arbor day (a couplet)
Who celerates Arbor Day
Any way?
The Internet can be such a source of disappointment. All these years I thought Joyce Kilmer was a woman - then I google the poem and it's Alfred Joyce Kilmer.
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
-- Joyce Kilmer
Friday
Thursday
April 24
if Robert Frost Lived on Cape Cod
Whose beach this is I think I know
Their year-round house is in the city though
They will not see me walking here
Or else they'd tell me where to go
The neighbors, they might see me here
But in spring, they too are not near
None have time to bother being here
On the Cape this time of year
So year rounders have a chance
Upon private beaches to advance
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy drake
The ocean's lovely, dark and deep
But I have no beach rights so off I creep
And travel miles to the public beach
And travel miles to the public beach
This one is for the twin's first trip to Old Silver Beach, though they weren't the ones who came home sandy.
Season at the Shore
by Phyllis McGinley
On, not by sun and not by cloud
And not by whippoorwill, crying loud,
And not by the pricking of my thumbs,
Do I know the way that the summer comes.
Yet here on this seagull-haunted strand,
Hers is an omen I understand -
Sand:
Sand on the beaches,
Sand at the door,
Sand that screeches
On the new-swept floor;
In the shower, sand for the foot to crunch on;
Sand in the sandwiches spread for luncheon;
Sand adhesive to son and sibling,
From wallet sifting, from pockets dribbling;
Sand by the beaker
Nightly shed
From odious sneaker;
Sand in bed;
Sahara always in my seaside shanty
Like the sand in the voice
of J. Durante.
Winter is mittens, winter is gaiters
Steaming on various radiators.
Autumn is leaves that bog the broom.
Spring is mud in the living room
Or skates in places one scarcely planned.
But what is summer, her seal in hand?
Sand:
Sand in closets,
Sand on the stair,
Desert deposits
In the parlor chair;
Sand n the halls like the halls of the ocean;
Sand in he soap and the sun-tan lotion;
Stirred in the porridge, tossed on the greens,
Poured from the bottoms of rolled-up jeans;
In the elmy street
On the lawny acre;
Glued to the seat
Of the Studebaker.
Whose beach this is I think I know
Their year-round house is in the city though
They will not see me walking here
Or else they'd tell me where to go
The neighbors, they might see me here
But in spring, they too are not near
None have time to bother being here
On the Cape this time of year
So year rounders have a chance
Upon private beaches to advance
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy drake
The ocean's lovely, dark and deep
But I have no beach rights so off I creep
And travel miles to the public beach
And travel miles to the public beach
This one is for the twin's first trip to Old Silver Beach, though they weren't the ones who came home sandy.
Season at the Shore
by Phyllis McGinley
On, not by sun and not by cloud
And not by whippoorwill, crying loud,
And not by the pricking of my thumbs,
Do I know the way that the summer comes.
Yet here on this seagull-haunted strand,
Hers is an omen I understand -
Sand:
Sand on the beaches,
Sand at the door,
Sand that screeches
On the new-swept floor;
In the shower, sand for the foot to crunch on;
Sand in the sandwiches spread for luncheon;
Sand adhesive to son and sibling,
From wallet sifting, from pockets dribbling;
Sand by the beaker
Nightly shed
From odious sneaker;
Sand in bed;
Sahara always in my seaside shanty
Like the sand in the voice
of J. Durante.
Winter is mittens, winter is gaiters
Steaming on various radiators.
Autumn is leaves that bog the broom.
Spring is mud in the living room
Or skates in places one scarcely planned.
But what is summer, her seal in hand?
Sand:
Sand in closets,
Sand on the stair,
Desert deposits
In the parlor chair;
Sand n the halls like the halls of the ocean;
Sand in he soap and the sun-tan lotion;
Stirred in the porridge, tossed on the greens,
Poured from the bottoms of rolled-up jeans;
In the elmy street
On the lawny acre;
Glued to the seat
Of the Studebaker.
Wednesday
April 23
Animal themes tonight. I just love picturing that roach shaking a shimmy on the butter.
indoor cat (a quatrain)
She sits looking out in disbelief
At the little birds singing cheep cheep cheep
With no means to reach the doorknob she has a hunch
That today, again, she'll miss the free lunch
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED
by Christopher Morley
SCUTTLE, scuttle, little roach—
How you run when I approach.
Up above the pantry shelf,
Hastening to secrete yourself.
Most adventurous of vermin,
How I wish I could determine
How you spend your hours of ease,
Perhaps reclining on the cheese.
Cook has gone, and all is dark—
Then the kitchen is your park:
In the garbage heap that she leaves
Do you browse among the tea leaves?
How delightful to suspect
All the places you have trekked:
Does your long antenna whisk its
Gentle tip across the biscuits?
Do you linger, little soul,
Drowsing in our sugar bowl?
Or, abandonment most utter,
Shake a shimmy on the butter?
Do you chant your simple tunes
Swimming in the baby's prunes?
Then, when dawn comes, do you slink
Homeward to the kitchen sink?
Timid roach, why be so shy?
We are brothers, thou and I.
In the midnight, like yourself,
I explore the pantry shelf!
indoor cat (a quatrain)
She sits looking out in disbelief
At the little birds singing cheep cheep cheep
With no means to reach the doorknob she has a hunch
That today, again, she'll miss the free lunch
NURSERY RHYMES FOR THE TENDER-HEARTED
by Christopher Morley
SCUTTLE, scuttle, little roach—
How you run when I approach.
Up above the pantry shelf,
Hastening to secrete yourself.
Most adventurous of vermin,
How I wish I could determine
How you spend your hours of ease,
Perhaps reclining on the cheese.
Cook has gone, and all is dark—
Then the kitchen is your park:
In the garbage heap that she leaves
Do you browse among the tea leaves?
How delightful to suspect
All the places you have trekked:
Does your long antenna whisk its
Gentle tip across the biscuits?
Do you linger, little soul,
Drowsing in our sugar bowl?
Or, abandonment most utter,
Shake a shimmy on the butter?
Do you chant your simple tunes
Swimming in the baby's prunes?
Then, when dawn comes, do you slink
Homeward to the kitchen sink?
Timid roach, why be so shy?
We are brothers, thou and I.
In the midnight, like yourself,
I explore the pantry shelf!
Tuesday
April 22
Here's another old poem. This one is real, real bad. It's from my environmental righteous indignation period.
I was walking through Boston one day with a friend
When a great line of people walked by end to end
They were carrying signs with intent to rebel
With t-shirts to match, and on one my eye fell
And now with conviction I'll repeat if I may
That "laboratory animals never have a nice day"
My friend and I laughed and said it was true
Some people, it seems, have nothing better to do
But as they marched on, with direction and cause
I had a strange thought and here's what it was
Perhaps millions of creatures die season after season
And who's telling them that it's for a good reason
The answer it came, and was obvious to see
If a laboratory animal I was born to be
I sure would want someone marching for me
POLLUTION IS THE SOLUTION
from Esquire magazine, November 1992
I like the notion of oil on the ocean,
'cause it lubricates all of the waves.
When the water is slicker,
the tankers are quicker.
And look at the fuel that it saves.
I like burgers in styrofoam dishes,
Not fishes,
they take up good space in the sea.
Pollution is the solution,
Nature's annoying to me.
It's funny, I think, when things go extinct,
and they become yesterday's news.
When a species ceases, there's no more feces
for me to scrape off my shoes.
Well, some trees stay - I guess they're okay.
(The Prez says they're more toxic than cars.)
Pollution is the the only solution.
(Well, the easiest solution by far.)
I could spend hours in acid-rain showers,
and nuclear power is fun.
Hooray for pullutants !
'ecause they make us mutants,
and two heads are better than one !
Oh, I feel so attractive when I'm radioactive,
and I get my haircuts for free.
Pollution is the solution,
'cause if it's not, what else could be ?
When a strip mine stops, a town's livehood drops,
so the ax that I wield just cuts trees.
What's the answer, my friend ?
It blows in the wind,
which is thickening with CFCs.
We've always had trouble, since the first
critter's bubble popped the primordial slime.
Pollution, my son, is the solution,
and I know that you'll thank me in time.
I was walking through Boston one day with a friend
When a great line of people walked by end to end
They were carrying signs with intent to rebel
With t-shirts to match, and on one my eye fell
And now with conviction I'll repeat if I may
That "laboratory animals never have a nice day"
My friend and I laughed and said it was true
Some people, it seems, have nothing better to do
But as they marched on, with direction and cause
I had a strange thought and here's what it was
Perhaps millions of creatures die season after season
And who's telling them that it's for a good reason
The answer it came, and was obvious to see
If a laboratory animal I was born to be
I sure would want someone marching for me
POLLUTION IS THE SOLUTION
from Esquire magazine, November 1992
I like the notion of oil on the ocean,
'cause it lubricates all of the waves.
When the water is slicker,
the tankers are quicker.
And look at the fuel that it saves.
I like burgers in styrofoam dishes,
Not fishes,
they take up good space in the sea.
Pollution is the solution,
Nature's annoying to me.
It's funny, I think, when things go extinct,
and they become yesterday's news.
When a species ceases, there's no more feces
for me to scrape off my shoes.
Well, some trees stay - I guess they're okay.
(The Prez says they're more toxic than cars.)
Pollution is the the only solution.
(Well, the easiest solution by far.)
I could spend hours in acid-rain showers,
and nuclear power is fun.
Hooray for pullutants !
'ecause they make us mutants,
and two heads are better than one !
Oh, I feel so attractive when I'm radioactive,
and I get my haircuts for free.
Pollution is the solution,
'cause if it's not, what else could be ?
When a strip mine stops, a town's livehood drops,
so the ax that I wield just cuts trees.
What's the answer, my friend ?
It blows in the wind,
which is thickening with CFCs.
We've always had trouble, since the first
critter's bubble popped the primordial slime.
Pollution, my son, is the solution,
and I know that you'll thank me in time.
Monday
April 21
a haiku from 2006 and one from japanese haiku master Uejima Onitsura
Summer brings fruit flies.
They drown in my glass of wine.
Someone bring a spoon.
It is nice to read
news that our spring rain also
visited your town
Summer brings fruit flies.
They drown in my glass of wine.
Someone bring a spoon.
It is nice to read
news that our spring rain also
visited your town
Sunday
April 20
Making up a poem every day is harder than I thought. I'll have to call in some reinforcement. Here's one from college.
There was a toilet in Arnold Hall
It flushed and flushed for no reason at all
Our R.A. Jeannie called the plumber
I'd have done it myself if I'd known the number
This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
There was a toilet in Arnold Hall
It flushed and flushed for no reason at all
Our R.A. Jeannie called the plumber
I'd have done it myself if I'd known the number
This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
Saturday
April 19
haiku
backyard daffodils
little patches of sunshine
amidst a bare ground
In Flanders Fields
by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD
the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
backyard daffodils
little patches of sunshine
amidst a bare ground
In Flanders Fields
by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD
the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
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