My Dearest Love

My Dearest Love

Sherri Brown

I see you in my thoughts and dreams,

When I awake, how real it seems.

You aren't here to comfort me,

But, soon I hope you will be.

No one truly knows or understands,

You have my heart in your hands.

My love is what you truly own,

Come soon and make our house a home.

Inside those walls you are doing your time,

Not being here with me is your only true crime.

Others in your life will come and go,

But my love is true, and I'm sure you know.

I may not be rich or the prettiest one,

But I love you so much, you are my sun.

You light up my life every time you call,

When the time is up I begin to fall.

You are my stars, you are my moon,

Being with you will come very soon.

So when you sleep, take this to heart,

No one or nothing will keep us apart.

Poem to First Love

Poem to First Love

Matthew Yeager

To have been told “I love you” by you could well be, for me,

The highlight of my life, the best feeling, the best peak

On my feeling graph, in the way that the Chrysler building

Might not be the tallest building in the NY sky but is

The best, the most exquisitely spired, or the way that

Hank Aaron’s career home-run total is not the highest

But the best, the one that signifies the purest greatness.

So improbable!  To have met you at all and then

To have been told in your soft young voice so soon

After meeting you: “I love you.”  And I felt the mystery

Of being that you, of being a you and being

Loved, and what I was, instantly, was someone

Who could be told “I love you” by someone like you.

I was, in that moment, new; you were 19; I was 22;

You were impulsive; I was there in front of you, with a future

That hadn’t yet been burned for fuel; I had energy;

You had beauty; and your eyes were a pale blue,

And they backed what you said with all they hadn’t seen,

And they were the least ambitious eyes I’d known,

The least calculating, and when you spoke and when

They shone, perhaps you saw the feeling you caused.

Perhaps you saw too that the feeling would stay.

DON’T CUT DOWN THE TREES , BROTHER WOODCUTTER

  DON’T  CUT  DOWN THE TREES , BROTHER  WOODCUTTER

Translated by  Micheal 

Balkrishna Sama

Don’t cut down the trees, brother

Woodcutter, they are our dead mothers,

And so they cannot even plead with us,

But always they protect us from sun and rain,

And seat us on their easy laps,

Then, making us take one footstep upward at a time,

Carrying  us in their bending  arms , they  lift us up onto  their shoulders

And suckle us from breasts filled with fruits and flowers,

They kiss our brows constantly with leafy lips,

Sighing for us, they ooze sap as they weep;

They sigh, but they cannot speak to us:

Don’t cut down the trees, brother woodcutter, they are our  dead mothers .

In the winter, when we are all gathered inside our homes,

WE sit around fires and sing and talk,

Then we got to beds and lie down,

We go under warm quilts and sleep soundly all night.

Outside the house, covering their heads with a veil of white frost,

Bow our dead mothers the tress, dozing, then startled, and silent.

They pass the night dreaming of our sunshine childhoods,

They hear us singing the songs that they taught us.

They bless our laughter all the time,

 They always love us and our warmth

But they cannot pour out their inner thoughts to us.

They wait for us until winter ends,

As soon as Sprig comes they spread out their arms,

And begin to summon us: o not cut off those arms,

Brother woodcutter, don’t cut down those trees, our dead mothers.

March Evening

March Evening

(1874 - 1925)

Amy Lowell

Blue through the window burns the twilight;

  Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.

Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,

  Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.

Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plot

  Dents into pools where a foot has been.

Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, not

  Of water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.

Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embers

  Scattering wide at a stronger gust.

Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembers

  Creaking, to turn, in its centuried rust.

Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,

  Wrapping the mists round her withering form,

Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow

  Travails to birth in the womb of the storm.

Always Linked - Poem by hasmukh amathalal

Always Linked - Poem by hasmukh amathalal

The life is always linked

And talked

With fun like formula

As nothing is on agenda

We move

And try to prove

To be honest

With interest

So it is willing

With inkling

To be one

And always as one

New beginning

And shining

At each level

To excel

So hand in hand

We are friend

Or even more

To explore

hasmukh amathalal

The Florist Wears Knee-Breeches

The Florist Wears Knee-Breeches

 Written by :Wallace Stevens, 1879 - 1955

My flowers are reflected

In your mind

As you are reflected in your glass.

When you look at them,

There is nothing in your mind

Except the reflections

Of my flowers.

But when I look at them

I see only the reflections

In your mind,

And not my flowers.

It is my desire

To bring roses,

And place them before you

In a white dish.

Written by :Wallace Stevens, 1879 - 1955

The Heart Is a Foreign Country

The Heart Is a Foreign Country

Rangi McNeil 

Ours is a partial language part pantomime,

Part grimy guesswork: adulterated speculation

As to meaning & motivation.

Translated, heart suggests a familiar, universal

Device but internal chemistries vary—

Though components be the same & not uncommon.

The world owes us nothing. It promises less.

Call it: freedom. Free will. Or Wednesday.