• Fall 2004 - Featured Poet: Robert Frost, Robert Frost Poems, Sarah Lou's Corner,
  Poet of the Season: Ron Beam

• Summer 2004

• Spring 2004

• Winter 2004

• Special Feature: Poems of Inspiration

Poetry Wall Archives: 2005 | 2004 | 2003 | 2002 | 2001

Current Poetry Wall

Poems of Inspiration

These three poems are a few of my favorites as they have helped me through recovery and to be the person that I am.

As a child, I was always taught that you don't hug or cuddle somebody unless you are asked but I am a 'huggy' person. My friends all hug one another, nothing sexual or wrong in it but we just do. I found that the poem "Just a little hug" has taught me that hugging somebody you care about isn't wrong and a hug does not have to be sexual it can mean so much more, it encouraged me to hug whom ever I want and when ever I want!

The poem: " Be the best" has taught me to appreciate what I am and not to set expectations that are to high and on the contrary to this " I think I can" has helped me to realize that I can achieve things and I am worthy of what I desire!

All of these poems have been beneficial to my recovery and self-esteem they have developed me into the person I am by inspiring me to believe that I am good enough to be the person I want to be !

-Sarah Lou Stancer
Poetry Wall Coordinator

Just a little hug
Author Unknown

A hug can say, "I'll miss you,"
or, "I'll be thinking of you."
It can say, "You're someone special,"
or, best of all, "I love you."
It can soothe a hurt, or calm a fear,
Or cheer us when we are blue -
It almost seems a miracle
all the things a hug can do!
When the sun is refusing
to shine upon your day
and you're finding it hard
just to cope.
When you're seeing more rainclouds
than stars in the sky
and you just feel like giving up hope.
That's the time when someone
comes along with a smile
and a warm hug
that says, "It's okay -
Tomorrow is coming,
So don't give up now -
brighter moments
are soon on their way!"

Be The Best!
Douglas Malloch

If you can't be the pine at the top of the hill
Be the scrub in the valley, but be
The best little scrub on the side of the hill.
Be a bush if you can't be a tree
If you can't be a bush be a bit of the grass.
DO something for somebody's sake.

If you can't be a muskie try being a bass,
But be the liveliest bass in the lake.
We can't all be captains, some have to be crew
There is something for all of us to here
There is a big work and little for people to do
And the task we must do is near,
So if you can't be a highway then be a great trail
If you can't be a sun, be a star.

It isn't by size that you win or fail.
be the best at whatever you are.

I think I can
"The Victor" C.W. Longenecker

If you think you are beaten you are;
If you think you dare not, you don't;
If you want to win but think you can't;
It's almost a cinch you won't.
If you think you'll lose, you're lost;
For out of the world we find
Success begins with a fellow's will;
It's all in a state of mind.
Life's battle don't always go
To the stronger and faster man,
But sooner or later the man who wins
Is the man who thinks he can.

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Fall 2004

For the Fall wall I have decided to do a tribute to Robert Frost. Why Robert Frost you may ask, well for a few reasons; Sarah suggested him to me a while back and his names keeps popping up when I do searches for poetry - especially Fall poems! Also I think he is a fantastic poet.  I have selected a few of his more famous poems below and have included a brief bio of him.

So enjoy and Happy Fall!

Hugs,

Sarah-Lou Stancer, 
Payson Road Poetry Coordinator

Featured Poet: Robert Frost Bio, Robert Frost Poems 
Sarah Lou's Corner
Poet of the Season: Ron Beam

Robert Frost

Robert Frost was born in San Francisco in 1874. He moved to New England at the age of eleven and became interested in reading and writing poetry during his high school years in Lawrence, Massachusetts. He was enrolled at Dartmouth College in 1892, and later at Harvard, but never earned a formal degree. Frost drifted through a string of occupations after leaving school, working as a teacher, cobbler, and editor of the Lawrence Sentinel. His first professional poem, "My Butterfly," was published on November 8, 1894, in the New York newspaper The Independent.

In 1895, Frost married Elinor Miriam White, who became a major inspiration in his poetry until her death in 1938. The couple moved to England in 1912, after their New Hampshire farm failed, and it was abroad that Frost met and was influenced by such contemporary British poets as Edward Thomas, Rupert Brooke, and Robert Graves. While in England, Frost also established a friendship with the poet Ezra Pound, who helped to promote and publish his work. By the time Frost returned to the United States in 1915, he had published two full-length collections, A Boy's Will and North of Boston, and his reputation was established. By the nineteen-twenties, he was the most celebrated poet in America, and with each new book—including New Hampshire (1923), A Further Range (1936), Steeple Bush (1947), and In the Clearing (1962)—his fame and honors (including four Pulitzer Prizes) increased.

Though his work is principally associated with the life and landscape of New England, and though he was a poet of traditional verse forms and metrics who remained steadfastly aloof from the poetic movements and fashions of his time, Frost is anything but a merely regional or minor poet. Robert Frost lived and taught for many years in Massachusetts and Vermont, and died on January 29, 1963, in Boston.

Poems by Robert Frost

My Butterfly
By Robert Frost 

THINE emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter, he
That frighted thee so oft, is fled or dead: 
 
The gray grass is not dappled with the snow;
Its two banks have not shut upon the river;
But it is long ago—
It seems forever—
Since first I saw thee glance,
With all the dazzling other ones,
In airy dalliance,
Precipitate in love,
Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above,
Like a limp rose-wreath in a fairy dance. 

When that was, the soft mist
Of my regret hung not on all the land,
And I was glad for thee,
And glad for me, I wist. 

Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high,
That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
With those great careless wings,
Nor yet did I. 25 

And there were other things:
It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp:
Then fearful he had let thee win
Too far beyond him to be gathered in,
Snatched thee, o’er eager, with ungentle grasp. 

Ah! I remember me
How once conspiracy was rife
Against my life—
The languor of it and the dreaming fond;
Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought,
The breeze three odors brought,
And a gem-flower waved in a wand! 

Then when I was distraught
And could not speak,
Sidelong, full on my cheek,
What should that reckless zephyr fling
But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing! 

I found that wing broken to-day!
For thou are dead, I said,
And the strange birds say.
I found it with the withered leaves
Under the eaves 

After Apple-Picking
By Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well 

Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing dear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much 

Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep. 

Birches
By Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father’s trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
 

My November Guest
By Robert Frost

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise. 

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Sarah Lou's Corner

Golden
By Sarah Lou 

It is Autumn,
The sun is shining, through the branches of the golden leaves.
Shimmering is the rain on the walkway beneath.
The sea of colour,

The rich colours of autumn,
Gold, Ruby, Amber and Emerald.
The colours of music,
The colours of harvest,
The colours of happiness,
The colours of love.

Lovers walk through the trees
All wrapped up warm to protect themselves from the cold but, gentle breeze.
They can be heard strolling
Through the scrunching and squelching of the leaves.
But, the streets are quiet,
The streets are silent,
The silence is golden. 

The leaves begin to fall
A golden rich carpet is formed,
The earth is warmed,
As the air is cooled.
Soon there follows the migrating swallows
Heading south
To the intense heat
Where the golden sunrays still beat down.
But, here it is Autumn,
The season of Gold,
The Golden Season. 

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Poet of the Season - Fall 04

Ron Beam is one of Payson Road's favorite poets and most generous contributor to the Wall.  Please enjoy these three wonderful poems by Ron Beam.

Original poems by Ron Beam

Blonde Guitar

Silent goodbye sunset
Runs ridged October sky,
Single goodbye teardrop
Arguing with my sigh.
Gets rough out here
When year´s near done,
Mighty rough out here
Worse without you, Hon.
Been a year tomorrow
You loaded up your car
But couldn't take everything,
I still stare at your guitar.
If you maybe need it
The door is kept unlocked;
I could go sort seed
If ever you should stop.
Don't blame you for going
Blame black silvered winter nights
Those were hard on you, girl
I heard your music fight.
Living here is foolish
That's why I'm at home.
A fool like me was meant
To be quiet and alone.
 

September

Leave September open
I'll be there by and by
When lives change like tumbling water
Thoughts laid bare while habits die
Meet me where my heart leads
A gray bound fragrant morn
Offering yesterday no homage
Asking that which must, be born
Try to keep your eyes clear
Men will fill them with regret
Of visions that you once loved
But were scorned and so, not kept
Hope dies without its youth;
What happens, we'll never know
Sweet blossoms on a pear tree
War with rotting earth below
Row across this last lake
Though that shore be lost in mist
It's the fog that lifts within us
Which no one should resist 

Landlocked

How I ache to once more
Smell the sea breeze at dawn
Breathe deeply its portions of
Whale, coral and prawn.
Bathed in saltened scent
As the world fills my nose;
Ingesting battered tide as it
Goes where it goes.
I know, gusty forest pines
Freshen not just tanged air,
But cleanse muddied thoughts as
Inhaled crisply there.
And mild wind lifts fragrance
Off of swaying bluebells
As it skirts ´cross maid meadow and
Her damped earthen smells.
But a sea breeze names me
Wherever it's found
Whispering alluring, compelling near
Something fully profound.
Been blown wild in broad flatland,
Lost strange midst swayed trees;
But a wester´s my father's voice,
Wind home to the sea.?

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Summer 2004

The summer poetry wall’s focus is on poetry slamming and probably one of the best ‘slammers’ Taylor Mali. Poetry Slam – “The New” American culture beat poetry of the day. Poetry slamming is the new phenomena; it’s poetry with a difference. HBO have dedicated episode upon episode to the craze. Slamming, began as a Broadway show which has since toured the country. Taylor Mali has lead six national poetry slam teams to the contest finals and has won the championship himself a record number of four times. He put his teaching career on hold to dedicate his time to poetry. Since then he has appeared on the first two seasons of HBO’s Def Poetry Jam and won the best jury prize for ‘best-one man show’ at the U.S Comedy Arts Festival.

You can visit Taylor’s home page at: www.taylormali.com to find out more about his accomplishments or just to read more of his poems.

Below are a few of his poems:

Undivided attention
By Taylor Mali

A grand piano wrapped in quilted pads by movers,
tied up with canvas straps - like classical music's
birthday gift to the insane -
is gently nudged without its legs
out an eighth-floor window on 62nd street.

It dangles in April air from the neck of the movers' crane,
Chopin-shiny black lacquer squares
and dirty white crisscross patterns hanging like the second-to-last
note of a concerto played on the edge of the seat,
the edge of tears, the edge of eight stories up going over, and
I'm trying to teach math in the building across the street.

Who can teach when there are such lessons to be learned?
All the greatest common factors are delivered by
long-necked cranes and flatbed trucks
or come through everything, even air.
Like snow.

See, snow falls for the first time every year, and every year
my students rush to the window
as if snow were more interesting than math,
which, of course, it is.

So please.

Let me teach like a Steinway,
spinning slowly in April air,
so almost-falling, so hinderingly
dangling from the neck of the movers' crane.
So on the edge of losing everything.

Let me teach like the first snow, falling.
 

Like Lilly Like Wilson
By Taylor Mali 

I'm writing the poem that will change the world,
and it's Lilly Wilson at my office door.
Lilly Wilson, the recovering like addict,
the worst I've ever seen.
So, like, bad the whole eighth grade
started calling her Like Lilly Like Wilson Like.
ŒUntil I declared my classroom a Like-Free Zone,
and she could not speak for days.

But when she finally did, it was to say,
Mr. Mali, this is . . . so hard.
Now I have to think before I . . . say anything.

Imagine that, Lilly.

It's for your own good.
Even if you don't like . . .
it.

I'm writing the poem that will change the world,
and it's Lilly Wilson at my office door.
Lilly is writing a research paper for me
about how homosexuals shouldn't be allowed
to adopt children.
I'm writing the poem that will change the world,
and it's Like Lilly Like Wilson at my office door.

She's having trouble finding sources,
which is to say, ones that back her up.
They all argue in favor of what I thought I was against.

And it took four years of college,
three years of graduate school,
and every incidental teaching experience I have ever had
to let out only,

Well, that's a real interesting problem, Lilly.
But what do you propose to do about it?
That's what I want to know.

And the eighth-grade mind is a beautiful thing;
Like a new-born baby's face, you can often see it
change before your very eyes.

I can't believe I'm saying this, Mr. Mali,
but I think I'd like to switch sides.

And I want to tell her to do more than just believe it,
but to enjoy it!
That changing your mind is one of the best ways
of finding out whether or not you still have one.
Or even that minds are like parachutes,
that it doesn't matter what you pack
them with so long as they open
at the right time.
O God, Lilly, I want to say
you make me feel like a teacher,
and who could ask to feel more than that?
I want to say all this but manage only,
Lilly, I am like so impressed with you!

So I finally taught somebody something,
namely, how to change her mind.
And learned in the process that if I ever change the world
it's going to be one eighth grader at a time.
 

Totally like whatever, you know?
By Taylor Mali 

In case you hadn't noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?

Declarative sentences - so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not -
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?

What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally . . .
I mean absolutely . . . You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like . . .
whatever!

And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness
is just a clever sort of . . . thing
to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since . . .
you know, a long, long time ago!

I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.

How to Write a Political Poem
By Taylor Mali

However it begins, it's gotta be loud
and then it's gotta get a little bit louder.
Because this is how you write a political poem
and how you deliver it with power.

Mix current events with platitudes of empowerment.
Wrap up in rhyme or rhyme it up in rap until it sounds true.

Glare until it sinks in.

Because somewhere in Florida, votes are still being counted.
I said somewhere in Florida, votes are still being counted!

See, that's the Hook, and you gotta' have a Hook.
More than the look, it's the hook that is the most important part.
The hook has to hit and the hook's gotta fit.
Hook's gotta hit hard in the heart.

Because somewhere in Florida, votes are still being counted.

And Dick Cheney is peeing all over himself in spasmodic delight.
Make fun of politicians, it's easy, especially with Republicans
like Rudy Giuliani, Colin Powell, and . . . Al Gore.
Create fatuous juxtapositions of personalities and political philosophies
as if communism were the opposite of democracy,
as if we needed Darth Vader, not Ralph Nader.

Peep this: When I say "Call,"
you all say, "Response."

Call! Response! Call! Response! Call!

Amazing Grace, how sweet the‹

Stop in the middle of a song that everyone kows and loves.
This will give your poem a sense of urgency.
Because there is always a sense of urgency in a political poem.
There is no time to waste!
Corruption doesn't have a curfew,
greed doesn't care what color you are
and the New York City Police Department
is filled with people who wear guns on their hips
and carry metal badges pinned over their hearts.
Injustice isn't injustice it's just in us as we are just in ice.
That's the only alienation of this alien nation
in which you either fight for freedom
or else you are free and dumb!

And even as I say this somewhere in Florida, votes are still being counted.

And it makes me wanna beat box!

Because I have seen the disintegration of gentrification
and can speak with great articulation
about cosmic constellations, and atomic radiation.
I've seen D. W. Griffith's Birth of a Nation
but preferred 101 Dalmations.
Like a cross examination, I will give you the explanation
of why SlamNation is the ultimate manifestation
of poetic masturbation and egotistical ejaculation.

And maybe they are still counting votes somewhere in Florida,
but by the time you get to the end of the poem it won't matter anymore.

Because all you have to do is close your eyes,
lower your voice, and end by saying:

the same line three times,
the same line three times,
the same line three times.

www.taylormali.com

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Spring 2004

This Spring I have chosen a selection of my favorite poems all very different from one another but all with a meaning to myself. I wanted to share these with you all, hoping you'll like them as I do and also to hopefully inspire you to share some of your favorites. Be them your own or your favorites.

Enjoy!

Sarah-Lou
Poetry Wall Coordinator

The first poem I have chosen is by William Wordsworth and is probably one of the most famous poems around;

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

The next two poems are poems which I often read as a child; 

Please Mrs. Butler
By Brian Patten

Please Mrs Butler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps copying my work, Miss.
What shall I do?
Go and sit in the hall dear,
Go and sit in the sink.
Take your books on the roof, my lamb.
Do whatever you think.
Please Mrs Butler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps taking my rubber, Miss
What shall I do?
Keep it in your hand, dear.
Hide it up your vest.
swallow it if you like, my love
Do what you think best.
Please Mrs Bultler
This boy Derek Drew
Keeps calling me rude names, miss
What shall I do?
Lock yourself in the cupboard, dear.
Run away to sea.
Do whatever you can, my flower.
But don't ask me!

This poem makes me want to go back to when I was nine, so my list can be as simple as this! 

Things I have Been Doing Lately
By Brian Patten

Things I have been doing lately:
Pretending to go mad
Eating my own cheeks from the inside
Growing taller
Keeping a secret
Keeping a worm in a jar
Keeping a good dream going
Picking a scab on my elbow
Rolling the cat in a rug
Blowing bubbles in my spit
Making myself dizzy
Holding my breath
Pressing my eyeballs so that I can become temporarily blind
Being very nearly ten
Practicing my signature ....
Saving the best till last.

"Digging" is my next chosen poem and is one of my favourites from high school, it shows how Seamus didn't want to follow in his father's footsteps and be a writer. Maybe a lesson to us all to follow our dreams, look where his took him! 

Digging
By Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground.
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

I love this next poem, it really makes me stop and think - am I a clod or a pebble and do I want to be both? 

The Clod and the Pebble
by William Blake

"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair."
So sung a little clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet;
But a pebble of the brook
Warbled out these meters meet:
"Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven's despite."

This next poem is another poem by William Blake and shows how even in the eighteenth century people believed (or Blake did) that you can learn so much more in life other than at school. 

The Schoolboy
by William Blake

I love to rise in a summer morn
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me.
O! what sweet company!
But to go to school on a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.
Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour,
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learning's bower,
Worn thro' with the dreary shower.
How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child, when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring?
O! father and mother, if buds are nipped
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are stripped
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care's dismay,
How shall the summer arise in joy,
Or the summer's fruits appear?
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter appear?

Another poem by Blake, this time with the message that all humans are equal no matter the religion, race or colour. I think this is still an important image to get across even today. 

The Divine Image
by William Blake 

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
All pray in their distress;
And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.
For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is God, our father dear,
And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
Is Man, his child and care.
For Mercy has a human heart,
Pity a human face,
And Love, the human form divine,
And Peace, the human dress.
Then every man, of every clime,
That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine,
Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.
And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
There God is dwelling too.

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Winter 2004 

Sad Tune 
by Helen

Pain and despair stay close,
with me every day draining my life away.
The darkness and the numbness surrounds
And I continue to play this sad tune day by day.
As I listen to the music of human pain
my soul weeps in unison.
I try to breathe out the addiction and the hate,
I try to breathe in the love and the nurture.
Yes, one day I will be there,
To hold my own soul with open arms
Sorry for the pain that I inflicted
On my raw and bleeding self.


I Should Have Loved You
Ron Beam

I knew you then as a neighborhood friend
Long before I knew myself.
I'd no sense to see you were good for me;
Your integrity, deep inner wealth.
You were my fair young awkward recruit
Whose laughter warmed my days.
No thoughts of amour, "Let's rouse some more!"
Enjoying summers in winding ways.
Sun reflecting from a creek to your face
Didn't impress me at the time.
Watching clouds in flight, a more important rite
Or dreaming schemes to make a dime.
That county fair beckoned in long August heat,
Aromas where we loved to be.
Your hand touched my hand; red-faced I ran
Away from you, embarrassing me.
Separated through schools, careers and life;
Our adventures long moved away.
Since then, at times, you've sunnied my mind
I've ached at what I could say.
It's amazingly late, but I'll say it now
Sadly, much too late to do
But, all those miles and smiles ago
I think I should have loved you.
Nostalgic days when so lonely and old
Misty thoughts of a bygone June,
I'll recall your eyes as my heartbeat cries,
Oh my! I should have loved you.

Thanks For The Dance
Ron Beam

I had my world, you had yours.
Mine was awkward boys with awkward fears
Junior high clothing covering high school illusions.
Young men with time to become
But no confidence in reaching;
With good hearts but no idea
If that was enough to impress anyone.
Faces sculpted from plaster
Painted with splotches by a brush with the future
Gangly, bumpy frames that were hothouses
For large feet and larger insecurities
Six plans and half a brain.
Coordinated enough to fall twice on the same set of stairs
Running on legs that kicked one another into submission
But everything stopped....
At the sound of Canadian geese.
Still lucky enough to catch a snowflake on the tongue
And dream in the day as well as the night.
Your world was filled with delicate pretensions
Balanced on the head of an opinion.
Filled with close friends that laughed at
The exact things you found funny
Alert friends who taught you new things to laugh about
Awareness of softness and sheens, cashmere and crinoline
Aromas suggesting exotic places
The grandeur of goals
Boldness to look beyond a hometown.
Finding poise and courage in numbers
Relying on family for faith
Your eyes moving in every direction at once
Afraid of being stared at, but more afraid no one was looking.
Cloaking feminine apprehensions with make-up and wardrobe
Rehearsing smiles and kisses against a mirror
Dreams that lit the darkest sky with hope
Full knowledge that there was only one
Qualified foster for a cold, stray kitten.
Our worlds merged in a gymnasium one May night
As the three of us dressed for a dance.
The gymnasium in uncharacteristically bright colors
With soft accents that muted the usual reverberations
Into a delicious stew of music, laughter and friendly voices
That would feed us throughout the evening.
I was dressed as never before during my young life
In improbable and profoundly uncomfortable stiffness
Sweat promising to pierce my protective applique
Without warning nor mercy.

And you..... you were perfect.
Each highlight in place
Every color enhanced your countenance
This smile brighter than the one before it.
The instant I saw you, boyhood memories ended.
Yet, we did not know one another
We were from two different worlds.
The dance had begun.
I emulated those who evaded social blunders
By quiet confinement to far corners of the gym
Or by eating and drinking much more
Than appetite actually required.
Watching with curiosity those who boldly danced
The only dance they knew.... running wildly
With clothes and hair disheveled;
Themselves laughing at their own abandonment
Until chastined by adult authority
Then exiting to dance further along streets of moonlight,
Spring air and into frenzied summers to come.
I noted with hidden envy the socially adept
Young men embracing freshly flattered
Young ladies on the brilliant dance floor.
While my own group of misfits made jokes about
All the young men and drank more punch.
Throughout the evening, my eyes would find you again.
It seemed you were invited to the floor for every song;
You were as popular as I was obscure.
Though not perfect, you had confident rhythm for fast tempos
Your grace and form made slow songs memorable
How I so much longed to dance with you
To guide you with my hand and slowly
Turn my past into its future.
Walking alone to where you stood with your friends
My legs weakened with each clumsy step
My heart failed; I could no longer breathe
But from somewhere my voice startled my ears,
"Would you dance with me?"
Turning, you looked beyond me.
Taller and more lovely than from afar
It seemed for a beat you found me invisible.
Then your eyes moved to mine. I waited.
A polite, practiced smile came to your silent lips
Again, you looked beyond me
And were going to turn away
Then you looked again directly into my eyes.
That smile became one of sincere tenderness
I felt your hand slip into mine while you said,
"I like your soft eyes."
We walked to our spot to enjoin our dance
For the next three minutes, I left the earth.
Neither of us spoke, but I heard you
Calling me to become who I was not yet.
The music stopped.
We demurely parted, glancing downward
I couldn't speak ... you didn't.
Though our paths would not cross again,
The walk home that night has never ended for me.
While we graduated some years later
In the same huge class,
You wouldn't know me
If we attended ten reunions.
I've just wanted to tell you
There are moments that change people
And thank you for the dance.

I HAVE LONGED
Durlabh Singh

Beyond the reach of the hoary hands
Free of flooded tongues without words
The silent testimony where stones speak
Trying to cut through accumulated agonies.
I have longed to traverse regions
Hand in hand with the seeds of the storm
Where protracted fingers will set forth
Drenched earth with the sprigs of thorn
Where the footprints of the expelled hope
Will leave no modus mark of banishment.
I have longed to traverse regions
Where eyelids get weighed
On a pair of greasy scales
For consummations in wilderness
Or for the geared splintered start
Where certain thoughts might secure
Symptoms for the ills of the heart.

RESTORE ME
Durlabh Singh

Restore me
To myself
Divorce me
From perpetual death.
Bathe me
In fresh showers
Under the summer sun.
Take me
To lands
That speak of mystery
Where the tongues
Are given to leaves
And songs to birds
And little cicada sings
Enlivening the valley
With fresh sounds
Across the mountains.
Seize me
From clutches of
Concrete
Give me suns
That will melt
The frozen seas
Within myself.


GREEN GREEN
Durlabh Singh

Green green the colour of the sea
Walking with shadows of the yellow
Corn flowers gone in guise of blue
Keeping pace with waters in narrow.
Silent silent the turbulent tales
Under wayward motioned twilights
Listening to calmed rippled disruptions
Tracing maps in situ for twinkling fireflies.
Red red rocks staid under the sun
Structures wrought by the serene cores
Breaking up restrictions of castered confines
By the blatant blossoms on the chalky shores.

The Heart of Peace
by Ron Beam

Tarry here a moment with me.
Lay cheek to my bosom and see
You've no longer to fear,
Count safe harbor here.
Be at rest, be at peace. Just be.
Vast windswirling meadow at dusk
Living sanctuary of trust.
Moon climbs over far hill,
Wild whisper chorus falls still.
Obedient creation, it must.
Reflect, fully examine your heart
Purge all but those pure, peaceful parts.
Embrace as dear, a bitter mind?
Stressful Strife anchors blind.
My love for you, this is your start.
Soft beach doesn't fight with fierce waves
Sends back each blow on its way.
Harboring no ill will
Sand glistens firm, calm, still
Building breakfront day after day.
Come, rest with me here in this place.
Let tension slide soft from your face,
Ordered not by the mind
But the heart, so sublime.
Bid halt to a maddening race.

Butterfly
by Ron Beam

You are a butterfly.
I watch you from a distance.
My eyes are attracted
To the colors of your wings
Your gently trembling wings.
I want to come closer,
But I know you will fly
Away if I approach.
You know little of peace,
You know only of flight
To be lifted from harm.
But, I would not trap you, as some
Nor pin you down on a cardboard display
To be shown as a trophy
From a tiring hunt.

No.

I would speak to you softly
And be a trusted companion.
We could explore the meadow together.
You would show me the sweetest flowers
And I will turn away a crow
Who hopes to feed upon your beauty.
You could fly far out of sight
To search where butterflies must search alone
And I would be content knowing
That you will race back to me.
Here, when you are tired
Or.. ill of flight,
You could rest upon my shoulder.
And then perhaps ... someday,
You could teach me how to fly.

Supper At Grandma's
by Ron Beam

Within a town mirroring its nation,
Filled with people of every kind,
There's a home that is a refuge
Such the heartsick seek to find.
Grandma's smile is like a beacon
Calling lost and sore to rest.
Soft urges, "Come, eat with me
Dear friend, I offer you my best."
Trays of food are trays of love,
God´s bounties fresh at brim
When shared around this table,
Pour out more than first poured in.
Her laughter, born of wisdom;
Sincere tears, healing some past pain.
Her honest eyes say joy's alive
Still worth striving to attain.
On the porch, the night grows cooler
Whisper winds awake to breathe.
Hearts feel warm despite the air,
From renewal they've received.
There is treasure in this woman
Ancient, secret maps to find.
When you discover, as some have;
You´ll know love and peace of mind.

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