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  • 2 months later...

To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough, November, 1785 is a Scots-language poem written by Robert Burns  According to legend, Burns was ploughing in the fields and accidentally destroyed a mouse's nest, which it needed to survive the winter





That small heap of leaves and stubble,
Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
Without house or holding,
To endure the winter's sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold.


But Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes of mice and men
Go oft awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!


Alas for some, this coming winter is looking very bleak. 


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One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

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At Oranmore in the county Galway

One pleasant evening in the month of May

I spied a damsel, she was young and handsome

Her beauty fairly took my breath away.


She wore no jewels, nor costly diamonds

No paint nor powder, no none at all

But she wore a bonnet with ribbons on it

And round her shoulders was the Galway shawl


We kept on walking she kept on talking

Till her father's cottage came into view

She said 'Come in, sir' and meet my father

And play, to please him, The Foggy Dew


She sat me down beside the hearthstone

I could see her father he was six feet tall

And soon her mother, had the kettle singing

All I could think of was the Galway shawl


I played The Blackbird, The Stack of Barley

Rodney's Glory and The Foggy Dew

She sang each note like an Irish linnet

And tears weld in her eyes of blue


Twas early, early, all in the morning

I hit the road for old  Donegal

She said 'Goodbye sir', she cried and kissed me

But my heart remains with the Galway shawl


                                                        A personal favorite

                                                        Listen to the version by Dervish

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For our dear sister Mods. A Poem for My Sisters

(Read it when you have time... but dont forget to read it! )...

I was sitting, on a summer day,
beneath a shady tree,
descending into a slumber,
when a vision came to me.

There was beating of a thousand drums -
the ground was shaking too.
Then over the horizon came
a woman into view.

And then another woman,
with a hundred at her heel.
They multiplied a thousandfold -
the vision was surreal!

Salvation was their helmet,
and solid faith their shield,
With righteousness as breastplates,
their hearts were well concealed.

A mighty sword they all possessed,
held tightly in their palms.
Was this the female army
indicated in the Psalms?

Their eyes were facing forward
as they marched in perfect time.
Then I recognized their faces!
These were sisters - friends of mine!

See there that single sister?
Satan put her to the test!
How she longed to have a husband;
to be loved like all the rest!

And there, that older sister,
though her spouse does not believe,
You'll find her out in service,
every morning, noon, and eve.

Another lost her husband,
yet she marches through her trial.
Says she, "He's on vacation -
merely resting for awhile."

And that one lost her husband
when he simply went AWOL.
He dropped his sword mid-battle,
yet she's marching straight and tall.

Oh yes, and there's my sister
with her young ones - quite a sight.
Her husband is in prison -
he refused to go and fight.

This sister here seems quite content -
her life seems quite ideal,
But what goes on behind closed doors -
she never will reveal.

In spite of all these hardships,
the women march on strong.
The old, the young, the strong, the weak:
they bravely trudge along.

And then, like lightening, one of them
stepped right up to my face.
"How dare you rest!" she said to me.
"There's no time left to waste!"

"Here, take this sword and take this shield,
this breastplate you must wear."
"Don't rest until the Kingdom News
is broadcast everywhere!"

And so I found my place in line,
with no time to debate.
For now I see the urgency -
my sleep will have to wait.

No time for insecurities,
no time for shrinking back.
Just time to get this preaching done,
false doctrines to attack!

So next time you sit down to rest,
or get the urge to snooze,
Or if you start to tire out
while preaching the good news,

Observe this military force,
just see what they can do,
And pray for strength from God on high,
then you can do it too.

"The women telling the good news are a large army." - Psalm 68:11 -

Sent from my WAS-LX2 using Tapatalk

This was Alan's poem.

Sent from my WAS-LX2 using Tapatalk

I read this at one of our post COVID gatherings a couple of years ago!
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Mending Wall



The speaker and his neighbor meet in spring to repair the stone wall between their properties. Reviewing the damage that weather and hunters have caused, the speaker begins with a reflection:


Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.


He doubts whether this particular wall is even necessary, dryly reminding his neighbor that their lands don’t need partitioning:

“My apple trees will never get across / And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.” The neighbor counters with a proverb: “Good fences make good neighbors.”


Half-amused, half-provoked, the speaker “wonder/ If I could put a notion in his head” and force him to question his unthinking maintenance of the wall. But the speaker says nothing further, and the neighbor, pleased with his comeback, repeats it.


Because the neighbor gets the last word, it’s possible to read “Good fences make good neighbors” as the poem’s straightforward message. A more complex reading, alert to Frost’s ironic style, would side firmly with the speaker. In this view, the speaker nurses a healthy suspicion of barriers that serve no clear purpose; he is open to communication and new ideas, wary of anything that arbitrarily divides people

Edited by Mclove
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Calling everyone who writes poetry! I'm trying to get a zoom group together with a few friends to recite your own poetry. I have about 5 friends so far. We can keep it small so everyone will get a chance. Please let me know if you're interested!



Voni in NC 😀

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The Wind

I Saw you toss the kites on high

And blow the birds about the sky;

And all around I heard you pass,

Like ladies’ skirts across the grass 

O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!


I saw the different things you did,

But always you yourself you hid.

I felt you push, I heard you call,

I could not see yourself at all

O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!


O you that are so strong and cold,

O blower, are you young or old?

Are you a beast of field and tree,

Or just a stronger child than me? 


Robert Louis Stevenson 1870

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  • 2 weeks later...




We read a poem.

I got the idea from an unlikely source: my son’s high school English teacher, Anne Baney. During parent-teacher night, she explained how she reads a poem at the beginning of every class from “Poetry 180,” an anthology of contemporary poems compiled by Billy Collins, the former poet laureate of the United States. The room turns quiet when she reads, she told us. If she ever forgets to start off the day with a poem, her students remind her. They like it.




This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison by Samuel Taylor Coleridge


‘Tis well to be bereft of promis’d good,

That we may lift the soul, and contemplate

With lively joy the joys we cannot share


This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison Audio, Video, Music, Photos

Edited by Mclove
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1 hour ago, Mclove said:




This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison by Samuel Taylor Coleridge


‘Tis well to be bereft of promis’d good,

That we may lift the soul, and contemplate

With lively joy the joys we cannot share


This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison Audio, Video, Music, Photos

Beautiful tree, or set of trees..love trees..

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Herman Melville: Shiloh, A Requiem (April, 1862)


Skimming lightly, wheeling still,

The swallows fly low

Over the field in clouded days,

The forest-field of Shiloh –

Over the field where April rain

Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain

Through the pause of night

That followed the Sunday fight

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A NYTimes reader shared this touching experience 




A few weeks ago, I wandered into a very local hardware store that specializes in "feed and seed" and was astonished and delighted when, standing at the counter, I looked up and saw the following lines, handwritten, tacked to a weathered wooden beam:


Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote

And bathed every veyne in swich licour,

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;


Yes, there is definitely a place for poetry!



Chaucer’s Prologue to The Canterbury Tales


Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
             When April with its sweet-smelling showers
 The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
               Has pierced the drought of March to the root,
  And bathed every veyne in swich licour
               And bathed every vein (of the plants) in such liquid
  Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
               By the power of which the flower is created;


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For one who is inactive:


How often I have wanted to say,

What is keeping you from returning today?


What deep inside has caused this much pain

To keep my friend from life to gain?


I pray each day for your return,

To keep in mind what we ALL yearn!


Realizing that happiness is not what is in this world..to shun

But a world that is not yet begun!


If only you would consider more than your pain,

But living forever and the real life to gain.


So my friend, look deep inside,

For only you can truly decide!

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  • 2 weeks later...


The Lanyard by Billy Collins *


The other day I was ricocheting slowly

off the blue walls of this room,

moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,

from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,

when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary

where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.


Dubbed “the most popular poet in America” by Bruce Weber in the New York Times, Billy Collins is famous for conversational, witty poems that welcome readers with humor but often slip into quirky, tender, or profound observation on the everyday, reading and writing, and poetry itself.

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  • 4 weeks later...
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