Today's poet

[freckle]

Good morning all...

White writing
Carol Ann Duffy

No vows written to wed you,
I write them white,
my lips on yours,
light in the soft hours of our married years.

No prayers written to bless you,
I write them white,
your soul a flame,
bright in the window of your maiden name.

No laws written to guard you,
I write them white,
your hand in mine,
palm against palm, lifeline, heartline.

No rules written to guide you,
I write them white,
words on the wind,
traced with a stick where we walk on the sand.

see last gold sun behind clouds,
inked water in moonlight.
No poems written to praise you,
I write them white.

[freckle]

just got back from this morning's run...

refusing to relinquish a spindly grip
frosted grass and plates of silvereen
sandy undulations and marram grass

polka dot legs homeward bound
winter rays and fresh sun spots
well earned stollen and tea

[Deejay]

just got back from this morning's run...

refusing to relinquish a spindly grip
frosted grass and plates of silvereen
sandy undulations and marram grass

polka dot legs homeward bound
winter rays and fresh sun spots
well earned stollen and tea

Braver than me Freckle, I've not set foot outside today

Winter by Robert Southey

A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose,
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,
Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth;
Or circled by them as thy lips declare
Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,
Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.

Southey seems to be saying that Winter needs a better spin doctor

[freckle]

Braver than me Freckle, I've not set foot outside today

Winter by Robert Southey

A wrinkled crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue-lipt, an icedrop at thy sharp blue nose,
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,
Old Winter! seated in thy great armed chair,
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth;
Or circled by them as thy lips declare
Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,
Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.

Southey seems to be saying that Winter needs a better spin doctor

i like the image of winter seated in a great armchair!!...nice on deejay

[Nathaniel Lee]

Hello everyone, Hope you have all had a good day and will write later as hungry and i think i might be on the board until late.

[freckle]

Hello everyone, Hope you have all had a good day and will write later as hungry and i think i might be on the board until late.

Evening tri and all...right i have the most humongos pile of ironing to do tonight, so i need something to raise the spirits....here goes

A Psalm of Life

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac* of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Yup!...I is feeling better already...now where is that top I need for work...hmmmmmm


*http://www.google.co.uk/search?hl=en...e&ved=0CAcQkAE

[Harry H Howgill]

Evening Freckle

It wont let me cut and paste, but here's a link for you...

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetrya....do?poemId=164

Happy ironing

[freckle]

Evening Freckle

It wont let me cut and paste, but here's a link for you...

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetrya....do?poemId=164

Happy ironing

Ah thanks Harry!...as usual i am not particularly efficient in the ol housework area!.......

[Harry H Howgill]

Ah thanks Harry!...as usual i am not particularly efficient in the ol housework area!.......

I love the line "I stood like a horse with a smoking hoof"

That is such a great image.

[Old Whippet]

Ah thanks Harry!...as usual i am not particularly efficient in the ol housework area!.......

now there's a perspective on ironing that i'd never considered.
Me...I like to put old school heavy metal music on and iron. Something about the incongruity makes the time fly and leaves me smiling.