Poems And Quotes

When I have come with happy heart to sixty years and ten,
I’ll buy a boat and sail away upon a summer sea;
And in a little lonely isle that’s far and far from men,
In peace and praise I’ll spend the days the Gods allow to me.
For I am weary of a strife so pitiless and vain;
And in a far and fairy isle, bewilderingly bright,
I’ll learn to know the leap and glow of rapture once again,
And welcome every living dawn with wonder and delight.

And there I’ll build a swan-white house above the singing foam,
With brooding eaves, where joyously rich roses climb and cling;
With crotons in a double row, like wine and honeycomb,
And flame trees dripping golden rain, and palms pavilioning.
And there I’ll let the wind and wave do what they will with me;
And I will dwell unto the end with loveliness and joy;
And drink from out the crystal spring, and eat from off the tree,
As simple as a savage is, as careless as a boy.

For I have come to think that Life’s a lamentable tale,
And all we break our hearts to win is little worth our while;
For fame and fortune in the end are comfortless and stale,
And it is best to dream and rest upon a radiant isle.
So I’ll blot out the bitter years of sufferance and scorn,
And I’ll forget the fear and fret, the poverty and pain;
And in a shy and secret isle I’ll be a man newborn,
And fashion life to heart’s desire, and seek my soul again.

For when I come with happy heart to sixty years and ten,
I fondly hope the best of life will yet remain to me;
And so I’ll burn my foolish books and break my futile pen,
And seek a tranced and tranquil isle, that dreams eternally.
I’ll turn my back on all the world, I’ll bid my friends adieu;
Unto the blink I’ll leave behind what gold I have to give;
And in a jewelled solitude I’ll mould my life anew,
And nestling close to Nature’s heart, I’ll learn at last . . . to live.

by

Robert William Service

Wind whines and whines the shingle,
The crazy pierstakes groan;
A senile sea numbers each single
Slimesilvered stone.

From whining wind and colder
Grey sea I wrap him warm
And touch his trembling fineboned shoulder
And boyish arm.

Around us fear, descending
Darkness of fear above
And in my heart how deep unending
Ache of love!

by

James Joyce

When grey clouds fill the sky
And the tides are so high
Oh! Damsel don’t cry
Don’t bid me bye! Bye!

When the sea is so calm
And the sunshine so warm
Let’s join in the mood
Come on make me feel good

Remember I vowed to be with you always
Like the trees in their sways
You are my wind to follow
Caress me in your gentle blow

by

Ben Omondi Otieno

Lady and Queen and Mystery manifold
And very Regent of the untroubled sky,
Whom in a dream St. Hilda did behold
And heard a woodland music passing by:
You shall receive me when the clouds are high
With evening and the sheep attain the fold.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.

Steep are the seas and savaging and cold
In broken waters terrible to try;
And vast against the winter night the wold,
And harbourless for any sail to lie.
But you shall lead me to the lights, and I
Shall hymn you in a harbour story told.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.

Help of the half-defeated, House of gold,
Shrine of the Sword, and Tower of Ivory;
Splendour apart, supreme and aureoled,
The Battler’s vision and the World’s reply.
You shall restore me, O my last Ally,
To vengence and the glories of the bold.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.

Prince of the degradations, bought and sold,
These verses, written in your crumbling sty,
Proclaim the faith that I have held and hold
And publish that in which I mean to die.

by

Hilaire Belloc

From pulpit’s ship he preached in scrimshaw days
And belted out a prayer of hope and praise
The seamen clung to every fervid phrase
Then left New Bedford’s dock in morning haze

It was the eve of his first bounty search
A young lad prayed in Seaman’s Bethel Church
And as he left he saw a raven perch
A haunting omen on a limb of birch

But nothing now could stop this seabound youth
Son of a whaler, seeking trophy tooth
His father always told him that the truth
Would be discovered in the prime of youth

He knew that schooner, “Anna”, stem to stern
The Captain said, “Your dues you gotta earn
The first time out you’ve got a lot to learn
And fightin’ with this crew ain’t my concern”

They were a mixed lot, anyone could tell
Some from Cape Verde, some right out of hell
But each one did his job and did it well
And Billy Boy, he held them in his spell

An image of his father, they all said
A favorite whaling captain now was dead
But they could see the lad was schooner bred
And in his eyes his father’s wisdom read

Young Billy boy had whaling in his vein
And would add honor to his father’s name
And so he set out on a search for fame
But never would his spirit be the same

Four days a’sail and nothing came in sight
Then in the middle of the darkest night
The Captain had a sense of dooming fright
There’s something in the air that didn’t seem right

No sooner said , the sea began to churn
“We’ve not a single moment left to burn”
The waves were wildly crashing on the stern
And Billy’s heart was full of seaman’s yearn

“Put this ship in irons, seamen, douse her sails!
Head staight into the eye of the wind and hail!”
The schooner pitched for hours in the gale
The crew controlling helm and tethered sail

But some were thrown into the ocean’s cold
By force of waves above the bulkward’s hold
The ship was yawing, all those strong and bold
Couldn’t turn about the whaling ship of gold

“Secure the boom, young lad!”, the Captain cried
But Bill Boy was stunned with what he spied
A huge blue whale abrest the starboard side
Was staring at young Billy eye to eye

“A whale!, A whale!”, cried son of schooner’s fame
The Captain shouted, “Make yourself a name!
Harpoon him, lad!, Harpoon him from the main
Just this one, and we’ll head home again!”

“No! No!, my Captain, look how he behaves
Keeping us from rolling with the waves
He is a friend, I say, let him be saved
Or “Anna”, here, will send us to our graves”

“This whale, my boy, will be our certain doom
It’s either us or he to be consumed
Now hold on boy and pitch that old harpoon
And you will sup next week with silver spoon”

Billy took the spear and held it high
And looked into the depths of mammal’s eye
But could not bear the anguished hurt inside
And dropped the harpoon by the Captain’s side

“‘Tis I ,young man, who’ll teach you how to throw
Your father’s glory you will never know”
And as he raised his arms to deal the blow
The whale dove to the calmer depths below

And as it did the schooner overturned
The few on board fell in the icy churn
The harpoon followed swiftly from the stern
And Captain had a whaler’s table turned

Until this day they tell the fateful tale
Of “Anna”‘s disappearance in the gale
And Billy who was pushed atop a bale
And pulled to safety by a monster whale

In Seaman’s Bethel Church Still William prays
Remembering the raven’s piercing gaze
An omen from his father to pursuade
His son from following the whaler’s ways

All was written in a blue whale’s eye
Instead of seeing lamp oil to be burned
Billy saw the creature dignify
The truth his father wanted him to learn

by

Elizabeth Santos

When he left he swore never to return.
that was the first youthful lesson he was to learn.
A true adult speaks lightly of absolutes,
they often come back to haunt.
Besides, age provides enough of that
quite on its own, alone.

He saw many dusty roads, I’m sure of that,
as he and Leroy traveled south.
Knowing him, he ate it up and spat it back.
Youth has its ways, you know.
Although not always fueled by logic, the young just go and go
when a more wrinkled soul rests in the moon’s pale glow.

As tough times took their toll,
life dictated with the demands only it bestows.
The boys began to wear a bit,
a plight in time we all behold.
Thoughts of home began to look better
although further away, I’m sure.

They hit that dusty trail again,
this time without spring of step.
Change of direction, even aided by lighter pockets
provided not a moment’s pep.
While hitchiking,they prayed for speedy northern rockets.
None were to arrive.

In the “thirties time” it was a futile prayer,
that long road home from Florida to Virginia.
Even their youth could not them spare.
Hunger is a tough task master, he demands to be fed,
an all too often, all consuming fate.
They did what they could for bread.

Soon, but not enough for them, I’m sure,
home loomed over the horizon,
the smell of familiar country air manure,
a cherished fragrance that those of us who have left
know all too well upon our return.
They crept closer and another aroma rushed their senses.

Good fortune comes to us all, ragged, wretched, youthful
traveler no exception. Though dazed,
they could hardly imagine fate’s smile for them.
It was a church lawn party
in progress in the glen.
Can’t you feel their anticipation?
They must surely have been amazed.

After the travels telling toll, the boy
could not believe the golden flake of life’s sweet luck.
“Timing is of the essence”
would be his next lesson, and one not soon forgotten.
He was on the grounds now and found himself flooded
by the folks’ joyous chatter.

Familiar faces, some related, murmured in a fog.
The “welcome homes” that greet the wayward traveler
were not his burning choice.
Hunger is a demanding task master,
it led him to the sight and smell
he remembered only all too well.

When he spied his father, tears began to swell
He approached the sacred figure, the one he missed the most
while torn between raging hunger and the price he knew he’d pay.
“Meals don’t come cheap in the country,
the price is not always in the pocket.”
But his motivation was located in his stomach
as he stepped from dark to light into his father’s piercing sight.

Now… for that moment he thought of what to say.
What father could refuse such an honest gaze
and the words from his son, “Dad, I’ve come home to stay.”
His father answered while over the cooking heat,
pausing eye to eye and with a wise smile he said ….
“Hell, son, you’ve just come home to eat.”

by

by E.E. Biller

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking 

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

by

Carl Sandburg

Ah, these jasmines, these white jasmines!
I seem to remember the first day when I filled my hands
with these jasmines, these white jasmines.

I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth;
I have heard the liquid murmur of the river
through the darkness of midnight;
Autumn sunsets have come to me at the bend of the road
in the lonely waste, like a bride raising her veil
to accept her lover.
Yet my memory is still sweet with the first white jasmines
that I held in my hands when I was a child.

Many a glad day has come in my life,
and I have laughed with merrymakers on festival nights.

On grey mornings of rain
I have crooned many an idle song.

I have worn round my neck the evening wreath of
BAKULAS woven by the hand of love.

Yet my heart is sweet with the memory of the first fresh jasmines
that filled my hands when I was a child.