Below is a selection of my favorite poems — of love and life — from my book, The Famine of the Human Dream. Poetry is such an amazing form of expression. It’s sad that so few people still enjoy it. Sharing poetry is one of my passions — not only my own, but finding those jewels of old time poetry that still speak to the heart. I’ve put together a collection of my own and other’s poetry in my book. Check it out:
When I Saw You
When I saw you it was like a new morning had dawned
Through the mist and the dark on a silent still pond
And the light of your smile was the first gleam of day
And your eyes the slow river that brought me away,
Away from the places my troubles abide;
Restless and raw as the shifting tide.
Ever closer to the promise of the bright, boundless sea,
Where deep calls to deep, and she calls to me.
The Wooded Path
The morning rays fall low and cold
On pathways to the woodland old.
But few are stirring out to greet
The misty hours with roaming feet.
The brook is flowing slowly past.
The hills lay in the airy vast.
The mossy stream, serene and clear,
Are we not all great poets here?
I wander slowly through the trees
To feel the changeless in the breeze,
And ponder all those bygone days
That disappear like morning haze.
I know not where the doers are,
Who wander never near or far;
Bereft of woods and field and streams,
And substance for their fragile dreams.
I walk the frozen forest path
And gather round the sticks and logs,
To bring a warming fire home
And chase away the morning fog.
My mind patrols the silent scene
And draws the distant stillness near,
And fends away the misted rays,
To wait the dawn to reappear.
If only I could wander slowly
Through the pathways of my soul;
Gather dead and dying things
That weigh against fate’s gentle pull,
Then amble backward to a place
Where death and ice have set their claws,
And light a glow of burning wood,
And watch the smoke purge every flaw.
Beneath the Shadows
Beneath the shadows of an old oak tree
There lays a place of memory;
By forest shapes and swaying shades,
Where all to stillness swiftly fades;
Where tender whispers fill red skies,
Bringing mist to thoughtful eyes.
Oh come, sweet girl, run away with me
From the dimming sounds of the strange city,
To the place where lifetimes swiftly pass
Neath oaken leaves and windswept grass;
We’ll catch the sunlight’s final beams
And fade away to wondrous dreams.
And there we’ll learn those mystic arts
Which mesmerize entwining hearts,
As sleepy stars come out to shine,
To wonder at what’s yours and mine;
And all the seasons of life and change,
We’ll watch and laugh and rearrange…
Mid December misty morn.
All the world is weather-worn.
No work for days had been begun.
A storm-worn stranger was the sun.
All too familiar is the glow
Of hearth-fire ember waning low.
The cows are lowing in the barn.
Grandmother is stationed at her yarn.
And in the corner, tucked away,
Are children eager at their play.
They’re furthest from the glowing hearth
Too warm for their unbridled mirth.
While we, care-laden, huddle near
The ember-wood felled yesteryear.
The morning of the second day
A mountain peak rose through the gray;
Inciting all the more the storm
With clawing hands groped round its form.
And all that day a wintry feud
Raged in the upper altitude.
A stony structure, briefly lent,
Unto a churning firmament.
We watched with an affixed concern
To seek our labor’s soon return.
But briefly stalled, the storm once more
Sent windy rappings round our door.
The only industry that day:
Our hearth-fire as it glowed away.
And glowed the more in dim of night
Without a rivaling starry light.
Grandmother scarcely stirred the while
The world endured its wintry trial.
But glanced up outward now and then
At something past the world of men.
Perhaps upon some swaying tree?
Or drawn inward by memory?
Some fond remembrance, dim o’er time
Of olden days, grown fond sublime?
By evening of the fifth full day
The world had stilled to silent gray.
A deathly chill of olden times
Descending heaven’s highest climes.
And ghostly forms ran round apace
The storm-worn, shapeless, savage place.
But we within our happy dome,
Form memories that make a home.
I stroll our seldom toured hall,
As thin sheets of the raindrops fall,
And scan the faces known to us
Because they were the best of us.
But some stark, solemn, sentimental power
Strikes me in that gloaming hour.
As glows of embers dance upon
The faces of the dearly gone.
A thought from far away draws near;
A need to hold these moments dear.
For days will come when life will be
Nothing but fond memory.
As when the children off at play
Were in the corner tucked away.
I’ll scarce recall the hours when
I labored for the sons of men,
And scarce recall the silent ways,
The world demands our better days.
And then I’ll rest upon a hall,
Where only hurried footsteps fall;
And fade as I return to dust
As all the sons of mankind must.
But one day, may prompt one as me,
To wonder at his destiny.
The Famine of the Human Dream
Within the heart has been ordained
A notion of the unexplained;
A heart which longs to be set free
In its abandoned destiny;
But lives and wastes its precious years
And seldom sees ‘untrodden spheres!’
For man, his heart hath long been wrecked
And swapped for simple intellect;
‘Twas shattered upon a rock of sin,
Ever now to dwell within;
And floating the sea on scattered planks,
It seldom sees once destined banks;
Now e’remore wandering to and fro
Atop the ocean current flow.
Though tries the heart in vain to say
The meaning of its fatal stray
And seeks with all to take away
The ever present slow decay,
Still never able to convey
Those feelings that will never stay.
In vain we seek to find our fate
In a world we overestimate;
In vain we seek to make things last
In a world where all becomes the past.
But man still prospers in his time
Though ponders not his hidden crime;
And kills the passions of the day,
Trading life for meager pay.
But a secret something lives within,
That seeks to show the stains of sin,
That seeks to cure the mundane soul,
And give it life lived to the full.
The famine of the human dream
Still carries this subterranean stream
And we must dig deep down below,
Though deeper now we have to go;
For we have covered the ground above
With futile acts and not with love;
And we have seen our ancient fate
Yet lived the lives we all should hate.
The stream shall come though, do not fret,
Shall find you when your eyes are wet;
Shall find you seldom, this is true,
But oh! to see that marvelous view!
Yet we heed not such reckless words,
Since not oft have we seen or heard,
The heights from which the bell once rung,
And the song all know, which none have sung.