Whose Faulty Vision

Poem: Stray Cat

Stray Cat
by Francis Witham

Oh, what unhappy twist of fate
Has brought you homeless to my gate?
The gate where once another stood
To beg for shelter, warmth and food
For from that day I ceased to be
The master of my destiny.

While he, with purr and velvet paw
Became within my house the law.
He scratched the furniture and shed
And claimed the middle of my bed.

He ruled in arrogance and pride
And broke my heart the day he died.
So if you really think, oh Cat,
I’d willingly relive all that
Because you come forlorn and thin,
Well…don’t just stand there…come on in!

Poem: One Art

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Generic State Song

Found this on Usenet, thought it was brilliant:

Sometimes when the grass is blown by the breeze
There’s a far away look in the leaves of the trees
A memory returns, heartbreakingly clear
Of a place I call home, [Your state's name here]

No sky could be deeper, no water so clear
As back in the meadows of [Your state's name here]
I’m gonna go back, although I don’t know when
There’s no other place like [Your state's name again]

(Chorus:)
Oh [Your state's name here], Oh [Again], what a state
I have not been back since [a reasonable date]
Where the asphalt grows soft in July every year
In the warm summer mornings of [Your state's name here]

My grampa would come and turn on the game
And fall asleep drinking [Your local beer's name]
While gramma would sing in the garden for hours
To all of [The names of indigeonous flowers]

The songs that she sang were somewhat obscure
She learned from the local townspeople I’m sure
The language they use is not very clear
Like [Place a colloquialism right here].

(Chorus)

I’d love to wake up where [The state songbird] sings
Where they manufacture [The names of some things]
Like there on the bumper, a sticker so clear
An I, then a heart, and then [Your state's name here]

Whisper it soft, it’s a song to my ear
[Your state's name here, your state's name here]
It’s there I was born & it’s there I’ll grow old
By the rivers of blue and the arches of gold…

(Chorus)

Poem: Little Boy Blue

Little Boy Blue
by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place—
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.

Poem: I could compare you to a summer day

I could compare you to a summer day -
No! Summer’s beautiful, but full of doubt,
He smiles sweetly, but he’ll never stay,
And Summer’s cash is always running out.
He laughs with me, then he turns and burns,
He’s cold for weeks, then he’ll change his mind -

Fair? No, unfair! Unaware of my concerns,
Gorgeous? Sure, but stupid, random, blind.
Dear, when you say you’ll stay, you always will,
And when you change, you always give a reason,
You’re too fierce for time or death to kill!
How could I compare you to a season?

You will shine, as constant as a star,
When this poem is forgotten; most poems are.

–Romana Machado, 6/28/95

(Via Kisrael)

Poem: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Poem: This is Just to Say

This is Just to Say
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold