The Guardians

In the glen beyond the hills

The sun shines bright

And dances on the grass where it will

There the birds and does have no cause of fright

The grass grows up soft and sweet

And sings happily in the present

The river flows merrily through, not missing a beat

Singing the future to the golden ears of wheat

The evergreens cast their shadows on the ground

And sing in the wind the ballad of the past

“The grass and flowers can no longer remember when

The river rushes through not stopping to see what has been

The wheat no longer knows who planted it there

The birds do not remember the day there song was broken and no longer care.

But we remember, for we see all that has past

And no memory of them but us still lasts.

They came, rumbling over the hills

With dreams in their hearts, and in their souls the will

They came and gazed across the glen

Caught in its magic alive and free then

We willingly gave of ourselves to warm them at night

And keep them safe from fright

They planted the golden ears dancing by the river bank

Running through the grasses their children grew to be strong, no longer lank

Joining to the birds their song of life

The meadow rang with joy, free of strife.

Ah, such happy times

But as we know, the good times do not always shine

And evil is a swift devour.

They came with fire over the hills

To destroy and plunder was there will

The grass was consumed by the fire

And the stocks were trampled in the mire

The birds and does ran in fear

And the rivers blue was no longer clear

Their screams where lost in the night

And in the morning not a soul remained in sight

The river flowed till it was clear again

And the birds returned to where they had been

The grass grow over what little was left

Hiding it forever from sight of the sky that wept

The wheat grew back

Along the bank

And have forgotten

They all have forgotten

But us the guardians of the past.”

Worth

How much am I worth?

Am I worth the price of someone's life?

Am I even worth the price of love?

Have I earned along the way the comforts of each day?

Am I worth someone else to be near and hold me close and call me dear?

Of what measure is my worth?

Is it for better or for worse?

How much worth do my parents place upon my character?

And of my friends where do I stand on their placement ladder?

Of how much worth to society do I hold?

Is it written in small letters or in bold?

Am I worth the time for someone to know?

Or am I worthless with nothing to show?

 How is worth defined?

Is it all the same or are there different kinds?

Is my worth measured by what the mass's say?

Or am I measured by following the rules of my countries way?

Am I measured by how smart I am?

Or tossed aside as a sham?

Who wrote the rules of worth and named its price?

Has anyone attained it in this life?

Is worth how much money I make?

Or would I be viewed as a fake?

Is it how much land I own?

Or fame that seeps into my skin and bones?

Must I do great things and win great honor?

Or do deeds that no one notices till I am a goner?

Must my name be written in every news?

Must I be a doctor a lawyer or a humbler work can I choose?

 Worth, Worthless

Who judges where we stand?

Or what we can't do or what we can?

Is there no one that can judge me justly?

Can I myself a justly judge be?

Is there no one? 

Who can do it rightly done?

But then I stopped writing and looked at the sky

And I know the answer of how worthy am I

 

 

Rainbow

Rain,
Falling, falling
Running, running
Rain

It pitters on the roof top
It patters on the window
In little rivulets through the grass it flows
Dancing in the puddles, plip, plip, plop

Rain, mist
Hiding the world behind its curtain
Like a mother on her child laying claim
Rain, mist

It swirls outside our walls
Dances in the winds call
From heavens high hall
To earth it fall's

Rain, mist, sunlight
Peeking through the curtain
Spirits flighting to and fro in fun
Rain, mist, sunlight

Slowly the mist clear's
Blown away on the spirits laughter
Until the world is revealed newer and brighter
Glistening and clear

Rain, mist, sunlight, rainbow
Blessed with every colors glow
Made fromm the suns arrows
Rain, mist, sunlight, rainbow

Painted with Gods own hand
A loving promise from our father
Joined together by water
To spread His name across the land

Rain, mist, sunlight, rainbow
Death brought life
 From water came light
Cause at the end God gave us a rainbow

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
 of the things unkown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and fat worms waiting on a down-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But the caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unkown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

By Maya Angelou

Forgotten Language

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly in my bed
Once I heard and answered all the questions of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers...
How did it go?
How did it go?

By Shel Silverstein

Be Near

Though the storms rage
Though I am trapped as if in a cage

I know that you are there
That you love me and that you care

Fear grips my heart
And the clouds burst apart

Still I know that you are there
And apart from you command to touch me nothing dare

Yet still at times the lightning strikes
And the hail punds down from the skies

But even though tears stream down my face
I know that you are in this place

Be not far from me
As I weep

But rather comfort me here
As tears of healing cover my fear

Be near, Father
Hold my hands so I know that I walk not alone






By Kalyn Hassoldt

Lest We Forget

They shall not grow old. As we that are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them, Nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, And in the morning,
We will remember them.

By Unknown

My Prairies

I love my prairies, they are mine
From the zenith to the horizon line,
Clipping a world of sky and sod
Like the bended arm and wrist of God.

I love their grasses. The skies
Are larger, and my restless eyes
Fasten of more of earth and air
Than seashore furnishes anywhere.

I love the hazel thickets;and the breeze,
The never resting prairie winds. The trees
That stand like the spear points high
Against the dark blue sky

Are wonderful to me. I love the gold
Of newly shaven stubble, rolled
A royal carpet toward the sun, fit to be
The pathway of a deity.

I love the life of pasture lands; the songs of birds
Are not more thrilling to me tha the herd's
Mad bellowing or the shadow stride
Of mounted herdsmen at my side.

I love my prairies, they are mine
From high sun to horizon line.
The mountians and the cold gray sea
Are not for me, are not for me.


By Hamlin Garland

The Thawing Wind

Come withe the rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snow-bank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do to-night,
Bathe my window, make if flow,
Malt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out the door.

By Robert Frost

Tiny Feet

A child's tiny feet, 

Blue, blue with the cold, 

How can they see and not protect you?

Oh, my God!

Tiny wounded feet, 

Bruised all over by pebbles,

Abused by snow and soil!

Man, being blind, ignores

That where you step, you leave

A blosson of bright light,

That where you have placed

Your bleeding little soles

A redolent tuberose grows.

Since, however, you walk

Through the streets so straight,

You are courageous, without fault.

Child's tiny feet, 

two suffering little gems,

How can the people pass, unseeing.

A Message to America

You have the grit and the guts, I know;

You are ready to answer blow for blow

You are virile, combative, stubborn, hard

But you honor ends with you own back-yard;

You have no feeling for the whole;

What singly none would tolerate

You let unpunished hit the state,

Unmindful that each man must share

The stain he lets his country wear,

And (what no traveller ignores)

That her good name is often yours.

You are proud in the pride that feels its might;

From you imaginary height

Men of another race or hue

Are men of a lesser breed to you:

The neighbor at your southern gate

You treat with the scorn that has bred his hate.

To lend a spice to your disrespect

You call him the "greaser". But reflect!

The greaser has spat on you more that once;

He has robbed you, banished you, burned and killed;

He has gone untrounced fro the blood he spilled;

He has jeering used for his bootblack's rag

The stars and stripes of the gringo's flag;

And you, in the depths of your easy-chair--

What did you do. what did you care?

Did you find the season to cold and damp

To chance the counter for the camp?

Were you frightened by fevers in Mexico?

I can't imagine, but this I know--

You are impassioned vastly more

By the news of the daily baseball score

Than to hear that a dozen countrymen

Have perished somewhere in Darien,

That greasers have taken their innocent lives

And robbed their holdings and raped their wives.

Not by rough tongues and ready fists

Can you hope to jilt in the modern lists.

The armies of a littler folk

Shall pass you under the victor's yoke,

So be it a nation that trains her sons

To ride their horses and point their guns--

So be it a people that comprehends

the limit where private pleasure ends

And where their public dues begin,

A people made strong by discipline

Who are willing to give--what you've no mine to--

And understand--what you are blind to--

The things that the individual

Must sacrifice for the good of all.

You have a leader who knows-- the man

Most fit the be called American,

A prophet that once in generations

Is given to point at erring nations

Brighter ideals toward which the press

And lead them out of the wilderness.

Will you turn your back on him once again?

Will you give the tiller once more to men

Who have made your country the laughing-stock

For the older peoples to scorn and mock,

Who would make er servile, despised, and weak,

A country that turns the other cheek,

Who care not how bravely your flag may float,

Who answer an insult with a note,

Whose way is the easy way in all,

And, seeing that polished arms appal

Their marrow of milk-fed pacifist,

Would tell you menace does not exist?

Are these, in the world's great parliament,

The men you would choose to represent

Your honor, your manhood, and your pride,

And the virtues your fathers dignified?

Ohm bury them deeper than the sea

In universal obloquy;

forget the ground where they lie, or write

For epitaph: "Too proud to fight."

I have been to long from my country's shores

To reckon what state of mind is yours,

Nut as for myself I know right well

I would go through fire and shot and shell

And face new  perils and make my bed

In new privations, if ROOSEVELT led;

But I have given my heart and hand

To serve, in serving another land,

Ideals kept brights that with you are dim;

Here men can thrill to their country's hymn,

For the passion that wells in the Marseillaise

Is the same that fires the French these days,

And, when the flag that they love goes by,

With swelling bosom and moistened eye

They can look, for they know that it floats there still

By the might of their hands and the strength of their will,

And through perils countless and trials unknown

Its honor each man has made his own.

They wanted the war no more than you,

But they saw how the certain menace grew,

And they gave two years of their youth or three

The more to insure their liberty

When the wrath of rifles and pennoned spears

Should roll like a flood on their wrecked frontiers.

They wanted the war no more than you,

But when the dreadful summons blew

And the time to settle the quarrel came

They sprang to their guns, each man was game;

And mark if they fought not to the last

For their hearts, their altars, and their past:

Yea, fight till their veins have bled dry

For love of the country that WILL not die.

O friends, in your fortunate present ease

(Yet faced by the self-same facts as these),

If you would see how a race can soar

That has no love, but no fear, of war

How each can turn from his private role

That all my act as a perfect whole,

How man can live up to the place they claim

And a nation, jealous of its good name,

Be true to its proud inheritance,

Oh, look over here and learn from France.

By Alan Seeger

"I put this poem up here because I love some of the things that he was talking about. I love this nation and I want it to be the best that it can be. I'm not so sure about the whole France part but I believe that he makes some very good points."

The Living Dead

 

I am surrounded by luxury

I am blessed with family

I have plenty to eat

And more than enough treats

And yet the tears fall.

For no matter where you go

Even if you go high or if you go low

No matter the nation or culture

No matter the riches or wealth galore

Still the tears will fall.

Do you see their faces?

As they stand in the public places

They are the living dead

Do you a tear for them shed?

Or do you walk on in oblivion.

Do you see their eyes?

Do you see them were they lie?

There bones protrude

For the lack of food

And we walk on in oblivion.

They are the stuff of nightmares

They are the ghost that at us from the shadows glare

They are children

Forlorn and abandoned

And still we look away.

They are the outcasts

On the chain of power they are lower than the last

Did they deserve this treatment?

Their skin is withered their backs are bent

And we look away.

Look at what you have

Look at what I have

We live in one of the richest nations

With no fear of starvation

And from their eyes we hide away.

The poorest of the poor here

Is the richest of the rich there

How do we dare

Complain about our fair?

And from their eyes hide away.

Let the angels rejoice

Let them feast

For today

In dust to rise no more another one lays

And they leave this world forever. 

Let not tears from our eyes be shed

Nor let the mourners be led

For the dead do not mourn over a life they never had

Instead now they are glad

For they have left this world forever. 

By Kalyn Hassoldt 

Easter

Rise, heart, thy Lord is risen. Sing his praise
Without delays,
Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
With him may'st rise:
That, as his death calcined thee to dust,
His life may make thee gold, and, much more, just.


Awake, my lute, and struggle for they part
With all thy art,
The cross taught all wood to resound his name
Who bore the same.
His stretched sinews taught all strings what key
Is best to celebrate this most high day.


Consort, both heart and lute, and twist a song
Pleasant and long;
Or, since all music is but three parts vied
And multiplied
Oh let they blessed Spirit bear a part,
And make up our defects with his sweet art. 

By George Herbert

By The Fireside: The Singers

God sent his Singers upon the earth
With songs of sadness and of mirth,
That they might touch the hearts of men,
And bring them back to heaven again.

The first, a youth, with soul of fire,
Held in his hand a golden lyre;
Through groves he wandered, and by streams,
Playing the music of our dreams.

The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,
And stirred with accents deep and loud
The hearts of all the listening crowd.

A gray old man, the third and last,

Stands in cathedrals dim and vast,
While the majestic organ rolled
Contrition from its mouths of gold.

And those who heard the Singers three
Disputed which the best might be;
For still their music seemed to start
Discordant echoes in each heart,

But the Master said, 'I see
No best in kind, but in degree;
I gave various gifts to each,
To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.

'These are the three great chords of might,
And he whose ear is tuned aright
Will hear no discord in the three,
 But the most perfect harmony.'

 

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

An April Day

When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,
When forst glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-on of storms.

Form the earth's loosened could
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrive;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song

Comes from the pleasen woods, and colored wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fulls
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.

And when the eve is born,
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,
Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,
And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,
And the fair trees look over, side by side
And see themselves below.

Sweet April! many a though
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
Life's golden fruit is shed.


By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Miss Bootsy

Miss Bootsy likes to wear dresses that flow
And skirts that dance in the winds blow

Miss Bootsy always has a ready smile
And a kind disposition for a child

Mischief loves to hide behind Miss Bootsy's eyes
And a pixy whispers in her ears as she schemingly smiles

Miss Bootsy loves to dance
As she hopes and she leaps and she prance's

Miss Bootsy is so named
For her shoe wear which has won her great fame

For no matter the outfit no matter the style
Her boots will peek out at you and smile


Yes winter, summer, spring or fall
Miss Bootsy love's them all

But whether the sun is shining or hiding away
She will be wearing her boots and dancing so gay

Yes Miss Bootsy love's her boots
They fit right perfectly on her foot

And no matter where she goes in jeans or dresses that flow
Her boots are sure to go

Playing in puddles or riding bikes
She will wear her boots which she so likes

Running, chasing the daylight till night
Her boots will be on while there is still light

Yes Miss Bootsy loves her boots
That fit quit perfectly on her foot

And no matter the places she is sure to go
Her boots will always come along for the show.

By Kalyn Hassoldt

A Baby In The House

I knew that a baby was hid in that house,
Though I saw no cradle and heard no cry;
But the husband was tip-toeing 'round like a mouse,
And the good wife was humming a soft lullaby;
And tehre was a look on the face of the mother,
That I knew could mean only one thing, and no other.

The mohter, I said to myself, for I knew
That the woman before me was certainly that;
And there lay in a corner a tiny cloth shoe,
And I saw on a stand such a wee little hat;
And the beard of the husband said, plain as could be,
'Two fat chubby hands have been tugging at me.'

And he took form his pocket a gay picture-book,
And a dog that could bark, if you pulled on a string;
And the wife laid them up with such a pleased look;
And I said to myself, 'There is no other thin
But a bebe that could bring about all this, and so
That one this is in hiding somewhere, I know.'

I stayed but a moment, and saw nothing more,
And heard not a sound, yet I know I was right;
What else could the show mean that lay on the floor,
The book and the toy, and the faces so bright;
And what make the husband as still as a mouse?
I am sure, very sure, there's a babe in that house.

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And havving perhaps the better claim
Because it was gassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning eqaully lay
In leaves no step had trodden black,
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

By Robert Frost

A Misty Morning

Silence reigns outside my window

The sun beams are dimmed to a dull glow

I open my widow and look out

Mist lay all about

Hiding the neighborhood as if it had never been

Alone on another world except for the soft whisper of the wind

Light rain drops sprinkle on my face

And my mind takes wing in this mystic place

At first rolling waves crest and slowly fall

As the misty sea, my soul enthralls

Forming a moat around my island home

My castle walls are soaked my the waves gentle foam

The fog rises and falls, constantly changing

Growing thicker then think as if it were a live being

This is my kingdom, I am the Arkos

This is my paradise

My home becomes a strong castle made of lithos

Fit for any Arkos

Here my animus finds peace

While the fog wraps around me like a soft fleece

I hear horse's hooves in the distance

Silhouette horsemen come filled with menace

They want to sweep me away forever

But they shall not take me as long as I endure

Their battle horns ring and their shadowy mounts charge

They leap across my moat and my castle walls they engage

Yet as many that come forward twice as many fall

Yet still they come a determined force climbing up my wall 

They clash like a terrifying wave

Bursting against my home until they have taken me away

Gradually the mist grows lighter

And the sun's rays shine brighter

The army of misty warriors vanishes 

And my castle walls diminish

And once again I am in my neighborhood 

As the morning mist pass beyond my wood

I am saddened by its loss

But look forward to the morning when I shall once more be Arkos 

The Shadow of the Cross

At the drowsy dusk when the shadows creep
From the golden west, where the sunbeams sleep,

An angel mused: "Is there good or ill
In the mad world's heart, since on Calvary's hill

'Round the cross a mid-day twilight fell
That darkened earth and o'ershadowed hell?"

Through the streets of a city the angel sped;
Like an open scroll men's hearts he read.

In a monarch's ear his courtiers lied
And humble faces hid hearts of pride.

Men's hate waxed hot, and their hearts grew cold,
As they haggled and fought for the lust of gold.

Despairing, he cried, "After all these years
Is there naught but hatred and strife and tears?"

He found to waifs in an attic bare;
-A single crust was their meager far--

One strove to quiet the others cries,
And the love-light dawned in her famished eyes

As she kissed the child with a motherly air:
"I don't need mine, you can have my share."

Then the angel knew that the earthly cross
And the sorrow and shame were not wholly loss.

At dawn, when hushed was earth's busy hum
And men looked not for their Christ to come,

From the attic poor to the palace grand,
The King and beggar went hand in hand.

By John McCrae who was a Lieutenant Colonel in World War I