Simple Comfort by Winslow Umberger

 

Spartan times as a child

Ring Tum Diddy,

Feelings of plenty.

What made it enough?

Won't You Celebrate With Me by Lucille Clifton

 

won't you celebrate with me

what i have shaped into

a kind of life? i had no model.

born in babylon

both nonwhite and woman

what did i see to be except myself?

i made it up

here on this bridge between

starshine and clay,

my one hand holding tight

my other hand; come celebrate

with me that everyday

something has tried to kill me

and has failed.

Age Is Just a Number by Ian McIntyre

"Age is just a number",

But I don't think that's true,

My bones and joints would argue that,

My skin and stomach, too.

My muscles are no longer taut,

Sometimes they sag and roll,

My curling days are decreasing weights,

And yardwork takes a toll.

Women remain a mystery,

And, most likely, always will,

But I raise my cup, and call a toast,

To their delightful thrill.

Old friends of mine, departed now,

Have stared into their fate,

There will be a crowd, perhaps some beer,

When I reach that Pearly Gate.

"The older I get...", Trevino said,

"...the better I used to be."

Keeping that in mind, pass me a beer,

And keep your old Green Tea.

Surrounded now by vegan friends,

Who munch on celery stalks,

I need a cheeseburger now and then,

And a bagel layered with lox!

But! My get up and go, I'm pleased to say,

Has not completely went,

Up the ladder, at camp I go,

To sleep in my rooftop tent.

The remote places yet call to me,

Desert, forest and lake,

I'll travel far and wide, you'll see,

Until my final wake.

Staring at a TV screen; 

I think, "to hell with that!",

I'll load the car, with camping gear,

And get a friend to feed the cat.

"You live but once.", we've heard this said,

A million times before,

We have the choice, so grab it now,

Your life is not a bore.

Try something new, break and toss the mold,

Your boundary is your mind,

Expand your limits, fill the universe,

And leave the daily grind.

There'll not be a granite stone,

To mark my resting place,

The kids will burn my bones to ash,

To disappear without a trace.

My day begins by writing this,

Words were tumbling in my head,

Got a lot of discoveries yet to make,

Before I join the Dead!

 

The Negro Speaks of Rivers by Langston Hughes

 

I’ve known rivers:

I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.

I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.

I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers:

Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

The Tables Turned by William Wordsworth

 Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; 

Or surely you'll grow double: 

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; 

Why all this toil and trouble? 

The sun above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields has spread, 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: 

Come, hear the woodland linnet, 

How sweet his music! on my life, 

There's more of wisdom in it. 

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! 

He, too, is no mean preacher: 

Come forth into the light of things, 

Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 

Our minds and hearts to bless— 

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 

Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 

One impulse from a vernal wood 

May teach you more of man, 

Of moral evil and of good, 

Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 

Our meddling intellect 

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— 

We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art; 

Close up those barren leaves; 

Come forth, and bring with you a heart 

That watches and receives. 

Lines Written in Early Spring by William Wordsworth

 

I heard a thousand blended notes, 

While in a grove I sate reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 

Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 

The human soul that through me ran; 

And much it grieved my heart to think 

What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, 

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 

And ’tis my faith that every flower 

Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played, 

Their thoughts I cannot measure:— 

But the least motion which they made 

It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 

And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 

If such be Nature’s holy plan, 

Have I not reason to lament 

What man has made of man?

NOTE: From Lyrical Ballads, And a Few Other Poems. Wordsworth believed that nature is conscious. 

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgson)

 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 

      And the mome raths outgrabe. 

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! 

      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! 

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun 

      The frumious Bandersnatch!” 

He took his vorpal sword in hand; 

      Long time the manxome foe he sought— 

So rested he by the Tumtum tree 

      And stood awhile in thought. 

And, as in uffish thought he stood, 

      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, 

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, 

      And burbled as it came! 

One, two! One, two! And through and through 

      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! 

He left it dead, and with its head 

      He went galumphing back. 

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 

      Come to my arms, my beamish boy! 

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” 

      He chortled in his joy. 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

Autumn by T.E. Hulme

A touch of cold in the Autumn night --

    I walked abroad, 

    And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge 

    Like a red-faced farmer. 

    I did not stop to speak, but nodded, 

    And round about were the wistful stars 

    With white faces like town children.