2 October poems / Annette Wynne

                October

                Black and gold and red and brown,
                    Olive, pink, and blue,    
                What a riot of a gown —
                    What a medley hue!
                What a way to go about —
                    Crimson cloak and vest!
                October is a dancer
                    Dancing down the West.


I Love These Days

Child Playing in Leaves (courtesy

 Missouri State Archive), 1990.

Public domain, Wikimedia Commons.

I love these days when autumn leaves
    Are falling everywhere around,
And I can tread among the sheaves,
    And hear the crispy, crunchy sound.

I leave my dolly safe at home,
    And climb the old gray orchard wall;
The squirrels spy me where I roam,
    And scamper to the treetops tall.

And O, it is a pleasant thing
    To listen for the happy sound,
Each little leaflet tries to sing,
    That rustles softly to the ground.

And so I spend the afternoon,
    And watch the leaves go floating by
Till Mother comes to say that soon
    The dark will come into the sky.

I know when stars are overhead,
    The leaves all gather in a heap,
And while I lie quite warm in bed,
    They snuggle close and go to sleep.

~~
Annette Wynne (1889-1952)

from For Days and Days: A year-round treasury of child verse, 1919

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

[November]

Annette Wynne biography

September / Annette Wynne

September

Golden in the garden,
Golden in the glen,
Golden, golden, golden
September's here again!
Golden in the tree tops,
Golden in the sky —
Golden, golden, golden
September's going by!

~~
Annette Wynne (1889-1952)

from For Days and Days: A year-round treasury of child verse, 1919

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Jonathan Billinger, Golden October, 2016. CC BY-SA 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

[October]

Annette Wynne biography

School / Winifred Welles

School

His seat was by a window. So he dreamed.
How could he study while the sunlight gleamed
In small, sweet shapes, like wild things tame enough
To dart to him and touch his hands for love?
While there were profiles carved in every cloud
To mark as grim or ludicrous or proud,
And agile shadowings to writhe and crawl
Like ghostly spiders up and down the wall,
He could not help but turn their way to look.
His eyes, that would not follow down his book
The muddy trudgings of deliberate words,
Reflected blue and silver flights of birds.
You would not think there was so much to trace
Of wonderment on just a window space.
But once, when a frail scrap of paper moon
Enchanted him from ten o'clock, till noon,
They moved him to the middle of the room.
He learned his lesson then for very gloom,
Until, came glowing to a nearby chair,
A little girl with sunset in her hair.
His soul recolored. The forlorn dreams came
To warm themselves once more at this new flame.
He pushed aside the dusty Greek. He had
A different way to read the Iliad.
While through cold ashes others groped to learn,
He lit the towers of Troy and saw them burn.

~~
Winifred Welles (1893-1939)
from The Hesitant Heart, 1919

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Winifred Welles biography

 "School" read by A stranger to a stranger.

The School Boy / William Blake

The School Boy

I love to rise in a summer morn, 
    When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
    And the skylark sings with me:
    O what sweet company!

But to go to school in a summer morn,-
    O! It drives all joy away!
Under a cruel eye outworn,
    The little ones spend the day
    In sighing and dismay.

Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
    And spend many an anxious hour;
Nor in my book can I take delight,
    Nor sit in learning's bower,
    Worn through with dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy
    Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child, when fears annoy,
    But droop his tender wing,
    And forget his youthful spring!

O father and mother if buds are nipped,
    And blossoms blown away;
And if the tender plants are stripped
    Of their joy in the springing day,
    By sorrow and care's dismay,-

How shall the summer arise in joy,
    Or the summer fruits appear?
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
    Or bless the mellowing year,
    When the blasts of winter appear?

~~
William Blake (1757-1827)
from Songs of Innocence and of Experience, 1794

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Blake biography

"The School Boy" read by Richard Mitchley. Courtesy Richard Mitchley - Topic.

Flying Back in a Dream / JD Shirk

Flying Back In A Dream

We ran free, among the trees
Out to the open fields
Dandelions, fences too
We crossed without a trip
A flying leap, a landing splash
In the stream like wilding fish

The hill was high enough
And we, just fast enough
To dare each other's wish
At first a longer jump or two
But then because of dreams
Of things we couldn't hold,
Things that fade like morning mist;
Hand in hand, away we flew

Above the doubts and thrilled
To fears of what we knew
Could not be real, or ever last
When time would tell, and bring
The past, back to the dreams
Of things we held between
Our tightly, trusting hands
And we would feel the earth
Again, beneath our tiring feet

Where streams run wide and fences
Crossed, are slow climbed back again
When dandelions in the dusk
Fold up their daytime wear
Dark trees begin their silent
Call, to stars somewhere, so near . . .

~~
JD Shirk, 2024

JD Shirk Poetry

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

JD Shirk biography

E.J. Rawleigh, Boys running out of their school, Ontario, ca. 1920. Wikimedia Commons.

July / Annette Wynne

July

July's for Independence Day,
For flags and speeches and for play,
For hiding deep in meadow grass
And watching flying creatures pass,
For sailing boats on little seas,
Where just the smallest summer breeze
Can blow; for picking flowers any day;
July comes for flags and play.

~~
Annette Wynne (1889-1952)

from For Days and Days: A year-round treasury of child verse, 1919

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

MissLunaRose12, Art by an autistic 11-year-old depicting people lighting sparklers. 

CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

[August]

Annette Wynne biography

The Poor Boy's Christmas / Ellis Parker Butler

The Poor Boy's Christmas

Observe, my child, this pretty scene,
And note the air of pleasure keen
With which the widow's orphan boy
Toots his tin horn, his only toy.
What need of costly gifts has he?
The widow has nowhere to flee,
And ample noise his horn emits
To drive the widow into fits.

Moral:

The philosophic mind can see
The uses of adversity.

~~
Ellis Parker Butler (1869-1937)
from Leslie's Monthly, December 1902

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Ellis Parker Butler biography

(Illustration by B. Cory Kilvert, Leslie's Monthly)

The Rich Boy's Christmas / Ellis Parker Butler

The Rich Boy's Christmas

And now behold this sulking boy,
His costly presents bring no joy;
Harsh tears of anger fill his eye
Tho' he has all that wealth can buy.
What profits it that he employs
His many gifts to make a noise?
His playroom is so placed that he
Can cause his folks no agony.

Moral:

Mere worldly wealth does not possess
The power of giving happiness.

~~
Ellis Parker Butler (1869-1937)
from Leslie's Monthly, December 1902

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Ellis Parker Butler biography

Illustration by B. Cory Kilvert, Leslie's Monthly.

My Father / Ann Taylor

Sanket Mehta, Father and Son, 2014. CC BY 3.0, Wikimedia Commons.

My Father

Who took me from my mother's arms,
And, smiling at her soft alarms,
Show'd me the world and nature's charms?
                                        My Father.

Who made me feel and understand
The wonders of the sea and land,
And mark, through all, the Maker's hand?
                                         My Father.

Who climb'd with me, the mountain's height,
And watch'd my look of dread delight,
While rose the glorious orb of light?
                                        My Father

Who, from each flower and verdant stalk,
Gather'd a honey'd store of talk,
To fill the long, delightful walk?
                                        My Father.

Not on an insect would he tread;
Nor strike the stinging nettle dead;
Who taught at once my heart and head?
                                        My Father

Who wrote upon that heart the line
Religion grav'd on Virtue's shrine,
To make the human race divine?
                                        My Father.

Who taught my early mind to know
The God from whom all blessings flow,
Creator of all things below?
                                        My Father.

Who, now, in pale and placid light
Of mem'ry gleams upon my sight,
Bursting the sepulchre of night?
                                        My Father.

Oh! teach me still the Christian plan;
Thy practice with thy precept ran:
Nor yet desert me now a man,
                                        My Father.

Still let thy scholar's heart rejoice,
With charms of thy angelic voice,
Still prompt the motive and the choice,
                                        My Father.

For yet remains a little space,
Till I shall meet thee face to face,
And not, as now, in vain embrace
                                        My Father.

Soon, and before the mercy seat,
Spirits made perfect – we shall meet;
Thee with what transport shall I greet,
                                        My Father!

 

~~

Ann Taylor (1782-1866)
from Original Poems for Infant Minds, 1834

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Ann Taylor biography

"My Father" performed for Dead Poets Revival.

My Mother / Ann Taylor

Illustration by Walter Crane (1845-1915). Public domain.

My Mother

Who fed me from her gentle breast,
And hush’d me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?
                                        My Mother.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet hushaby,
And rock’d me that I should not cry?
                                        My Mother.

Who sat and watched my infant head,
When sleeping in my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
                                        My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
                                        My Mother.

Who dress’d my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play.
And minded all I had to say?
                                        My Mother.

Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
                                        My Mother.
 

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
And love God’s holy book and day,
And walk in Wisdom’s pleasant way?
                                        My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me?
                                        My Mother.

Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear;
And if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,
                                        My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and gray,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
                                        My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head,
‘Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed,
                                        My Mother.

For God who lives above the skies
Would look with vengeance in His eyes,
If I should ever dare despise
                                        My Mother.

~~

Ann Taylor (1782-1866)
from Original Poems for Infant Minds, 1834

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Ann Taylor biography

"My Mother" read by Ghizela Rowe. Courtesy Morphing Reality.

The February Hush / Thomas Wentworth Higginson

The February Hush

Snow o’er the darkening moorlands,
Flakes fill the quiet air;
Drifts in the forest hollows,
And a soft mask everywhere.

The nearest twig on the pine-tree
Looks blue through the whitening sky,
And the clinging beech-leaves rustle
Though never a wind goes by.

But there’s red on the wildrose berries,
And red in the lovely glow
On the cheeks of the child beside me,
That once were pale, like snow.

~~
Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823-1911)
from The Afternoon Landscape, 1889

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Thomas Wentworth Higginson biography

August / Annette Wynne

August

August days are hot and still,
Not a breath on house or hill,
Not a breath on height or plain,
Weary travelers cry for rain;
But the children quickly find
A shady place quite to their mind;
And there all quietly they stay,
Until the sun has gone away,—
August is too hot for play!

~~
Annette Wynne (1889-1952)

from For Days and Days: A year-round treasury of child verse, 1919.

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Photo br Daniela Dimitrova, Pixabay.. Free for use under the Pixabay Content License.

[September] 

Annette Wynne biography

A Father to His Son / Carl Sandburg

A Father to His Son

A father sees a son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?
'Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.'
And this might stand him for the storms
and serve him for humdrum and monotony
and guide him amid sudden betrayals
and tighten him for slack moments.
'Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy.'
And this too might serve him.
Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.
The growth of a frail flower in a path up
has sometimes shattered and split a rock.
A tough will counts. So does desire.
So does a rich soft wanting.
Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
Tell him too much money has killed men
And left them dead years before burial:
The quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs
Has twisted good enough men
Sometimes into dry thwarted worms.
Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.
Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.

Tell him to be alone often and get at himself
and above all tell himself no lies about himself
whatever the white lies and protective fronts
he may use amongst other people.
Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong
and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.
Tell him to be different from other people
if it comes natural and easy being different.
Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.
Let him seek deep for where he is a born natural.
      Then he may understand Shakespeare
      and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,
      Michael Faraday and free imaginations
bringing changes into a world resenting change.
      He will be lonely enough
      to have time for the work
      he knows as his own.

~~
Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
from The People, Yes, 1936

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Carl Sandburg biography

"A Father to His Son" read by Jack Morgan; music by Paul Finley.

Courtesy Sandy Wood & Other Voices.

New Year on Dartmoor / Sylvia Plath

New Year on Dartmoor

This is newness: every little tawdry
Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,
Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you
Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness,
The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.
There's no getting up it by the words you know.
No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.
We have only come to look. You are too new
To want the world in a glass hat.

~~
Sylvia Plath (1932-1963}, 1962
from Collected Poems, 1981

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Sylvia Plath biography

Demons / George J. Dance

Demons

We'd dress as ghosts or devils once a year
to run and yell like vandals home-to-home,
high on the sugar we’d take by threats of harm
we'd chant at every door – but there was no fear,
for we played at roles from long-forgotten darks
when noxious, flesh-bound demons stalked, who'd kill
or maim at whim – those who’d evade their rule
confined like sheep, asleep behind bars and locks.

My children's children dress and do the like,
but chaperoned (kids don't go out alone)
and only in the twilight; when it's night
parent and child are locked within the home
because "It's just not safe these days" – a fact
so calmly noted: Demon-time is back.

~~

George J. Dance, 2009

from Logos, and other logoi, 2021

[All rights reserved - used with permission

George J. Dance biography

Demons and The End of Time in The Horrorzine.

To the October Wind / Ethelwyn Wetherald

To the October Wind

Old playmate, showering the way
   With thick leaf storms in red and gold,
I’m only six years old to-day,
   You’ve made me feel but six years old.
In yellow gown and scarlet hood
   I whirled, a leaf among the rest,
Or lay within the thinning wood,
   And played that you were Red-of-breast.

Old comrade, lift me up again;
   Your arms are strong, your feet are swift,
And bear me lightly down the lane
   Through all the leaves that drift and drift,
And out into the twilight wood,
   And lay me softly down to rest,
And cover me just as you would
   If you were really Red-of-breast.

~~
Ethelwyn Wetherald (1857-1940)
from The House of the Trees, and other poems, 1895

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Ethelwyn Wetherald biography

"To the October Wind" read by Roger Melin for LibriVox. Courtesy LibriVox Audiobooks.

(Poem begins at 20:07)

abandon / david rutkowski

abandon

today my son plays bach
with an abandon that leaves us
orphaned – is it phases
of his mommy's moon
or my gene pool double-parked

today the birds will chant
their calligraphs
to soften our migration
into morning

my son plays prokofieff
picking the cuffs
of dissonance
to save us from oblivion

yes the universe breathes
in spite of the too tight
repertoire
of the human mind

~~
David Rutkowski, 2011

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

A Song for Mother's Day / Marguerite Wilkinson

A Song for Mother's Day

Mother, you gave me sun and stars,
Great hills, and rivers undefiled,
For, when you gave me life, you gave
Love of their beauty to your child.

Without you I could not have known
The Spring that makes the valleys green,
The rustling of the wings of birds,
Or clover fragrance kind and keen.

Your travail gave me all my joys,
Laughter and talk and young delight
And dreams that float like clouds in heaven
High, high above me, shy and white.

For all these proud and lovely things
Thanks are too small a thing to give –
Mother, I thank you with my love,
Who gave me this good life to live.

~~
Marguerite Wilkinson (1883-1928)
from Bluestone: Lyrics, 1920

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Marguerite Wilkinson biography

Welcome to Spring / Ring Lardner

Welcome to Spring

Spring, you are welcome, for you are the friend of
Fathers of all little girlies and chaps.
Spring, you are welcome, for you mean the end of
Bundling them up in their cold-weather wraps.

Breathes there a parent of masculine gender,
One whose young hopeful is seven or less,
Who never has cursed the designer and vender
Of juvenile-out-of-doors-winter-time dress?

Leggings and overcoat, rubbers that squeeze on,
Mittens and sweater a trifle too small;
Not in the lot is one thing you can ease on,
One that's affixed with no trouble at all.

Spring, you are welcome, thrice welcome to father;
Not for your flowers and birds, I'm afraid,
As much as your promised relief from the bother
Of bundling the kid for the daily parade.

~~
Ring Lardner (1885-1933)
from Bib Ballads, 1915

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Ring Lardner biography

"Welcome to Spring" read by Jack Thro for LibriVox. Courtesy LibriVox Audiobooks.

(Poem begins at 14:25)

The Day / Theodore Spencer

The Day

The day was a year at first
When children ran in the garden;
The day shrank down to a month
When the boys played ball.

The day was a week thereafter
When young men walked in the garden;
The day was itself a day
When love grew tall.

The day shrank down to an hour
When old men limped in the garden;
The day will last forever
When it is nothing at all.

~~
Theodore Spencer (1902-1949)
from Poems, 1940-1947, 1948

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the European Union]

Theodore Spencer biography

"The Day" read by Ryan Clawson.