Insomniac
There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win
its service to my side
are useless as wounded pride,
and much more painful.
~ Maya Angelou
by Edward Hirsch
Like a stunned piano, like a bucket
of fresh milk flung into the air
or a dozen fists of confetti
thrown hard at a bride
stepping down from the altar,
the stars surprise the sky.
Think of dazed stones
floating overhead, or an ocean
of starfish hung up to dry. Yes,
like a conductor's expectant arm
about to lift toward the chorus,
or a juggler's plates defying gravity'
or a hundred fastballs fired at once
and freezing the sky over the city.
And that's why drunks leaning up
against abandoned buildings, women
hurrying home on deserted side streets,
policemen turning blind corners, and
even thieves stepping from alleys
all stare up at once. Why else do
sleepwalkers move toward the windows,
or old men drag flimsy lawn chairs
onto fire escapes, or hardened criminals
press sad foreheads to steel bars?
Because the night is alive with lamps!
That's why in dark houses all over the city
dreams stir in the pillows, a million
plumes of breath rise into the sky.
by Paul Zimmer
I love the accomplishments of trees,
How they try to restrain great storms
And pacify the very worms that eat them.
Even their deaths seem to be considered.
I fear for trees, loving them so much.
I am nervous about each scar on bark,
Each leaf that browns. I want to
Lie in their crotches and sigh,
Whisper of sun and rains to come.
Sometimes on summer evenings I step
Out of my house to look at trees
Propping darkness up to the silence.
When I die I want to slant up
Through those trunks so slowly
I will see each rib of bark, each whorl;
Up through the canopy, the subtle veins
And lobes touching me with final affection;
Then to hover above and look down
One last time on the rich upliftings,
The circle that loves the sun and moon,
To see at last what held the darkness up.
April is National Poetry Month
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee.
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.
--Emily Dickinson
April is National Poetry Month
Stars over snow,
And in the west a planet
Swinging below a star—
Look for a lovely thing
and you will find it,
It is not far—
It never will be far.
-- Sara Teasdale
April is National Poetry Month
Between the walls of the ravine
In the darkness, almost unseen
A tree grows.
Where blackness kills even the bold,
Where there's nothing left but cold,
A tree glows.
Trapped, entombed, suffocating,
The tree lives on, growing
Even when hope has met dismay,
Life finds a way.
April is National Poetry Month
Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?
No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening
on the rim of vast silence.
-- Antonio Machado
April is National Poetry Month
An emerald is as green as grass,
A ruby red as blood;
A sapphire shines as blue as heaven;
A flint lies in the mud.
A diamond is a brillant stone,
To catch the world's desire;
An opal holds a fiery spark;
But a flint holds fire.
~Christina Rossetti
April is National Poetry Month
The year 's at the spring,
And day 's at the morn;
Morning 's at seven;
The hill-side 's dew-pearl'd;
The lark 's on the wing;
The snail 's on the thorn;
God 's in His heaven—
All 's right with the world!
--Robert Browning
April is National Poetry Month
The fields are rich with daffodils,
a coat of clover cloaks the hills,
and I must dance, and I must sing
to see the beauty of the spring.
--from The Four Seasons by Jack Prelutsky
April is National Poetry Month
Every day, priests minutely examine the Law
And endlessly chant complicated sutras.
Before doing that, though, they should learn
How to read the love letters sent by the wind
and rain, the snow and moon.
~ Ikkyu ~
April is National Poetry Month
And the earth is painted green,
With such a lot of nice fresh air
All sandwiched in between.
---Anonymous
April is National Poetry Month
Hurt no living thing:
Ladybird, nor butterfly,
Nor moth with dusty wing,
Nor cricket chirping cheerily,
Nor grasshopper so light of leap,
Nor dancing gnat, nor beetle fat,
Nor harmless worms that creep.
---Christina Georgina Rossetti
April is National Poetry Month
Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.
---Langston Hughes
April is National Poetry Month
These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.
---an excerpt, by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
April is National Poetry Month
Trees are the kindest things I know,
They do no harm, they simply grow,
and spread a shade for sleepy cows
and gather birds among the boughs.
They are the first when day's begun
to touch the beam of morning sun.
They are last to hold the light
when evening changes into night.
And when a moon floats on the sky
they hum a drowsy lullaby
of sleepy children long ago.
Trees are the kindest things I know.
--Harry Behn
April is National Poetry Month
(excerpt)
by Thomas Hardy
Every branch big with it,
Bent every twig with it;
Every fork like a white web-foot;
Every street and pavement mute:
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again.
The palings are glued together like a wall,
And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.
April is National Poetry Month
To see the World in a grain of sand,
And a Heaven in a wild flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour.
--William Blake
April is National Poetry Month
By Carol Stahl
The kids are in school
the firemen fight fires
the pot holes are filled
the hungry are fed.
Every April we show what we value.
Paying our taxes tells who we are.
April is National Poetry Month
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the leaves bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
---Christina Rossetti
April is National Poetry Month
The leaves are green-yellow because they're new.
Your feet go skipping, the birds all sing.
The whole world is happy because it is Spring!
--Children's song
April is National Poetry Month
Wet April morning–
Windshield wiper blades
heavy with cherry blossoms.
— Joel Dias-Porter
April is National Poetry Month
BROKEN SPOKE
You grow old.
You love everybody.
You forgive everyone.
You think: we are all leaves
dragged along by the wind.
Then comes a splendid spotted
yellow one—ah, distinction!
And in that moment
you are dragged under.
~ Mary Ruefle
April is National Poetry Month
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
---William Carlos Williams
April is National Poetry Month
The golden crocus reaches up
To catch a sunbeam in her cup.
---Walter Crane
(In Colorado she often reaches up through the snow!)
April is National Poetry Month
by Arthur Sze
A spring snow coincides with plum blossoms.
In a month, you will forget, then remember
when nine ravens perched in the elm sway in wind....
April is National Poetry Month
Windrush down the timber chutes
between the mountain's knees--
a hiss of distant breathing,
a shouting in the trees,
a recklessness of branches,
a wilderness a-sway,
when suddenly
a silence
takes your breath away.
--Barbara Kunz Loots
April is National Poetry Month
The rain has silver sandals,
For dancing in the spring,
And shoes with golden tassels
For summer's frolicking.
Her winter boots have hobnails
For ice from heel to toe,
Which now and then she changes
For moccasins of snow.
--Mary Justus
April is National Poetry Month
Good-by my winter suit,
good-by my hat and boot,
good-by my ear-protecting muffs
and storms that hail and hoot.
Farewell to snow and sleet,
farewell to Cream of Wheat,
farewell to ice-removing salt
and slush around my feet.
Right on! to daffodils,
right on! to whipporwills,
right on! to chirp-producing eggs
and baby birds and quills.
The day is on the wing,
the kite is on the string,
the sun is where the sun should be--
it's spring all right! It's spring!
--N.M. Bodecker
April is National Poetry Month
Spring is when
the morning sputters like
bacon
and
your
sneakers
run
down
the
stairs
so fast you can hardly keep up with them
and
spring is when
your scrambled eggs
jump
off
the
plate
and turn into a million daffodils
trembling in the sunshine.
--Bobbie Katz
April is National Poetry Month
The air is like a butterfly
With frail blue wings.
The happy earth looks at the sky
And sings.
--Joyce Kilmer
April is National Poetry Month
The storm came up so very quick
It couldn't have been quicker.
I should have brought my hat along,
I should have brought my slicker.
My hair is wet, my feet are wet,
I couldn't be much wetter.
I fell into a river once
But this is even better.
--Marchette Chute
Substitute "old woman" for me
In the pine boughs. I smile. Then
I smile again, just because I can.
I am not an old man. Not yet.
---from "Twilight Comes" by Hayden Carruth
i.m. Hannes Hollo, 1959-1999
Fought the hungry ghosts here on Earth
"What is man?" asked the King
Alcuin’s reply: "A guest of space." And time yes time:
The past lies before us, the future comes up from behind
Walking on Primrose Hill or Isle of Wight beaches
Iowa City streets scrambling up snow-covered deer track
To Doc Holliday’s grave in Glenwood Springs
His helmet now shall make a hive for bees
He fought the hungry ghosts here on Earth
Strong & resourceful on his best days,
Patient kind and presente
Returning those with him to here & now
But just as we settle in with our Pepsi and popcorn
THE END rolls up too soon always too soon
~ Anselm Hollo (April 12, 1934 – January 29, 2013)
As old age silts the stream,
To shove away the clutter,
To untie every knot,
To take the time to dream,
To come back to still water.
excerpt from "New Year Resolve" by May Sarton,
by Mary Oliver
This morning
the beautiful white heron
was floating along above the water
and then into the sky of this
the one world
we all belong to
where everything
sooner or later
is a part of everything else
which thought made me feel
for a little while
quite beautiful myself.
Autumn
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.
~ Emily Dickinson [1830-1886]
UK National Poetry Day
Fireflies in the Garden
By Robert Frost
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,
And here on earth come emulating flies,
That though they never equal stars in size,
(And they were never really stars at heart)
Achieve at times a very star-like start.
Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
by Robyn Sarah
A city sparrow
touches down
on a bare branch
in the fork of a tree
through whose arms
the snow is sifting —
swipes his beak
against wood, this side
then that,
and flies away:
what sight
could be more common?
Yet I think
for such sights alone
I would live to ninety.
by Philip Larkin
What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
by Charles Bukowski
when you write a poem it
needn't be intense
it
can be nice and
easy
and you shouldn't necessarily
be
concerned only with things like anger or
love or need;
at any moment the greatest accomplishment might be to simply
get
up and tap the handle
on that leaking toilet;
I've
done that twice now while typing
this
and now the toilet is
quiet.
to
solve simple problems: that's
the most
satisfying thing, it
gives you a chance and it
gives everything else a chance
too.
we were made to accomplish the easy
things
and made to live through the things
hard.
I see the frost the moon
Lowering my head I think of home.
---Li Po
by Wendell Berry
It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.
by Robert Phillips
The Flatiron Building,
first "scraper," squat,
like a snout.
Today it hardly scrapes the sky.
The Chrysler Building,
still the most beautiful,
most elegant. It points
its tiara toward heaven.
The Empire State Building,
majestic but haughty,
Imperious, indifferent,
scene of the most suicides.
The Twin Towers, doomed,
still speak to one another
but in whispers.
You hear them around nine A.M.
by Anne Porter
I never will have time
I never will have time enough
To say
How beautiful it is
The way the moon
Floats in the air
As easily
And lightly as a bird
Although she is a world
Made all of stone.
I never will have time enough
To praise
The way the stars
Hang glittering in the dark
Of steepest heaven
Their dewy sparks
Their brimming drops of light
So fresh so clear
That when you look at them
It quenches thirst.
Gaunt dreams of spring
by David Budbill
Rain-glaze on snow. Mud and ice and snow.
Coyotes feed themselves on gaunt dreams of spring. Then
what comes slowly suddenly he sees.
Light hovers longer in the southern sky.
Brooks uncover themselves. Alders redden.
Grosbeaks' beaks turn green. Chickadee finds the song
he lost last November, and blue jay abandons
argument and gluttony. He cranes his neck,
bobs his mitered head; he bounces on a naked branch
crying: Spring!
But, like all winter's keepers
he speaks his dream before
he sees the fact.
Did you hear a phoebe?
And he out again and walking on the earth,
in the air, in the sun, ankle deep in mud.
by Stephen Dobyns
Each thing I do I rush through so I can do
something else. In such a way do the days pass—
a blend of stock car racing and the never
ending building of a gothic cathedral.
Through the windows of my speeding car, I see
all that I love falling away: books unread,
jokes untold, landscapes unvisited. And why?
What treasure do I expect in my future?
by David Budbill
Winter is the best time
to find out who you are.
Quiet, contemplation time,
away from the rushing world,
cold time, dark time, holed-up
pulled-in time and space
to see that inner landscape,
that place hidden and within.
Here is one of my favorite of her poems:
To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee.
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.
"There is music in the meadows, in the air --
Autumn is here;
Skies are gray, but hearts are mellow,
Leaves are crimson, brown, and yellow;
Pines are soughing, birches stir,
And the Gipsy trail is fresh beneath the fir.
There is rhythm in the woods, and in the fields,
Nature yields:
And the harvest voices crying,
Blend with Autumn zephyrs sighing;
Tone and color, frost and fire,
Wings the nocturne Nature plays upon her lyre."
- William Stanley Braithwaite, Lyric of Autumn
by Rachel Field
Something told the wild geese
It was time to go;
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered, - 'Snow'.
Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned, - 'Frost'.
All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.
Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.
September Poem
The goldenrod is yellow,
The corn is turning brown,
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down;
The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun;
The sedges flaunt their harvest
In every meadow nook,
And asters by the brookside
Make asters in the brook;
From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies–
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather
And autumn's best of cheer.
After the three-day weekend...
Your hair may be brushed, but your mind's untidy.
You've had about seven hours of sleep since Friday.
No wonder you feel that lost sensation.
You're sunk from a riot of relaxation.
- ~Ogden Nash
Nobody can be lucky all the time;
so when your luck deserts you in some fashion
don't think you've been abandoned in your prime,
but rather that you're saving up your ration.
--Piet Hein, poet and scientist (1905-1996)
"Poetry is about time running out, to some extent. You can think of that purely formally — the line ends, the stanza ends and the poem itself ends."
-- Dean Young, Poet
First Sown
by Marge Piercy
Peas are the first thing we plant
always. We lie full length
on the cold black earth and poke
holes in it for the wrinkled
old men of the seeds.
Nothing will happen for weeks.
Rain will soak them, a white
tablecloth of snow will cover
them and be whisked off.
The moon will sing to them:
open, loosen, let the pale
shoots break out. No,
they are pebbles, they sit
in the earth like false teeth.
They ignore the sweet sun.
Then one unlikely day
the soil cracks along miniature
faults and soon baby leaves
stick out their double heads
and we know we shall have peas.
Little Things
by Julia A. Carney
Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean
And the pleasant land.
Little deeds of kindness,
Little words of love,
Make our earth an Eden,
Like the heaven above.
It's "Poem in Your Pocket Day"
Keep A Poem In Your Pocket
By Beatrice Schenk de Regniers
Keep a poem in your pocket
And a picture in your head
And you’ll never feel lonely
At night when you’re in bed.
The little poem will sing to you
The little picture bring to you
A dozen dreams to dance to you
At night when you’re in bed.
So - -
Keep a picture in your pocket
And a poem in your head
And you’ll never feel lonely
At night when you’re in bed.
This is a heads-up for tomorrow...
One of the best ideas that has taken root in April as part of National Poetry Month is Poem in Your Pocket Day—celebrated this year on Thursday, April 14. It began nine years ago in New York City, and the Academy of American Poets has made Poem in Your Pocket Day a truly national celebration. “The idea is simple: select a poem you love... then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends.”
Poetry...imaginary gardens with real toads...
from Poetry by Marianne Moore
The Last Day
by Patricia Fargnoli
Let's say it begins at six o'clock
on April's first morning when the sun has risen
to vibrate three inches above the mountain
and light shimmies along three wires looped
from the tall trunk of the pine to the house
where you are not awake yet,
though a few birds sail the lower air
near the just-thawed ground. Boughs still
heavy with cones lie scattered, and beyond the stolid
granite church with its black windows,
one bird sings the sweetest notes into being.
Stalks are rising—exploding in yellow
in last year's garden and one ladybug climbs
the screen—as if it had all the time in the world.
Today is the birthday of poet Robert Frost, born in 1874.
"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on."
Today is the birthday of poet and recluse Emily Dickinson, born in Amhurst, Massachusetts in 1830.
# 254
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
No!
No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--no "t'other side this way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!
No traveling at all--no locomotion--
No inkling of the way--no notion--
"No go" by land or ocean--
No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
No Park, no Ring, no afternoon gentility--
No company--no nobility--
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member--
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds--
November!
~ Thomas Hood
School has started, leaves are turning...
Here comes summer, here comes summer,
chirping robin, budding rose.
Here comes summer, here comes summer,
whoosh, shiver, there it goes.
-Shel Silverstein (1930-1999)
Poetry is the art of saying what you mean but disguising it.
--Diane Wakoski, poet (b. 1937)
And this our life,
exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees,
books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones,
and good in everything.
- -William Shakespeare, playwright and poet (1564-1616)
Words to Live By
On the water or on the land,
The Sheepshank is a knot that's grand,
For Shortenin' up that piece of rope,
Whose length is more than you can cope.
Losing one glove
is certainly painful,
but nothing
compared to the pain,
of losing one,
throwing away the other,
and finding
the first one again.
----Piet Hein, poet and scientist (1905-1996)
Today is the birthday of William Blake, born in 1757. A line from one of his most famous poems:
To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
Luck is not chance –
It’s toil –
Fortune’s expensive smile
Is earned.
– Emily Dickinson
April is National Poetry Month
i thank You God for most this amazing
day; for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
---e e cummings (1894-1962)
The morning wind spreads its fresh smell.
We must get up to take that in,
the wind that lets us live.
Breathe, before it's gone.
Rumi
Poetic Justice
The redemptive power of poetry.Youthful vandals sentenced to attend poetry classes after trashing the Robert Frost house.
There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money, either.
-Robert Graves, poet and novelist (1895-1985)
Honoring a poet and mystic
Today marks the 800th birthday of the poet Rumi (1207-1273). His poetry has become very popular again. This link will let you hear some of it read.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Sounds like Ogden Nash
Modern technology
Owes ecology
An apology.
-Alan M. Eddison
April is National Poetry Month
Keep a poem in your pocket
And a picture in your head
And you'll never feel lonely
At night when you're in bed.
The little poem will sing to you
The little picture bring to you
A dozen dreams to dance to you
At night when you'
$199.82
I TOLD YOU IT'S BEEN COLD
We've had seven straight weekends of snow.
I'm house-bound and stir crazy, you know.
And now an additional bitter pill--
The arrival of the utility bill.
The one-month statement says NOW DUE
One hundred nint
from SNOW STORM
What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stops
To howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps
Incessant batter at the window-pane,
Making our comforts feel as sweet again;
And in the morning, when the te
This is how it was last night
SNOW TOWARD EVENING
Suddenly the sky turned gray,
The day,
Which had been bitter and chill,
Grew soft and still.
Quietly
From some invisible blossoming tree
Millions of petals cool and white
Drifted and blew,
Lifted a
The Snow Man
The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens
click here for analysis
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
November
No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon -
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butter
September is Library Card Sign-up Month
Here is where people,
One frequently finds,
Lower their voices
And
raise their minds.
-Richard Armour, author, on libraries
(1906-1989)
It has a song
It has a sting
Ah, too, it has a wing.
-Emily Dickinson, poet (1830-1886)
A limerick for all occasions
There once was an X from place B
That satisfied predicate P
He or she did thing A
In an adjective way
Resulting in circumstance C
April is National Poetry Month
By Beatrice Schenk de Regniers
Keep a poem in your pocket
And a picture in your head
And you'll never feel lonely
At night when you're in bed.
The little poem will sing to you
T
The one-l lama,
He's a priest.
The two-l llama,
He's a beast.
And I will bet
A silk pajama
There isn't any
Three-l lllama.*
~ Ogden Nash
*The author's attention has been
The moon like a flower
in heaven's high bower,
with silent delight,
sits and smiles on the night.
William Blake
You pick
A bright autumn leaf.
Between thumb and forefinger;
both joy and grief.
The Summer days are leaving,
At evening chilly winds begin to blow.
My heart is sad and I am grieving
To see the Summer go.
Max Ehrmann
Actually, Fall is my favorite season but I thought this was an appropriate poem for toda
And the earth is painted green,
With such a lot of nice fresh air
All sandwiched in between.
~Norman C. Schlichter
It is wonderful to see that beautiful Colorado blue sky again after over a week of rain and
when life's alive in everything.
Christina Rossetti, poet
(1830-1894)
You can dress for style,
You can dress for flair.
But the guy who's smart
Wears long underwear.
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Happy New Year!
It's the fourteenth of August, and I'm too hot
To endure food, or bed. Steam and the fear of scorpions
Keep me awake. I'm told the heat won't fade with Autumn.
Swarms of flies a
One frequently finds,
Lower their voices
And raise their minds.
Richard Armour, author, on libraries
(1906-1989)
we know where we are
but our itinerary is chance and weather
we do not believe in destinations
and we are in no hurry
we have learned patience
from statues in a thousand parks
and joy from dogs without collars.
anony
A Dozen, a Gross and a Score,
plus three times the square root of four,
divided by seven,
plus five times eleven,
equals nine squared an
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
There is rapture in the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more.
-Lord Byron, poet
(1788-1
May your purse always hold a coin or two.
May the sun always shine warm on your windowpane,
May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain.
May the hand of a friend always be near you,
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyon
Let us keep Christmas--
It's meaning never ends.
Whatever doubts assail us, or what fears--
Let us hold close this day
Remembering friends.
A blessed holiday to all.
Frosty wind made moan.
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone.
Snow had fallen
Snow on snow
Snow on snow.
In the bleak mid-winter
Long
I like days with a snow white collar
And nights when the moon is a silver dollar
And hills are filled with eiderdown stuffing
And your breath makes smoke like an engine puffing.
I like days when feathers are snowing
And all the ea
and you're hampered by not having any,
the best way to solve the dilemma, you'll find,
is simply by spinning a penny.
No - not so that chance shall decide the affair
while you're pas
Come to the edge.
We might fall.
Come to the edge.
It's too high!
Come to the edge.
And they came,
and we pushed,
And they flew. <
It falls on field and tree.
It rains on the umbrellas here
And on the ships at sea.
Robert Louis Stevenson
It also rains on me as I walk Ravi. I have a perfectly good raincoat at home in the closet, but...NO