Good poems

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Whaler

© Greene Richard

Great-grandfather, whaler out of Nantucket,the harder sort who threw the harpoon, drew warm blood,made huge death on the open sea.

Pachelbel’s Canon

© Greene Richard

Is there a word or the fading of a noteas it leaves the string and nothing follows

At the College

© Greene Richard

Serpentine, the path unwinds its innocencefrom building to building in flickering shadewhere my students feed lazy raccoons muffins

The Flying Fish

© Gray John Henry

Magnae Deus potentiaequi fertili natos aquapartim relinquis gurgitipartim levas in aera.

Confessio Amantis, Book III: The Tale of Apollonius of Tyre

© John Gower

Appolinus his leve tok,To God and al the lond betokWith al the poeple long and brod,That he no lenger there abod

So Long It's Been

© Gotlieb Phyllis

Fibonacci found the significance of1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13 ...,they explainthe way seeds spiral in the sunflower and pine scalestwist in the cone

is the name of the gamelaughing, talking where the ball bouncesin the forgotten schoolyardone hand, the other hand; one foot, the other footyou know the one(Saturday Afternoon Kidblackball-cracker, scotchmint-muncherhandkerchief-chewer extraordinary)clap front, clap backballthwack on the boardfencefront and back, back and frontarms of old beeches reaching over drop theirsawtooth leaves in your hair (as I was sitting beneath a tree a birdie sent his love to me and as I wiped it from my eye I thought: thank goodness cows can't fly)tweedle, twydlecurtsey, saluteand roundaboutuntil you're out

the shadows turn, the light is longand while you're out you sing this song

this year, next year, sometime, never en roule-en ma boule roule-en we'll be friends for ever and ever

Pimperroquet, le roi des papillons se faisant la barbe, il se coupa le menton une, une, c'est la lune deux, deux, c'est le jeuseven, eight trois, trois -- c'est à toi!nine, a-lauraten a-laura echod, shtaimSecord hamelech bashomayim echod, shtaim, sholosh, ar-ba

A Double Vision

© Gotlieb Phyllis

Goggling with weak-muscled and diplopic eyesat the round oracle of my spectacular worldI note that my right eye has a tendency to emphasizethe dominant colours and myleft the recessives(so that what's plain to one eyethe other may see purled)

for instance: what's blood to my good right eyeis tomato juice to my leftand where my left eyesees the hard blue skyit's summer haze to the sightof my right

The Deserted Village, A Poem

© Oliver Goldsmith

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled

For Soldiers

© Gifford Humphrey

Ye buds of Brutus land, courageous youths, now play your parts!Unto your tackle stand, abide the brunt with valiant hearts!For news is carried too and fro that we must forth to warfare go

Homeward Bound

© Gibbon Perceval

It's goodbye now to Africa, but kiss your hand againTo the upland trek and the old trade road and kop and kloof and plain; There's another trek instead for us, And a long strange road ahead for us,But never the old home outspan, however the team may strain

Love's Menu: Pommes de Terre Frites

© William Gay

Fried potatoes is a dishGood as any one could wish:Cheap it is, and appetizing;Turn a saint to gormandizing:Good and cheap and tasty too,Just the thing for Love's Menu.