here I am, send me', the reply.
Then as a small babe wrapped in flesh
came the Lord our Righteousness.

Angelic host proclaimed the birth
for their Lord had come down to earth.
God confined to a human span
had come to live and walk with man.

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poem by Royston
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Mrs. Katherine’s Lantern

'Coming from a gloomy court,
Place of Israelite resort,
This old lamp I've brought with me.
Madam, on its panes you'll see
The initials K and E.'

'An old lantern brought to me?
Ugly, dingy, battered, black!'
(Here a lady I suppose
Turning up a pretty nose)—
'Pray, sir, take the old thing back.
I've no taste for bricabrac.'

'Please to mark the letters twain'—
(I'm supposed to speak again)—
'Graven on the lantern pane.
Can you tell me who was she,
Mistress of the flowery wreath,
And the anagram beneath—
The mysterious K E?

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poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Two Tears In The Wind

He asked a question
this stranger odd
with invasive eyes
that goad and prod

He smote with words
a hammer fell
with bell-like blows
a funeral knell

I felt these words
tho' not by hearing
a clacking of bones
as I hung in the wind

And a dark wind blew…

If I were to go
to a place like me
what kind of place

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poem by George Vuyakovich
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A Language Scrum

It was a gathering of the Metaphors
who likened all things
to all other things
never identifying Essences;
leaving nothing as the core..

Similes arrived stating triumphantly that
they were superior to the merely metaphoric
and especially to the Gerunds.

The Nouns were enraged
claiming that they were the origins of things named
and all that could be named.

They all held the Dangling Participle in contempt
whose cohorts hung at the end of the table
speaking in sentences fragmenting.

The Pluperfect laid claim to wedding the Past
and Present

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Moonlight Sonata

The Moonlight Sonata
coaxes light through the window
a warm glow is between us.
Then air turns to ash and
we close our eyes.
Once when we could still see,
there were hands between us.
One a teacup, the kind saved
for the careful company
the other a nesting bird
enveloping, gentle, weightless.
I could feel in your arms
steel bands that hummed
with precision over a vast
network of machinery,
driving one day into the next.
The smell of heat hung on you,
white heat, blast furnace heat.
Skin seared to ochre, a badge,
medallion, a sign of your time.

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poem by Ronald Shields
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Good Friday...

Behold the wood that went to make the cross
That bore the Saviour Lord, King Jesus Christ:
The holy cross at Calvary on which
Was hung, the Redeemer of mankind race!

That man was only Son of God in flesh,
Who suffered, shed His precious blood as price
For every sin of everyone on earth,
Of Adam and of Eve in lineage!

It wasn’t about the cross that Jesus bore;
It was about the One who hung on it!
He came to earth as Mary’s baby boy,
And gave to men the Good News, peace and joy!

The cross of wood assumed significance
When Jesus died upon it for our sins;
The sacrifice supreme was love of God
For creature man of clay whom He had made!

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poem by John Celes
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Lourdes 2006

Jimmy opened his suitcase in the room
at Lourdes and said Oh no there's molasses
all over the clothes and shoes and I've got

a whole week here and he sat down in a chair
his head in his hands saying What have I done?
What am I going to do for clothes now? you

went over and looked in and sure enough
the molasses were over his clothes and shoes.
What am I going to do? he said and you said

Leave it to me Jim I'll sort it and you went through
the clothes taking out the items untouched
by the molasses and set them aside on the bed

and then carried the suitcase of black sticky items
Into the washroom and there one by one you carefully
washed them through with soap and water until

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poem by Terry Collett
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For Johnny Pole On The Forgotten Beach

In his tenth July some instinct
taught him to arm the waiting wave,
a giant where its mouth hung open.
He rode on the lip that buoyed him there
and buckled him under. The beach was strung
with children paddling their ages in,
under the glare od noon chipping
its light out. He stood up, anonymous
and straight among them, between
their sand pails and nursery crafts.
The breakers cartwheeled in and over
to puddle their toes and test their perfect
skin. He was my brother, my small
Johnny brother, almost ten. We flopped
down upon a towel to grind the sand
under us and watched the Atlantic sea
move fire, like night sparklers;
and lost our weight in the festival
season. He dreamed, he said, to be
a man designed like a balanced wave…

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poem by Anne Sexton
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