Poems And Quotes

“Invitation to the dance” is what I heard him say
He handed me the letter and said “It’s time to play”

I read the invitation and something tugged my heart
A memory of the dance floor and I a work of art

But I can’t dance now, it’s been too long
My feet won’t keep rhythm with the song

I’ve gotten old, my pace is slow
I’m not the gal of long ago

Too many birthdays have come and gone
Arthritis has settled into these bones

Too many yesterdays, not enough tomorrows
But wait, I’ve already seen too many sorrows

‘A dance’ I thought and a smile spread wide
My feet began to tingle inside

They were so excited they couldn’t keep still
I knew I must try though I was over the hill

I realized he was standing there looking at me
With a spark in his eyes he was pleased, I could see

He said, “I’m waiting for your answer, what do you say?”
I said “I’ll RSVP this invite, you just made my day!”

When newly we start
we head for the dance floor
with all of our heart.

The dancing begins,
but the night’s just too short
We simply can’t get
enough of this sport.

There’s leading and following
those subtle cues.
We waltz ’round the dance floor
not knowing whose thoughts are whose.

The music, the moves –
all track of time we lose.
Then the lights go up
and we see life’s hues.

Leading and following
in life we proceed
like a beautiful mare
and a virtuous steed
playing and prancing
through all of the weeds.

Then life has its bumps
like on the dance floor,
when he’s counting 3
when she’s counting 4.
A natural right turn
avoids a collision and more.

Now what do we do
to recover our place?
Cast a little blame
and complete our disgrace?
Unkind words
can put us out of the race.

No just a smile, a wink
and “You did that one well!
Let’s go on from here.”

by

Tim Chapman

HOW many of the body’s health complain,
When they some deeper malady conceal;
Some unrest of the souled, some secret pain,
Which thus its presence doth to them reveal.
Vain would we seek, by the physician’s aid,
A name for this soul-sickness e’er to find;
A remedy for health and strength decayed,
Whose cause and cure are wholly of the mind
To higher nature is the soul allied,
And restless seeks its being’s Source to know;
Finding not health nor strength in aught beside;
How often vainly sought in things below,
Whether in sunny clime, or sacred stream,
Or plant of wondrous powers of which we dream!

by

Jones Very

Tune – “Laggan Burn.”

Here’s to thy health, my bonie lass,
Gude nicht and joy be wi’ thee;
I’ll come nae mair to thy bower-door,
To tell thee that I lo’e thee.
O dinna think, my pretty pink,
But I can live without thee:
I vow and swear I dinna care,
How lang ye look about ye.

Thou’rt aye sae free informing me,
Thou hast nae mind to marry;
I’ll be as free informing thee,
Nae time hae I to tarry:
I ken thy frien’s try ilka means
Frae wedlock to delay thee;
Depending on some higher chance,
But fortune may betray thee.

I ken they scorn my low estate,
But that does never grieve me;
For I’m as free as any he;
Sma’ siller will relieve me.
I’ll count my health my greatest wealth,
Sae lang as I’ll enjoy it;
I’ll fear nae scant, I’ll bode nae want,
As lang’s I get employment.

But far off fowls hae feathers fair,
And, aye until ye try them,
Tho’ they seem fair, still have a care;
They may prove waur than I am.
But at twal’ at night, when the moon shines bright,
My dear, I’ll come and see thee;
For the man that loves his mistress weel,
Nae travel makes him weary.

by

Robert Burns

t his Birthday Feast

With memories old and wishes new
We crown our cups again,
And here’s to you, and here’s to you
With love that ne’er shall wane!
And may you keep, at sixty-seven,
The joy of earth, the hope of heaven,
And fame well-earned, and friendship true,
And peace that comforts every pain,
And faith that fights the battle through,
And all your heart’s unbounded wealth,
And all your wit, and all your health,–
Yes, here’s a hearty health to you,
And here’s to you, and here’s to you,

Long life to you, Mark Twain.

by Henry Van Dyke

A soft veil dims the tender skies,
And half conceals from pensive eyes
The bronzing tokens of the fall;
A calmness broods upon the hills,
And summer’s parting dream distills
A charm of silence over all.

The stacks of corn, in brown array,
Stand waiting through the placid day,
Like tattered wigwams on the plain;
The tribes that find a shelter there
Are phantom peoples, forms of air,
And ghosts of vanished joy and pain.

At evening when the crimson crest
Of sunset passes down the West,
I hear the whispering host returning;
On far-off fields, by elm and oak,
I see the lights, I smell the smoke,–
The Camp-fires of the Past are burning

by

There’s a time in each year that we always hold dear,
the good old summer time;
With the birds and the treeses and sweet-scented breezes,
In the good old summer time.
When your day’s work is over then you are in clover,
And life is one beautiful rhyme,
No trouble annoying each one is enjoying,
The good old summer time.

In the good old summertime,
in the good old summertime.
Strolling through the shady lanes with my baby mine.
You hold her hand, and she holds yours,
and that’s a very good sign.
She will be your tootsie wootsie,
in the good old summertime.

song by George Evans and Ren Shields

The factory siren tells workers time to go home
tells them the evening has begun.
When living with the tall man

whom I didn’t love, I would wander
the streets, dreaming of Italy.
Trekking the handful of avenues

with him, he would say look there
between pink cobblestones,
there’s manure like mortar.

The sweet smell of it Wednesday nights,
the night before auction,
when the misery of cows greets me

heading home through town.
Lake quiets, tired of my lies.
When will I tell truths again?

The siren. My love is home.
Nights, we stay in and X the days

by

Deborah Ager