wishing i were...
by Ford Smith
Have You Got A Brook In Your Little Heart, by Emily Dickinson
Have you got a Brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so --
And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there --
Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go --
And later, in August it may be --
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!
Since Thou Hast Given Me This Good Hope, O God, by Robert Louis Stevenson
SINCE thou hast given me this good hope, O God,
That while my footsteps tread the flowery sod
And the great woods embower me, and white dawn
And purple even sweetly lead me on
From day to day, and night to night, O God,
My life shall no wise miss the light of love;
But ever climbing, climb above
Man's one poor star, man's supine lands,
Into the azure steadfastness of death,
My life shall no wise lack the light of love,
My hands not lack the loving touch of hands;
But day by day, while yet I draw my breath,
And day by day, unto my last of years,
I shall be one that has a perfect friend.
Her heart shall taste my laughter and my tears,
And her kind eyes shall lead me to the end.
Japan, by Billy Collins
Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.
It feels like eating
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.
I walk through the house reciting it
and leave its letters falling
through the air of every room.
I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it.
I say it in front of a painting of the sea.
I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf.
I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.
And when the dog looks up at me,
I kneel down on the floor
and whisper it into each of his long white ears.
It's the one about the one-ton temple bell
with the moth sleeping on its surface,
and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating
pressure of the moth
on the surface of the iron bell.
When I say it at the window,
the bell is the world
and I am the moth resting there.
When I say it at the mirror,
I am the heavy bell
and the moth is life with its papery wings.
And later, when I say it to you in the dark,
you are the bell,
and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,
and the moth has flown
from its line
and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.
i have spent hours searching famouspoetsandpoems.com.
seriously, i accomplished nothing else tonight, only reading poetry.
and i am okay with that.
because there is something about poetry that is good for the soul.
cleanses the mind.
refreshes the the body.
fills the heart.
makes you smile.
makes you cry.
makes you think.
makes you feel.
makes you real.
makes you wish you were a poet.
by Ford Smith