Reflective thoughts and poems

MACKTEXAS said:

The Children's Hour​

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Love this! I just returned from a trip to Florida and was with my great-nieces and nephews and can picture them with "the patter of little feet" (line 6). Much symbolism in this poem also. Thanks for sharing it, @MACKTEXAS !
 

When I feel like throwing a pity party I turn to this poem by Robert Service
The Quitter​

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
"You've had a raw deal!" I know -- but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight --
Why, that's the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try -- it's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.
 
OregonGuy said:
When I feel like throwing a pity party I turn to this poem by Robert Service
The Quitter​

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
"You've had a raw deal!" I know -- but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight --
Why, that's the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try -- it's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.
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Wow! This was an amazing poem @OregonGuy! I really liked how Robert Service turned the poem around to end with an uplifting and challenging message: "Just have one more try - it's dead easy to die,/ It's the keeping-on-living that's hard" (lines 23-24). Thanks for sharing!
 
MarkD said:
I just came across a video of the poet John O'Donohue reading one of his which I like a lot. Less than a minute. @Stoppelmann

✂️ John Donohue reading a poem on time & attention
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Thanks for sharing Donohue's talk, @MarkD! It's interesting that he would talk about the river and the journey we go through, like a river. He was very philosophical. Good video!

What a coincidence that you would find this. Recently, I was thinking about writing a poem about the river, too! The idea I had was that many people often sit along the bank, observing people moving forward down the river, attaining their dreams, while those that watch, are doing nothing. They are basically watching life go by. I haven't quite put it together yet, but that was the idea. One can either participate, or one can sit by the side.
 
palides2021 said:
Thanks for sharing Donohue's talk, @MarkD! It's interesting that he would talk about the river and the journey we go through, like a river. He was very philosophical. Good video!

What a coincidence that you would find this. Recently, I was thinking about writing a poem about the river, too! The idea I had was that many people often sit along the bank, observing people moving forward down the river, attaining their dreams, while those that watch, are doing nothing. They are basically watching life go by. I haven't quite put it together yet, but that was the idea. One can either participate, or one can sit by the side.
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Yes J.D. was philosophical as well as a poet and for about 20 years a Catholic priest too. Tragically died in his fifties.

There is another reference to a river in Wendel Berry’s novel Jayber Crow which is one of my favorite passages on any novel.. I transcribed my favorite passage some time ago which I can share with you if you like but it’s a bit long.
 
(Just leave it for now if you are working on your own river poem.). Here is the passage from Wendell Berry's Jayber Crow novel that I liked so much:

And so I came along in time to know the end of the age of steamboating. I would learn later that there had been other ages of the river that I had arrived too late to know but that I could read about and learn to imagine. There was at first the age when no people were here, and I have sometimes felt at night that absence grow present in my mind, that long silence in which no human name was spoken or given, and the nameless river made no sound of any human tongue. And then there was the Indian age when names were called that have never been spoken in the present language of Port William. Then came the short ages of us white people, the ages of the dugout, the flatboat, the keelboat, the log raft, the steamboat. And I have lived on now into the age of the diesel towboat and recreational boating and water skiing. And yet it is hard to look at the river in its calm, just after daylight or just before dark, and believe that history has happened to it. The river, the river itself, leaves marks but bears none. It is only the water flowing in the path that other water has worn.

Or is that other water really “other”, or is it the same water always running, flowing always toward the gathering of all waters, and always rising and returning again, and again flowing? I knew this river first when I was a little boy, and I know it now when I am an old man once again living beside it … and almost seventy years! … and always when i have watched it I have been entranced and mystified. What is it? Is it the worn trough of itself that is a feature of the land and is marked on maps, or is it the water flowing? Or is it the land itself that over time is shaped by the flowing water, and it caught by no map?

The surface of the quieted river as I thought in those old days at Squire’s Landing, as I think now, is like a window looking into another world that is like this one except that it is quiet. Its quietness makes it seem perfect. The ripples are like the slats of a blind or a shutter through which we we see imperfectly what is perfect. Though that other world can be seen only momentarily, it looks everlasting. As the ripples become more agitated, the window darkens and the other world is hidden. As I did not know then but know now, the surface of the water is like a living soul, which is easy to disturb, is often disturbed, but, growing calm, shows what it was, is, and will be.
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MarkD said:
(Just leave it for now if you are working on your own river poem.). Here is the passage from Wendell Berry's Jayber Crow novel that I liked so much:
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Thanks for sharing the passage from Wendell Berry's novel, @MarkD ! Several descriptions of the river were fascinating, with the details of the different ages and the river's silence! I particularly liked the last paragraph, which depicts religious imagery, such as it being "a window looking into another world," and "it looks everlasting", and a "living soul" which "shows what it was, is, and will be." This imagery brings a depth to the writing that was not apparent at the beginning, yet parallels an older man's growth, maturity, and wisdom.
 
palides2021 said:
Thanks for sharing the passage from Wendell Berry's novel, @MarkD ! Several descriptions of the river were fascinating, with the details of the different ages and the river's silence! I particularly liked the last paragraph, which depicts religious imagery, such as it being "a window looking into another world," and "it looks everlasting", and a "living soul" which "shows what it was, is, and will be." This imagery brings a depth to the writing that was not apparent at the beginning, yet parallels an older man's growth, maturity, and wisdom.
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My favorite part too but I also liked the talk about what the river is - the trough it runs in or the water itself and so on. You could ask whether we are like rain drops returning to the sea over the course of a life. I hope that wasn't a distraction from your creative process!
 
MarkD said:
My favorite part too but I also liked the talk about what the river is - the trough it runs in or the water itself and so on. You could ask whether we are like rain drops returning to the sea over the course of a life. I hope that wasn't a distraction from your creative process!
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Great comment, @MarkD ! My "creative process" is ongoing, and your input feeds into it. We learn from each other. Many thanks!
 
River Becomes You

River becomes you, flowing softly,
shearing life’s rocks, hard edges,
surrounding them with love.
Liquid love.

River becomes you, pouring serenely
through your veins, filling you
with creative thoughts.
Lifting you high.

Yet, you sit on the sidelines, watching the river,
as your dreams pass you by,
fearing loss, hoping for a better future.
Not moving.

When the river stops flowing, then
it will be too late.


I. A. May 30, 2025
 
Today, the tree people came and took away the fallen pear trees (that had been hit during the Easter storm we had back in April). One of the trees had tiny pears, and I was sad to see them go. Meanwhile, one of the tree people said he saw a fox near my deck and took a picture and showed it to me. Should I do anything?
 
palides2021 said:
Wow! This was an amazing poem @OregonGuy! I really liked how Robert Service turned the poem around to end with an uplifting and challenging message: "Just have one more try - it's dead easy to die,/ It's the keeping-on-living that's hard" (lines 23-24). Thanks for sharing!
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Thankyou! Here's another of his poems I find inspiring:
Each Day A Life

I count each day a little life,
With birth and death complete;
I cloister it from care and strife
And keep it sane and sweet.

With eager eyes I greet the morn,
Exultant as a boy,
Knowing that I am newly born
To wonder and to joy.

And when the sunset splendours wane
And ripe for rest am I,
Knowing that I will live again,
Exultantly I die.

O that all Life were but a Day
Sunny and sweet and sane!
And that at Even I might say:
"I sleep to wake again."
 
palides2021 said:
Today, the tree people came and took away the fallen pear trees (that had been hit during the Easter storm we had back in April). One of the trees had tiny pears, and I was sad to see them go. Meanwhile, one of the tree people said he saw a fox near my deck and took a picture and showed it to me. Should I do anything?
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Lock the hen house? ;)

My aunt and uncle had a pair coming by at the same time everyday and they always stopped to watch.
 
OregonGuy said:
Thankyou! Here's another of his poems I find inspiring:
Each Day A Life

I count each day a little life,
With birth and death complete;
I cloister it from care and strife
And keep it sane and sweet.

With eager eyes I greet the morn,
Exultant as a boy,
Knowing that I am newly born
To wonder and to joy.

And when the sunset splendours wane
And ripe for rest am I,
Knowing that I will live again,
Exultantly I die.

O that all Life were but a Day
Sunny and sweet and sane!
And that at Even I might say:
"I sleep to wake again."
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Another excellent poem, and very inspiring! I could read it over and over again. Thank you, @OregonGuy !
 
Naturally said:
A simple poem I wrote when I was 18 or 19 ... might have been 17. Been a long time :ROFLMAO:

Give me your problems and I'll give you my time.
Give me your joys and I'll give you all mine.
Give me an oyster and I'll give you a pearl.
Give me your love and I'll give you the world.
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Awesome poem, @Naturally ! This is very inspirational and uplifting! Have you written more? I would love to see them. Thanks!
 
palides2021 said:
Awesome poem, @Naturally ! This is very inspirational and uplifting! Have you written more? I would love to see them. Thanks!
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Thanks :)

I wrote maybe 25 or so poems, a couple were longer than a page or two in length, most all were written when in high school. My 12th grade English teacher was impressed with one poem I read in class and had me perform a private reading for the school drama club, of which I was not a member. While the English class and teacher was impressed with the poem, the drama club was not so much. I was nervous because I was on the school stage and the drama club wasn't impressed because I wasn't one of the cool kids like them.

In junior college I asked my English professor, who had graduated HS with my dad, to give me a review of my binder of poems I handed him. His assessment was discouraging and negative.

My younger brother stole one of my poems and it was subsequently published in his HS annual under his name. I didn't find out until some years later when I dated a girl who had also attended my bother's school and saw it in the annual. I never confronted my brother about it.

I was a young man, exploring possibilities as I learned to navigate the world. At one point, I tossed all the poems I'd written and never wrote another one. Literally threw the binder of poems away. Seemed such a waste of time when I'd seemingly found more rewarding endeavors.

After all these years, like you, I would love to see them too ;) :ROFLMAO:

Poetry was an adolescent pastime I didn't pursue. Maybe a shame. Dunno
 
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Naturally said:
Thanks :)

I wrote maybe 25 or so poems, a couple were longer than a page or two in length, most all were written when in high school. My 12th grade English teacher was impressed with one poem I read in class and had me perform a private reading for the school drama club, of which I was not a member. While the English class and teacher was impressed with the poem, the drama club was not so much. I was nervous because I was on the school stage and the drama club wasn't impressed because I wasn't one of the cool kids like them.

In junior college I asked my English professor, who had graduated HS with my dad, to give me a review of my binder of poems I handed him. His assessment was discouraging and negative.

My younger brother stole one of my poems and it was subsequently published in his HS annual under his name. I didn't find out until some years later when I dated a girl who had also attended my bother's school and saw it in the annual. I never confronted my brother about it.

I was a young man, exploring possibilities as I learned to navigate the world. At one point, I tossed all the poems I'd written and never wrote another one. Literally threw the binder of poems away. Seemed such a waste of time when I'd seemingly found more rewarding endeavors.

After all these years, like you, I would love to see them too ;) :ROFLMAO:

Poetry was an adolescent pastime I didn't pursue. Maybe a shame. Dunno
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Thanks for sharing your story! I think the English professor in junior college who was "discouraging and negative" could have been more encouraging. I wonder how many more students he discouraged. We all have to start somewhere.

In many professions and careers, it takes years to attain a certain level of expertise. It has been written that one needs 10,000 hours of working on something (art, music, skill) to achieve expertise. So instead of discouraging people at their early stage of learning a skill or art, one should encourage them to keep going. I feel strongly about that. Given your natural talent for writing poetry, it's never too late to start again. Just a thought. :)
 
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@palides2021 I just asked ChatGPT to "Make up an inspirational poem for me"
The response below is much better than anything I'd come up with inside of less than 2seconds :oops: :unsure:

/ ChatGPT Response /

Sure! Here's an original inspirational poem just for you:



“Rise Like the Morning”


When shadows fall and hopes seem thin,
And storms rage loud beneath your skin,
Remember—light is born anew,
Each dawn brings strength and clarity too.


The mountain tall may block your way,
But step by step, you climb each day.
The winds may howl, the path be steep,
Yet dreams are found in those who leap.


The fire within, though dimmed by doubt,
Still waits for breath to flame back out.
You're not the fear, the loss, the scar—
You’re every triumph that you are.

/ End ChatGPT Response /
 
Naturally said:
@palides2021 I just asked ChatGPT to "Make up an inspirational poem for me"
The response below is much better than anything I'd come up with inside of less than 2seconds :oops: :unsure:

/ ChatGPT Response /

Sure! Here's an original inspirational poem just for you:



“Rise Like the Morning”


When shadows fall and hopes seem thin,
And storms rage loud beneath your skin,
Remember—light is born anew,
Each dawn brings strength and clarity too.


The mountain tall may block your way,
But step by step, you climb each day.
The winds may howl, the path be steep,
Yet dreams are found in those who leap.


The fire within, though dimmed by doubt,
Still waits for breath to flame back out.
You're not the fear, the loss, the scar—
You’re every triumph that you are.

/ End ChatGPT Response /
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Thanks! This is beautifully written and inspiring. The telltale sign that it is AI is the "-" marks in it, I heard. But although it rhymes well, it's not the same as coming from a human, IMHO. :)

As an English teacher, my greatest fear is that students will rely on AI to write their essays for them, which I believe, will greatly stunt their growth in critical thinking and creativity. Time will tell.
 
palides2021 said:
Thanks! This is beautifully written and inspiring. The telltale sign that it is AI is the "-" marks in it, I heard. But although it rhymes well, it's not the same as coming from a human, IMHO. :)

As an English teacher, my greatest fear is that students will rely on AI to write their essays for them, which I believe, will greatly stunt their growth in critical thinking and creativity. Time will tell.
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I totally agree with your assessment. Spot on.
My thoughts about it are that someone could take it as inspiration and polish it with human caress.
Still not pure critical thought or originally creative if done so, but might help someone simply needing direction to finish a canvas.
... but that's still cheating ;)
 
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Well, the last few days were a little chaotic. I had several projects to take care of, but the most pressing project was getting rid of a dead animal underneath my sunroom. Remember the sunroom that I had built last year? It was joined to the rest of my deck. I have enjoyed that sunroom immensely, playing the violin there, entertaining friends and family, but things changed very quickly a few days ago. Let me tell you how it all happened. Let me tell you a story.

Easter time, in April, our semi-rural area experienced a fierce storm similar to a tornado, but it tore straight through our community instead of swirling around like a tornado does (I even wrote a poem about it and sent it to be published). I was not in the area at that time. I was visiting family for Easter.

When I returned days later, several trees were down in our neighborhood, including two pear trees in my back yard. The tree companies were overwhelmed. I heard one company had over 130 calls the day after the storm. Fast forward to last week. The tree people finally came to take my two trees away. I was sad to see the pear trees go. They had produced many juicy pears throughout the years that I gave to friends and family.

When the tree people came to take the pear trees away, they said they saw a fox near my deck. They even took a picture of it and showed it to me. Its back was facing the camera. All I could see was its orange color and pointy ears as it gazed into the crawl space of the deck. If it weren't for the ears, I would have thought it was a cat. Long blades of grass covered the rest of its body. The men said it had sores on its back.

A few days later (this was last Thursday), when I went into the sunroom, I smelled something different. Normally, it was a pleasure to be in there. I opened the windows to aerate it, but the smell persisted. I forgot about it. Friday, the smell was stronger. I went outside on my deck. It smelled something terribly bad, like a mixture of vomit, rotten eggs, and something else.

I walked around to see where the smell was coming from. At first, I thought it was under the deck because I saw the trellis under the deck had a hole in it. I assumed the sunroom had been partitioned off from the deck, because that was what I had been told they would do, but I was wrong. Any animal entering the crawl space of the deck had access to the crawl space of my sunroom.

Until I solved the problem, I kept the sunroom closed after that. I called over 10 phone numbers, trying to get information, and they kept passing me to someone else. I called the builder of the sunroom and told them the situation. They suggested a wildlife removal company. The wildlife company came and found nothing underneath the deck, but they definitely smelled it. They suggested it was under the sunroom, but they couldn't access the sunroom's bottom board. So I had the builder come and open up the sunroom crawl space. Now this is the scene that was very disgusting, and I hope you haven't eaten when you read this.

The night before, it had thundered and rained hard, and as we were walking around in the wet grass and passing the deck, the builder remarked calmly, "There are a lot of maggots out here." I hadn't seen them but when I zoomed in, they were all over the place, crawling everywhere, the size of tiny rice wiggling their way from the deck onto the cement path, unto the stairs, the grass, etc. I jumped away once I saw them. Yikes! I was sick to my stomach. It was like the worst nightmare.

Meanwhile, it was a sunny day, and the smell of death was more horrendous, encircling the whole back area. The builder removed the board and stepped away. He told me it was a fox and he could see the leg. I wondered if it was the same fox that had been hovering around the deck a week or so ago.

The wildlife company came several hours later. By now, the maggots were mostly gone. I think the birds had a feast day with them. The smell was less, because when they removed the board, it had aerated everything, but it was still potent. With a shovel, the wildlife people removed the remains of the fox, which was mostly bones by now, and placed it in a heavy-duty bag. I was told it was there at least four weeks, which made me think that it might have been injured in the Easter storm?

Meanwhile, the fox that the tree people had seen near the deck might have been another one, maybe the child fox looking under the deck for its mother? It did look small. That thought made me sad. The wildlife guy told me when an animal is ready to die, it goes into the strangest places to die. I found that interesting. He poured some liquid in the area to sanitize it, I believe. We will keep the area open for several days. The builder will return later in the week to close up the whole area under the deck and sunroom so we have no more surprises.

So now, as I write to you, I have claimed my sunroom back. The smell is literally gone, unless I go real close to where the fox lay. I can find time to relax and write you a story.

I ask you dear friends, should I be charged for closing off the deck area since they did not close off the sunroom? Curious what your thoughts are. Thank you for taking the time to read all the way down.
 
It's a conundrum, and I don't have a clear answer for you.
However, it's good that the carcass was taken away, finally.
It's a very sad story, when animals are injured or killed.
 
Pinky said:
It's a conundrum, and I don't have a clear answer for you.
However, it's good that the carcass was taken away, finally.
It's a very sad story, when animals are injured or killed.
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Thanks for your input, @Pinky . I agree with you about feeling sad about injured or killed animals. Dealing with this issue was difficult because I had never experienced something like this before. I did experience cats dying when growing up, and that was sad, but this was the first time for a fox.
 

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