A Thing of Beauty...

William Allingham

2009-11-08T06:05:00.001-06:00

Four Ducks On A Pond

Four ducks on a pond,
A grass-bank beyond,
A blue sky of spring,
White clouds on the wing;
What a little thing
To remember for years
To remember with tears!

(Photo taken by my father, David South.)

James Whitcomb Riley

2009-11-07T06:05:00.000-06:00

Reach Your Hand To Me.

Reach your hand to me, my friend,
With its heartiest caress -
Sometime there will come an end
To its present faithfulness -
Sometime I may ask in vain
For the touch of it again,
When between us land or sea
Holds it ever back from me.

Sometime I may need it so,
Groping somewhere in the night,
It will seem to me as though
Just a touch, however light,
Would make all the darkness day,
And along some sunny way
Lead me through an April-shower
Of my tears to this fair hour.

O the present is too sweet
To go on forever thus!
Round the corner of the street
Who can say what waits for us? -
Meeting - greeting, night and day,
Faring each the self-same way -
Still somewhere the path must end. -
Reach your hand to me, my friend!

(Photo taken by my daughter, Erika, at the Fort Worth Zoo.)

Oliver Herford

2009-11-06T06:05:00.002-06:00

A Seal.

SEE, chil-dren, the Fur-bear-ing Seal;
Ob-serve his mis-di-rect-ed zeal:
He dines with most ab-ste-mi-ous care
On Fish, Ice Water and Fresh Air
A-void-ing cond-i-ments or spice,
For fear his fur should not be nice
And fine and smooth and soft and meet
For Broad-way or for Re-gent Street
And yet some-how I of-ten feel
(Though for the kind Fur-bear-ing Seal
I har-bor a Re-spect Pro-found)

(Photo taken in Monterey, California, by my sister, Melinda South.)

George MacDonald

2009-11-05T06:05:00.001-06:00

Much And More

When thy heart, love-filled, grows graver,
And eternal bliss looks nearer,
Ask thy heart, nor show it favour,
Is the gift or giver dearer?

Love, love on; love higher, deeper;
Let love's ocean close above her;
Only, love thou more love's keeper,
More, the love-creating lover.

(Photo taken in Texas by my brother, Dave South.)

Robert Herrick

2009-11-04T06:05:00.002-06:00

The Primrose

Ask me why I send you here
This sweet Infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
This Primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew?
I will whisper to your ears,
The sweets of love are mixt with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show
So yellow-green, and sickly too?
Ask me why the stalk is weak
And bending, yet it doth not break?
I will answer,these discover
What fainting hopes are in a lover.

(Photo by my sister, Melinda South.)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

2009-11-03T06:05:00.000-06:00

Snow-Flakes

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South.)

Richard Le Gallienne

2009-11-02T06:05:00.001-06:00

To The Golden Wife

With laughter always on the darkest day,
She danced before the very face of dread,
Starry companion of my mortal way,
Pre-destined merrily to be my mate,
With eyes as calm, she met the eyes of Fate:
"For this it was that you and I were wed -
What else?" she smiled and said.

Fair-weather wives are any man's to find,
The pretty sisters of the butterfly,
Gay when the sun is out, and skies are kind;
The daughters of the rainbow all may win -
Pity their lovers when the sun goes in!
Her smiles are brightest 'neath the stormiest sky -
Thrice blest and all unworthy I!

(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell. Check out her photography on flickr and jpgmag.com!)

Sara Teasdale

2009-11-01T18:00:00.001-06:00

Stars

Alone in the night
On a dark hill
With pines around me
Spicy and still,

And a heaven full of stars
Over my head,
White and topaz
And misty red;

Myriads with beating
Hearts of fire
That aeons
Cannot vex or tire;

Up the dome of heaven
Like a great hill,
I watch them marching
Stately and still,
And I know that I
Am honored to be
Witness
Of so much majesty.

(Photo taken by my sister, Jenny, at Topaz Mountain.)

Emily Pauline Johnson

2009-10-31T06:05:00.002-05:00

The Lost Lagoon

It is dusk on the Lost Lagoon,
And we two dreaming the dusk away,
Beneath the drift of a twilight grey,
Beneath the drowse of an ending day,
And the curve of a golden moon.

It is dark in the Lost Lagoon,
And gone are the depths of haunting blue,
The grouping gulls, and the old canoe,
The singing firs, and the dusk and - you,
And gone is the golden moon.

O! lure of the Lost Lagoon, -
I dream to-night that my paddle blurs
The purple shade where the seaweed stirs,
I hear the call of the singing firs
In the hush of the golden moon.

(Photo taken in Alaska by my father, David South, circa 1960.)

A. R. Ammons

2009-10-30T06:05:00.002-05:00

Weathering

A day without rain is like
a day without sunshine

(Photo taken by my sister, Jenny, in Bozeman, Montana.)

Paul Laurence Dunbar

2009-10-29T06:05:00.001-05:00

Morning

The mist has left the greening plain,
The dew-drops shine like fairy rain,
The coquette rose awakes again
Her lovely self adorning.
The Wind is hiding in the trees,
A sighing, soothing, laughing tease,
Until the rose says "Kiss me, please,"
'Tis morning, 'tis morning.

With staff in hand and careless-free,
The wanderer fares right jauntily,
For towns and houses are, thinks he,
For scorning, for scorning.
My soul is swift upon the wing,
And in its deeps a song I bring;
Come, Love, and we together sing,
"'Tis morning, 'tis morning."

(Photo taken by my father, David B. South.)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

2009-10-28T06:05:00.000-05:00

The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls

The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveller hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea in the darkness calls and calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveller to the shore,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.

(Photo taken by my sister, Jenny Semenza, in Washington State.)

Madison Julius Cawein

2009-10-27T06:05:00.003-05:00

Loyalty

To Friendship drink, and then to Love,
And last to Loyalty!
The first of these were not enough
Without the last, through whom we prove
That Love is Love, and right enough
What Friendship's self may be.
So here 's to Loyalty!

A sword he wears, but never a mask,
So all the world may see.
Let Friendship set him any task,
Or Love no question doth he ask,
But draws his sword and does his task,
And never takes a fee.
So here's to loyalty!

(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell. Check out her photography on flickr and jpgmag.com!)

Robert Frost

2009-10-26T06:05:00.004-05:00

Blue-Butterfly Day

It is blue-butterfly day here in spring,
And with these sky-flakes down in flurry on flurry
There is more unmixed color on the wing
Than flowers will show for days unless they hurry.

But these are flowers that fly and all but sing:
And now from having ridden out desire
They lie closed over in the wind and cling
Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Italy, Texas.)

John Wilmot

2009-10-25T06:05:00.000-05:00

Love And Life

All my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams giv'n o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.

The time that is to come is not;
How can it then be mine?
The present moment's all my lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phyllis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts, and broken vows;
If I, by miracle, can be
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that Heav'n allows.
(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell. Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

Emily Dickinson

2009-10-24T06:05:00.000-05:00

In Lands I Never Saw, They Say,

In lands I never saw, they say,
Immortal Alps look down,
Whose bonnets touch the firmament,
Whose sandals touch the town, --

Meek at whose everlasting feet
A myriad daisies play.
Which, sir, are you, and which am I,
Upon an August day?
(Photo taken by my father, David B. South, in Alaska.)

James Whitcomb Riley

2009-10-23T06:05:00.002-05:00

Extremes

I

A little boy once played so loud
That the Thunder, up in a thunder-cloud,
Said, "Since I can't be heard, why, then
I'll never, never thunder again!"

II

And a little girl once kept so still
That she heard a fly on the window-sill
Whisper and say to a lady-bird, -
"She's the stilliest child I ever heard!"
(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell. Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

George MacDonald

2009-10-22T10:25:00.002-05:00

Sun And Moon.

First came the red-eyed sun as I did wake;
He smote me on the temples and I rose,
Casting the night aside and all its woes;
And I would spurn my idleness, and take
My own wild journey even like him, and shake
The pillars of all doubt with lusty blows,
Even like himself when his rich glory goes
Right through the stalwart fogs that part and break.
But ere my soul was ready for the fight,
His solemn setting mocked me in the west;
And as I trembled in the lifting night,
The white moon met me, and my heart confess'd
A mellow wisdom in her silent youth,
Which fed my hope with fear, and made my strength a truth.

(Photo taken by my brother Dave.)

Emily Dickinson

2009-10-21T06:05:00.002-05:00

With Flowers.

South winds jostle them,
Bumblebees come,
Hover, hesitate,
Drink, and are gone.

Butterflies pause
On their passage Cashmere;
I, softly plucking,
Present them here!

(Photo of Coneflowers taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Texas.)

James Whitcomb Riley

2009-10-20T06:05:00.002-05:00

A Water-Color.

Low hidden in among the forest trees
An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep
In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these
A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep
Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat -
A little wicker flask tossed into that.

A sense of utter carelessness and grace
Of pure abandon in the slumb'rous scene, -
As if the June, all hoydenish of face,
Had romped herself to sleep there on the green,
And brink and sagging bridge and sliding stream
Were just romantic parcels of her dream.
(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South.)

Oliver Wendell Holmes

2009-10-19T14:08:00.002-05:00

The Two Streams

Behold the rocky wall
That down its sloping sides
Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall,
In rushing river-tides!

Yon stream, whose sources run
Turned by a pebble's edge,
Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun
Through the cleft mountain-ledge.

The slender rill had strayed,
But for the slanting stone,
To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid
Of foam-flecked Oregon.

So from the heights of Will
Life's parting stream descends,
And, as a moment turns its slender rill,
Each widening torrent bends, -

From the same cradle's side,
From the same mother's knee, -
One to long darkness and the frozen tide,
One to the Peaceful Sea!

(Photo taken by my sister, Jenny Semenza, in Bozeman, Montana.)

Ralph Waldo Emerson

2009-10-18T06:05:00.000-05:00

Love

Love on his errand bound to go
Can swim the flood and wade through snow,
Where way is none, 't will creep and wind
And eat through Alps its home to find.

(Photo taken by my sister, Jenny Semenza, at Resurrection Bay in Alaska.)

Sara Teasdale

2009-10-17T06:05:00.000-05:00

Let It Be Forgotten

Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold.
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.

If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long-forgotten snow.

(Photo taken by my brother, Dave South, in Dallas, Texas.)

Robert Herrick

2009-10-16T06:05:00.000-05:00

On Love

Love's of itself too sweet; the best of all
Is, when love's honey has a dash of gall.
(Photo taken by my brother, Dave South, in Dallas, Texas.)

Elizabeth Jennings

2009-10-15T06:05:00.000-05:00

Answers

I keep my answers small and keep them near;
Big questions bruised my mind but still I let
Small answers be a bulwark to my fear.

The huge abstractions I keep from the light;
Small things I handled and caressed and loved.
I let the stars assume the whole of night.

But the big answers clamoured to be moved
Into my life. Their great audacity
Shouted to be acknowledged and believed.

Even when all small answers build up to
Protection of my spirit, I still hear
Big answers striving for their overthrow

And all the great conclusions coming near.
(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell. Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

Robert Herrick

2009-10-14T06:05:00.003-05:00

In Praise Of Women.

O Jupiter, should I speak ill
Of woman-kind, first die I will;
Since that I know, 'mong all the rest
Of creatures, woman is the best.
(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell. Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

2009-10-13T06:05:00.000-05:00

Night

Into the darkness and the hush of night
Slowly the landscape sinks, and fades away,
And with it fade the phantoms of the day,
The ghosts of men and things, that haunt the light,
The crowd, the clamor, the pursuit, the flight,
The unprofitable splendor and display,
The agitations, and the cares that prey
Upon our hearts, all vanish out of sight.
The better life begins; the world no more
Molests us; all its records we erase
From the dull common-place book of our lives,
That like a palimpsest is written o'er
With trivial incidents of time and place,
And lo! the ideal, hidden beneath, revives.
(Photo of a Bewicks Wren at night in Italy, Texas by my sister, Melinda South.)

Robert Frost

2009-10-12T06:05:00.002-05:00

Dust Of Snow

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
(Photo taken in Italy, Texas by my brother, Dave South.)

Richard Le Gallienne

2009-10-11T06:05:00.003-05:00

Blue Flower

Blue flower waving in the wind,
Say whose blue eyes
Lift up your swaying fragile stem
To the blue skies.

Is she a queen that lies asleep
In a green hill,
With all her silver ornaments
Around her still?

Or is she but a simple girl,
Whose boy was drowned,
In some cold sea, some stormy morn,
On some blue sound?
(Photo taken in Italy, Texas by my brother, Dave South.)

Ernest Christopher Dowson

2009-10-10T06:05:00.002-05:00

Villanelle Of Sunset

Come hither, Child! and rest:
This is the end of day,
Behold the weary West!

Sleep rounds with equal zest
Man's toil and children's play:
Come hither, Child! and rest.

My white bird, seek thy nest,
Thy drooping head down lay:
Behold the weary West!

Now are the flowers confest
Of slumber: sleep, as they!
Come hither, Child! and rest.

Now eve is manifest,
And homeward lies our way:
Behold the weary West!

Tired flower! upon my breast,
I would wear thee alway:
Come hither, Child! and rest;
Behold, the weary West!

(Photo taken by my father, David South, in Alaska.)

Walt Whitman

2009-10-09T06:05:00.001-05:00

Who Is Now Reading This?

May-be one is now reading this who knows some wrong-doing of my past life,
Or may-be a stranger is reading this who has secretly loved me,
Or may-be one who meets all my grand assumptions and egotisms with derision,
Or may-be one who is puzzled at me.

As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Or as if I never deride myself! (O conscience-struck! O self-convicted!)
Or as if I do not secretly love strangers! (O tenderly, a long time, and never avow it;)
Or as if I did not see, perfectly well, interior in myself, the stuff of wrong-doing,
Or as if it could cease transpiring from me until it must cease.

(Self-Portrait by my niece, Hannah Mitchell. Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

John Keats

2009-10-08T06:05:00.001-05:00

Two Or Three

Two or three Posies
With two or three simples,
Two or three Noses
With two or three pimples,
Two or three wise men
And two or three ninny's,
Two or three guineas,
Two or three raps
At two or three doors,
Two or three naps
Of two or three hours,
Two or three Cats
And two or three mice,
Two or three sprats
At a very great price,
Two or three sandies
And two or three tabbies,
Two or three dandies
And two Mrs. ---
Two or three Smiles
And two or three frowns,
Two or three Miles
To two or three towns,
Two or three pegs
For two or three bonnets,
Two or three dove eggs
To hatch into sonnets.

(Photo taken in Italy, Texas by my sister, Melinda South.)

William Allingham

2009-10-07T06:05:00.000-05:00

On A Forenoon Of Spring

I'm glad I am alive, to see and feel
The full deliciousness of this bright day,
That's like a heart with nothing to conceal;
The young leaves scarcely trembling; the blue-grey
Rimming the cloudless ether far away;
Brairds, hedges, shadows; mountains that reveal
Soft sapphire; this great floor of polished steel
Spread out amidst the landmarks of the bay.

I stoop in sunshine to our circling net
From the black gunwale; tend these milky kine
Up their rough path; sit by yon cottage-door
Plying the diligent thread; take wings and soar,
O hark how with the season's laureate
Joy culminates in song! If such a song were mine!

(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell. Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

Madison Julius Cawein

2009-10-06T06:05:00.000-05:00

Pastures By The Sea

Here where the coves indent the shore and fall
And fill with ebb and flowing of the tides;
Whereon some barge rocks or some dory rides,
By which old orchards bloom, or, from the wall,
Pelt every lane with fruit; where gardens, tall
With roses, riot; swift my gladness glides
To that old pasture where the mushroom hides,
The chicory blooms and Peace sits mid them all.
Fenced in with rails and rocks, its emerald slopes.
Ribbed with huge granite, where the placid cows
Tinkle a browsing bell, roll to a height
Wherefrom the sea, bright as adventuring hopes,
Swept of white sails and plowed of foaming prows,
Leaps like a Nereid on the ravished sight.

(Photo taken by my sister, Jenny Semenza, at Gray's Lake.)

William Allingham

2009-10-05T06:05:00.000-05:00

The Winter Pear

Is always Age severe?
Is never Youth austere?
Spring-fruits are sour to eat;
Autumn's the mellow time.
Nay, very late in the year,
Short day and frosty rime,
Thought, like a winter pear,
Stone-cold in summer's prime,
May turn from harsh to sweet.

(Photo taken in Italy, Texas by my brother, Dave South.)

Abram Joseph Ryan

2009-10-04T06:05:00.000-05:00

I Often Wonder Why 'Tis So

Some find work where some find rest,
And so the weary world goes on:
I sometimes wonder which is best;
The answer comes when life is gone.

Some eyes sleep when some eyes wake,
And so the dreary night-hours go;
Some hearts beat where some hearts break;
I often wonder why 'tis so.

Some wills faint where some wills fight,
Some love the tent, and some the field;
I often wonder who are right --
The ones who strive, or those who yield?

Some hands fold where other hands
Are lifted bravely in the strife;
And so thro' ages and thro' lands
Move on the two extremes of life.

Some feet halt where some feet tread,
In tireless march, a thorny way;
Some struggle on where some have fled;
Some seek when others shun the fray.

Some swords rust where others clash,
Some fall back where some move on;
Some flags furl where others flash
Until the battle has been won.

Some sleep on while others keep
The vigils of the true and brave:
They will not rest till roses creep
Around their name above a grave.

(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell. Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

Walter Crane

2009-10-03T06:05:00.000-05:00

The Bear & The Bees

"Their honey I'll have when I please;
Who cares for such small things as Bees?"
Said the Bear; but the stings
Of these very small things
Left him not very much at his ease.

The Weakest United May Be Strong To Avenge

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Italy, Texas.)

Alfred Castner King

2009-10-02T06:05:00.002-05:00

O, a Beautiful Thing Is the Flower That Fadeth!

O, a beautiful thing is the flower that fadeth,
And perishing, smiles on the chill autumn wind;
A sweet desolation its ruin pervadeth,
A fragrant remembrance still lingers behind.

O, a beautiful thing is the glad consummation
Of a life that is upright, untarnished and pure;
That spirit, when freed from this earth's animation,
Shall live, as the heavens eternal endure!

(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell. Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

Thomas Moore

2009-10-01T06:05:00.000-05:00

How Dear To Me The Hour

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays
Along the smooth wave toward the burning west,
I long to tread that golden path of rays,
And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

(Photo taken by my brother, Dave South.)

Archibald Lampman

2009-09-30T12:00:00.000-05:00

The Bird And The Hour

The sun looks over a little hill
And floods the valley with gold -
A torrent of gold;
And the hither field is green and still;
Beyond it a cloud outrolled,
Is glowing molten and bright;
And soon the hill, and the valley and all,
With a quiet fall,
Shall be gathered into the night.
And yet a moment more,
Out of the silent wood,
As if from the closing door
Of another world and another lovelier mood,
Hear'st thou the hermit pour -
So sweet! so magical! -
His golden music, ghostly beautiful.

(Photo taken by my brother Dave South in Italy, Texas.)

Amy Lowell

2009-09-29T06:00:00.002-05:00

An Aquarium

Streaks of green and yellow iridescence,
Silver shiftings,
Rings veering out of rings,
Silver -- gold --
Grey-green opaqueness sliding down,
With sharp white bubbles
Shooting and dancing,
Flinging quickly outward.
Nosing the bubbles,
Swallowing them,
Fish.
Blue shadows against silver-saffron water,
The light rippling over them
In steel-bright tremors.
Outspread translucent fins
Flute, fold, and relapse;
The threaded light prints through them on the pebbles
In scarcely tarnished twinklings.
Curving of spotted spines,
Slow up-shifts,
Lazy convolutions:
Then a sudden swift straightening
And darting below:
Oblique grey shadows
Athwart a pale casement.
Roped and curled,
Green man-eating eels
Slumber in undulate rhythms,
With crests laid horizontal on their backs.
Barred fish,
Striped fish,
Uneven disks of fish,
Slip, slide, whirl, turn,
And never touch.
Metallic blue fish,
With fins wide and yellow and swaying
Like Oriental fans,
Hold the sun in their bellies
And glow with light:
Blue brilliance cut by black bars.
An oblong pane of straw-coloured shimmer,
Across it, in a tangent,
A smear of rose, black, silver.
Short twists and upstartings,
Rose-black, in a setting of bubbles:
Sunshine playing between red and black flowers
On a blue and gold lawn.
Shadows and polished surfaces,
Facets of mauve and purple,
A constant modulation of values.
Shaft-shaped,
With green bead eyes;
Thick-nosed,
Heliotrope-coloured;
Swift spots of chrysolite and coral;
In the midst of green, pearl, amethyst irradiations.
Outside,
A willow-tree flickers
With little white jerks,
And long blue waves
Rise steadily beyond the outer islands.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, at the Monterey Aquarium.)

Henry Lawson

2009-09-28T06:05:00.000-05:00

The Water

Let others make the songs of love
For our young struggling nation;
But I will sing while e’er I live
The Songs of Irrigation;
For while the white man shall beget
The white man’s son and daughter,
The two most precious things for us
Shall still be wheat and water.

We’ve been drought-ruined in the West,
And ever in my dreaming
I see wide miles of waving crops
And sheets of water gleaming,
On plains where fortune died of thirst
When my brave father sought her,
I see the painted barges pass
Along the winding water.

And now the glorious scheme’s afoot,
Our country to deliver
From drought and death on blazing waste,
By long neglected river.
You’ll see the boodlers of the world
Rush in from every quarter:
They want the land,, the gold-reefed sand,
And now they’ll want the water.

Bright intellects will plan the dykes,
With little gold to gild them,
Bright intellects will plan the dykes,
The people pay to build them;
And when we’ve made our long canals,
And lakes in every quarter,
Then ours would be the “guarantee”,
The Trust would own the water.

They’d hold the bores and aqueducts,
The water-ways and barges,
And we would live, or we would starve
According to their charges;
From all the Edens in the West
They’d bar our sons and daughters,
They’d hold the land, ten leagues or so,
Each side the rippling waters.

But those who fight to hold their own,
The Lord and time delivers;
As we have held our railway lines,
So we shall hold our rivers.
We’ll find the money, as was found
The money spent in slaughter,
To build our dykes and build our dams,
And we shall own the water.

(Photo taken by my father, David South, in Idaho.)

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

2009-09-27T06:00:00.001-05:00

Bird Of Hope

Soar not too high, O bird of Hope!
Because the skies are fair;
The tempest may come on apace
And overcome thee there.

When far above the mountain tops
Thou soarest, over all –
If, then, the storm should press thee back,
How great would be thy fall!

And thou wouldst lie here at my feet,
A poor and lifeless thing, -
A torn and bleeding birdling,
With limp and broken wing.

Sing not too loud, O bird of Hope!
Because the day is bright;
The sunshine cannot always last –
The morn precedes the night.

And if thy song is of the day,
Then when the day grows dim,
Forlorn and voiceless thou wouldst sit
Among the shadows grim.

Oh! I would have thee soar and sing,
But not too high, or loud,
Remembering that day meets night –
The brilliant sun the cloud.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South.)

Adrian Green

2009-09-26T06:00:00.000-05:00

Sailing Barges off Southend

Drifting on a tide from long ago,
They swing at anchor silently
Wreathed in early morning mist,
Like ghosts grown mellow with antiquity.

With names like Gladys, Will and Edith May
Heroic legends motionless on ancient bows,
They are waiting for the breeze, patiently
Submissive to the whims of air and ebb.

Later, with windlass rattling as anchors are weighed,
Sails set at the stirring of wind over tide
They bear away a pageant of remembered trade -
A flock of stately seabirds through the lanes.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Monterey, California.)

James Joyce

2009-09-25T06:00:00.000-05:00

Who Goes Amid the Green Wood

Who goes amid the green wood
With springtide all adorning her?
Who goes amid the merry green wood
To make it merrier?

Who passes in the sunlight
By ways that know the light footfall?
Who passes in the sweet sunlight
With mien so virginal?

The ways of all the woodland
Gleam with a soft and golden fire -- -
For whom does all the sunny woodland
Carry so brave attire?

O, it is for my true love
The woods their rich apparel wear -- -
O, it is for my own true love,
That is so young and fair.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South.)

Sara Teasdale

2009-09-24T06:00:00.001-05:00

Sea Longing

A thousand miles beyond this sun-steeped wall
Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand,
The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land
With the old murmur, long and musical;
The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,
And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow,
Tho' I am inland far, I hear and know,
For I was born the sea's eternal thrall.
I would that I were there and over me
The cold insistence of the tide would roll,
Quenching this burning thing men call the soul,
Then with the ebbing I should drift and be
Less than the smallest shell along the shoal,
Less than the sea-gulls calling to the sea.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Monterey, California.)

Madison Julius Cawein

2009-09-23T06:05:00.001-05:00

Pearls.

Baroque, but beautiful, between the lunes,
The valves of nacre of a mussel-shell,
Behold, a pearl! shaped like the burnished bell
Of some strange blossom that long afternoons
Of summer coax to open: all the moon's
Chaste lustre in it; hues that only dwell
With purity … It takes me, like a spell,
Back to a day when, whistling truant tunes,
A barefoot boy I waded 'mid the rocks,
Searching for shells deep in the creek's slow swirl,
Unconscious of the pearls that 'round me lay:
While, 'mid wild-roses, all her tomboy locks
Blond-blowing, stood, unnoticed then, a girl,
My sweetheart once, the pearl I flung away.

(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell, of my daughter, Erika, entitled "Just Know I'm Gonna Walk Away". Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

Louisa May Alcott

2009-09-22T06:00:00.001-05:00

The Rock and The Bubble

Oh! a bare, brown rock
Stood up in the sea,
The waves at its feet
Dancing merrily.

A little bubble
Once came sailing by,
And thus to the rock
Did it gayly cry,--

"Ho! clumsy brown stone,
Quick, make way for me:
I'm the fairest thing
That floats on the sea.

"See my rainbow-robe,
See my crown of light,
My glittering form,
So airy and bright.

"O'er the waters blue,
I'm floating away,
To dance by the shore
With the foam and spray.

"Now, make way, make way;
For the waves are strong,
And their rippling feet
Bear me fast along."

But the great rock stood
Straight up in the sea:
It looked gravely down,
And said pleasantly--

"Little friend, you must
Go some other way;
For I have not stirred
this many a long day.

"Great billows have dashed,
And angry winds blown;
But my sturdy form
Is not overthrown.

"Nothing can stir me
In the air or sea;
Then, how can I move,
Little friend, for thee?"

Then the waves all laughed
In their voices sweet;
And the sea-birds looked,
From their rocky seat,

At the bubble gay,
Who angrily cried,
While its round cheek glowed
With a foolish pride,--

"You SHALL move for me;
And you shall not mock
At the words I say,
You ugly, rough rock.

"Be silent, wild birds!
While stare you so?
Stop laughing, rude waves,
And help me to go!

"For I am the queen
Of the ocean here,
And this cruel stone
Cannot make me fear."

Dashing fiercely up,
With a scornful word,
Foolish Bubble broke;
But Rock never stirred.

Then said the sea-birds,
Sitting in their nests
To the little ones
Leaning on their breasts,--

"Be not like Bubble,
Headstrong, rude, and vain,
Seeking by violence
Your object to gain;

"But be like the rock,
Steadfast, true, and strong,
Yet cheerful and kind,
And firm against wrong.

"Heed, little birdlings,
And wiser you'll be
For the lesson learned
To-day by the sea."

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, at the Monterey Aquarium.)

Walt Whitman

2009-09-21T06:00:00.002-05:00

Out of the Rolling Ocean, the Crowd.

1
OUT of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you, before long I die,
I have travel’d a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you,
For I could not die till I once look’d on you,
For I fear’d I might afterward lose you.

2
(Now we have met, we have look’d, we are safe;
Return in peace to the ocean, my love;
I too am part of that ocean, my love—we are not so much separated;
Behold the great rondure—the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour, carrying us diverse—yet cannot carry us diverse for ever;
Be not impatient—a little space—Know you, I salute the air, the ocean and the
land,
Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.)

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Monterey, California.)

Yosa Buson

2009-09-20T06:00:00.002-05:00

Calligraphy of geese

Calligraphy of geese
against the sky--
the moon seals it.

(Photo taken in Monterey, California, by my sister, Melinda South.)

Ralph Waldo Emerson

2009-09-19T06:05:00.000-05:00

Thought

I am not poor, but I am proud,
Of one inalienable right,
Above the envy of the crowd,--
Thought's holy light.

Better it is than gems or gold,
And oh! it cannot die,
But thought will glow when the sun grows cold,
And mix with Deity.

BOSTON, 1823.

(Photo taken near Soda Springs, Idaho, by my sister, Melinda.)

Ralph Waldo Emerson

2009-09-18T06:00:00.002-05:00

Water

The water understands
Civilization well;
It wets my foot, but prettily
It chills my life, but wittily,
It is not disconcerted,
It is not broken-hearted:
Well used, it decketh joy,
Adorneth, doubleth joy:
Ill used, it will destroy,
In perfect time and measure
With a face of golden pleasure
Elegantly destroy.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Monterey, California.)

Walter de la Mare

2009-09-17T06:00:00.000-05:00

Winter

Clouded with snow
The cold winds blow,
And shrill on leafless bough
The robin with its burning breast
Alone sings now.

The rayless sun,
Day's journey done,
Sheds its last ebbing light
On fields in leagues of beauty spread
Unearthly white.

Thick draws the dark,
And spark by spark,
The frost-fires kindle, and soon
Over that sea of frozen foam
Floats the white moon.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South.)

Robert Louis Stevenson

2009-09-16T06:00:00.002-05:00

Where Go the Boats?

Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating -
Where will all come home?

On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.

Away down the river,
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Monterey, California.)

Carl Sandburg

2009-09-15T06:00:00.002-05:00

Dusty Doors

Child of the Aztec gods,
how long must we listen here,
how long before we go?

The dust is deep on the lintels.
The dust is dark on the doors.
If the dreams shake our bones,
what can we say or do?

Since early morning we waited.
Since early, early morning, child.
There must be dreams on the way now.
There must be a song for our bones.

The dust gets deeper and darker.
Do the doors and lintels shudder?
How long must we listen here?
How long before we go?

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in West Texas.)

Lord Alfred Tennyson

2009-09-14T06:00:00.002-05:00

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South.)

Lucy Maud Montgomery

2009-09-13T06:00:00.004-05:00

The Sea to the Shore

Lo, I have loved thee long, long have I yearned and entreated!
Tell me how I may win thee, tell me how I must woo.
Shall I creep to thy white feet, in guise of a humble lover ?
Shall I croon in mild petition, murmuring vows anew ?

Shall I stretch my arms unto thee, biding thy maiden coyness,
Under the silver of morning, under the purple of night ?
Taming my ancient rudeness, checking my heady clamor
Thus, is it thus I must woo thee, oh, my delight?

Nay, 'tis no way of the sea thus to be meekly suitor
I shall storm thee away with laughter wrapped in my beard of snow,
With the wildest of billows for chords I shall harp thee a song for thy bridal,
A mighty lyric of love that feared not nor would forego!

With a red-gold wedding ring, mined from the caves of sunset,
Fast shall I bind thy faith to my faith evermore,
And the stars will wait on our pleasure, the great north wind will trumpet
A thunderous marriage march for the nuptials of sea and shore.

(Photo taken in Monterey, California, by my sister, Melinda South.)

John Clare

2009-09-12T06:00:00.000-05:00

The Fens

Wandering by the river's edge,
I love to rustle through the sedge
And through the woods of reed to tear
Almost as high as bushes are.
Yet, turning quick with shudder chill,
As danger ever does from ill,
Fear's moment ague quakes the blood,
While plop the snake coils in the flood
And, hissing with a forked tongue,
Across the river winds along.
In coat of orange, green, and blue
Now on a willow branch I view,
Grey waving to the sunny gleam,
Kingfishers watch the ripple stream
For little fish that nimble bye
And in the gravel shallows lie.

Eddies run before the boats,
Gurgling where the fisher floats,
Who takes advantage of the gale
And hoists his handkerchief for sail
On osier twigs that form a mast--
While idly lies, nor wanted more,
The spirit that pushed him on before.

There's not a hill in all the view,
Save that a forked cloud or two
Upon the verge of distance lies
And into mountains cheats the eyes.
And as to trees the willows wear
Lopped heads as high as bushes are;
Some taller things the distance shrouds
That may be trees or stacks or clouds
Or may be nothing; still they wear
A semblance where there's nought to spare.

Among the tawny tasselled reed
The ducks and ducklings float and feed.
With head oft dabbing in the flood
They fish all day the weedy mud,
And tumbler-like are bobbing there,
Heels topsy turvy in the air.

The geese in troops come droving up,
Nibble the weeds, and take a sup;
And, closely puzzled to agree,
Chatter like gossips over tea.
The gander with his scarlet nose
When strife's at height will interpose;
And, stretching neck to that and this,
With now a mutter, now a hiss,
A nibble at the feathers too,
A sort of "pray be quiet do,"
And turning as the matter mends,
He stills them into mutual friends;
Then in a sort of triumph sings
And throws the water oer his wings.

Ah, could I see a spinney nigh,
A puddock riding in the sky
Above the oaks with easy sail
On stilly wings and forked tail,
Or meet a heath of furze in flower,
I might enjoy a quiet hour,
Sit down at rest, and walk at ease,
And find a many things to please.
But here my fancy's moods admire
The naked levels till they tire,
Nor een a molehill cushion meet
To rest on when I want a seat.

Here's little save the river scene
And grounds of oats in rustling green
And crowded growth of wheat and beans,
That with the hope of plenty leans
And cheers the farmer's gazing brow,
Who lives and triumphs in the plough--
One sometimes meets a pleasant sward
Of swarthy grass; and quickly marred
The plough soon turns it into brown,
And, when again one rambles down
The path, small hillocks burning lie
And smoke beneath a burning sky.
Green paddocks have but little charms
With gain the merchandise of farms;
And, muse and marvel where we may,
Gain mars the landscape every day--
The meadow grass turned up and copt,
The trees to stumpy dotterels lopt,
The hearth with fuel to supply
For rest to smoke and chatter bye;
Giving the joy of home delights,
The warmest mirth on coldest nights.
And so for gain, that joy's repay,
Change cheats the landscape every day,
Nor trees nor bush about it grows
That from the hatchet can repose,
And the horizon stooping smiles
Oer treeless fens of many miles.
Spring comes and goes and comes again
And all is nakedness and fen.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South.)

Robert Frost

2009-09-11T06:00:00.001-05:00

The Flower Boat

The fisherman's swapping a yarn for a yarn
Under the hand of the village barber,
And her in the angle of house and barn
His deep-sea dory has found a harbor.

At anchor she rides the sunny sod
As full to the gunnel of flowers growing
As ever she turned her home with cod
From George's bank when winds were blowing.

And I judge from that elysian freight
That all they ask is rougher weather,
And dory and master will sail by fate
To seek the Happy Isles together.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Monterey, California.)

Claude McKay

2009-09-10T06:00:00.001-05:00

To Winter

Stay, season of calm love and soulful snows!
There is a subtle sweetness in the sun,
The ripples on the stream's breast gaily run,
The wind more boisterously by me blows,
And each succeeding day now longer grows.
The birds a gladder music have begun,
The squirrel, full of mischief and of fun,
From maples' topmost branch the brown twig throws.
I read these pregnant signs, know what they mean:
I know that thou art making ready to go.
Oh stay! I fled a land where fields are green
Always, and palms wave gently to and fro,
And winds are balmy, blue brooks ever sheen,
To ease my heart of its impassioned woe.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South.)

Kobayashi Issa

2009-09-09T06:00:00.003-05:00

Children Imitating Cormorants

Children imitating cormorants
are even more wonderful
than cormorants.

(Photo taken in Monterey, California, by my sister, Melinda South.)

Chris Waters

2009-09-08T06:00:00.002-05:00

Canada Geese

Numberless, beaks pointed the same way like seagulls
on pilings in the wind, they burst the field's seams
like Easter Christians at St. Peter's. Eastern Birds
says that Canada geese should be in Mexico in January,
with their unsmiling eyes couched in black masks
relieved by white chinstraps. That guide needs rewriting
along with its fellows: The northern limit of olive shells
isn't South Carolina anymore; possums and cardinals
aren't southern beasts. Standing so still in open spaces
almost endlessly, their diet must be herbage.

On occasion, when no-one's looking, they do flap up.
Not like seagulls, shrieking and milling and cursing
the front-end loaders down below, burying the garbage,
phalanxes and stragglers ka-ronk, ka-lunk along,
sometimes settling on unfrozen lakes, or, if frozen,
on the running water they empty into, or, if frozen,
on brackish tidal flows and saltmarshes, or, if frozen,
onto the ocean. True to themselves, they aim posteriors high.
They and mute swans -- whose wingtips sing though -- are of a feather.
Sometimes too, they are just switching greenery,
in quest of a golf course, a park, an industrial lawn where,
gourmand grass-eaters, the blades are longer.

An unthinking glance at these wedges traversing the sky
like vapor trails, even when they are bound north in winter,
brings balminess to mind, daisy chains of butterflies
strung from almost verdant trees and bushes that grow on
cliffs overlooking azure seas where parrotfish
float in warmth, pecking lazily at bedizened coral reefs.

About the author, Chris Waters:
CHRIS WATERS has published two books of poetry, KING PHILIP'S TALKING HEAD and HATTERAS SYMPHONY.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Monterey, California.)

Emily Dickinson

2009-09-07T06:00:00.000-05:00

A stagnant pleasure like a Pool

A stagnant pleasure like a Pool
That lets its Rushes grow
Until they heedless tumble in
And make the Water slow

Impeding navigation bright
Of Shadows going down
Yet even this shall rouse itself
When freshets come along.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South.)

Robert Herrick

2009-09-06T06:00:00.003-05:00

Safety on the Shore

What though the sea be calm? Trust to the shore;
Ships have been drown'd, where late they danced before.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Monterey, California.)

Robert Browning

2009-09-05T06:00:00.000-05:00

Among the Rocks

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth,
This autumn morning! How he sets his bones
To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet
For the ripple to run over in its mirth;
Listening the while, where on the heap of stones
The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.
That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true;
Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows.
If you loved only what were worth your love,
Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you:
Make the low nature better by your throes!
Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, along the Rio Grande.)

Jack Prelutsky

2009-09-04T06:00:00.000-05:00

Please Remove Seal

PLEASE REMOVE SEAL BEFORE USING THIS PRODUCT,
the sign on the box clearly read.
I don't have a seal, but I'm taking no chances—
I'll toss out my walrus instead.

From A Pizza the Size of the Sun

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Monterey, California.)

Emily Dickinson

2009-09-03T06:00:00.002-05:00

The Mountain sat upon the Plain

The Mountain sat upon the Plain
In his tremendous Chair --
His observation omnifold,
His inquest, everywhere --

The Seasons played around his knees
Like Children round a sire --
Grandfather of the Days is He
Of Dawn, the Ancestor --

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, at Bear River.)

Craig Erick Chaffin

2009-09-02T06:00:00.005-05:00

At the Aquarium of the Pacific

I saw a brilliant angelfish whose tail
and fins shimmered yellow until it turned
and silver spread like an undercoat of fur
when stroked against the nap, across its scales.
Black as caviar and rimmed with gold,
its eyes, though flat as dimes, looked deep as wells.
The clownfish cruising by above the shells,
its idiotic smile painted bold,
passed disinterested as if it’d seen
it all before. Maybe. But I've heard
fish see only black-and-white, so why
this purple puffer and iridescent green
parrot fish-- and for whom? It's absurd
to credit chance. Either for us or for the light.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, at the Monterey Aquarium.)

Wallace Stevens

2009-09-01T06:00:00.002-05:00

Thirteen Ways Of Looking At A Blackbird

I

Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the black bird.

II

I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV

A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI

Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII

O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII

I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX

When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X

At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI

He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII

The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII

It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Texas.)

Stanley Kunitz

2009-08-31T06:00:00.001-05:00

An Old Cracked Tune

My name is Solomon Levi,
the desert is my home,
my mother's breast was thorny,
and father I had none.

The sands whispered, Be separate,
the stones taught me, Be hard.
I dance, for the joy of surviving,
on the edge of the road.

(Photo taken in Arizona by my sister, Rebecca South.)

Emily Dickinson

2009-08-30T06:00:00.000-05:00

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

"Hope" is the thing with feathers --
That perches in the soul --
And sings the tune without the words --
And never stops -- at all --

And sweetest -- in the Gale -- is heard --
And sore must be the storm --
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm --

I've heard it in the chillest land --
And on the strangest Sea --
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb -- of Me.

(Photo taken in Monterey, California, by my sister, Melinda South.)

Lucy Maud Montgomery

2009-08-29T06:00:00.001-05:00

Morning along Shore

Hark, oh hark the elfin laughter
All the little waves along,
As if echoes speeding after
Mocked a merry merman's song!

All the gulls are out, delighting
In a wild, uncharted quest
See the first red sunshine smiting
Silver sheen of wing and breast!

Ho, the sunrise rainbow-hearted
Steals athwart the misty brine,
And the sky where clouds have parted
Is a bowl of amber wine!

Sweet, its cradle-lilt partaking,
Dreams that hover o'er the sea,
But the lyric of its waking
Is a sweeter thing to me!

Who would drowze in dull devotion
To his ease when dark is done,
And upon its breast the ocean
Like a jewel wears the sun?

"Up, forsake a lazy pillow!"
Calls the sea from cleft and cave,
Ho, for antic wind and billow
When the morn is on the wave!

(Photo taken by my father, David South, in Hawaii--1977.)

Robert Louis Stevenson

2009-08-28T06:00:00.000-05:00

Winter-Time

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding cake.

(Photo taken by my husband, Gary Clark.)

Mother Goose

2009-08-27T14:36:00.002-05:00

Ladybird

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home!

Your house is on fire, your children all gone,

All but one, and her name is Ann,

And she crept under the pudding pan.

(Photo taken by my daughter, Sydney in 2009.)

Stephen Crane

2009-08-26T07:37:00.001-05:00

Three little birds in a row

Three little birds in a row
Sat musing.
A man passed near that place.
Then did the little birds nudge each other.

They said, "He thinks he can sing."
They threw back their heads to laugh.
With quaint countenances
They regarded him.
They were very curious,
Those three little birds in a row.

(Photo taken by my daughter, Erika, at the Fort Worth Zoo.)

Ogden Nash

2009-08-25T06:05:00.004-05:00

Oh To Be Odd!

Hypochondriacs
Spend the winter at the bottom of Florida and the summer on top of
the Adirondriacs.
You go to Paris and live on champagne wine and cognac
If you're dipsomognac.
If you're a manic-depressive
You don't go anywhere where you won't be cheered up, and people say
"There, there!" if your bills are excessive.
But you stick around and work day and night and night and day with
your nose to the sawmill.
If you're nawmill.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, in Monterey, California.)

Madison Julius Cawein

2009-08-24T06:05:00.000-05:00

Sunset On The River

I.

A Sea of onyx are the skies,
Cloud-islanded with fire;
Such nacre-colored flame as dyes
A sea-shell's rosy spire;
And at its edge one star sinks slow,
Burning, into the overglow.

II.

Save for the cricket in the grass,
Or passing bird that twitters,
The world is hushed. Like liquid glass
The soundless river glitters
Between the hills that hug and hold
Its beauty like a hoop of gold.

III.

The glory deepens; and, meseems,
A vasty canvas, painted
With revelations of God's dreams
And visions symbol-sainted,
The west is, that each night-cowled hill
Kneels down before in worship still.

IV.

There is no thing to wake unrest;
No sight or sound to jangle
The peace that evening in the breast
Brings, smoothing out the tangle
Of gnarls and knots of care and strife
That snarl the colored cord of life.

(Photo taken by my father, David South, in Hawaii in 1977.)

John Frederick Freeman

2009-08-23T06:05:00.001-05:00

The Red House

On the wide fields the water gleams like snow,
And snow like water pale beneath pale sky,
When old and burdened the white clouds are stooped low.
Sudden as thought, or startled near bird's cry,
The whiteness of first light on hills of snow
New dropped from skiey hills of tumbling white
Streams from the ridge to where the long woods lie;
And tall ridge-trees lift their soft crowns of white
Above slim bodies all black or flecked with snow.
By the tossed foam of the not yet frozen brook
Black pigs go straggling over fields of snow;
The air is full of snow, and starling and rook
Are blacker amid the myriad streams of light.
Warm as old fire the Red House burns yet bright
Beneath the unmelting snows of pine and larch,
While February moves as slow, as slow
As Spring might never come, never come March.

Amid such snows, by generations haunted,
By echoes, memories and dreams enchanted,
Firm when dark winds through the night stamp and shout,
Brightest when time silvers the world all about,
That old house called The Heart burns, burns, and still
Outbraves the mortal threat of the hanging hill.

(My sister, Melinda South, photographed the Randolph, Utah jail, designed and built by our great-great grandfather, Charles South.)

Lucy Maud Montgomery

2009-08-22T06:05:00.003-05:00

The Forest Path

Oh, the charm of idle dreaming
Where the dappled shadows dance,
All the leafy aisles are teeming
With the lure of old romance!

Down into the forest dipping,
Deep and deeper as we go,
One might fancy dryads slipping
Where the white-stemmed birches grow.

Lurking gnome and freakish fairy
In the fern may peep and hide . . .
Sure their whispers low and airy
Ring us in on every side!

Saw you where the pines are rocking
Nymph's white shoulder as she ran?
Lo, that music faint and mocking,
Is it not a pipe of Pan?

Hear you that elusive laughter
Of the hidden waterfall?
Nay, a satyr speeding after
Ivy-crowned bacchanal.

Far and farther as we wander
Sweeter shall our roaming be,
Come, for dim and winsome yonder
Lies the path to Arcady!

(Photo taken by my sister, Jenny Semenza, on a huckleberry picking expedition.)

Sara Teasdale

2009-08-21T06:05:00.003-05:00

I Have Loved Hours At Sea

I have loved hours at sea, gray cities,
The fragile secret of a flower,
Music, the making of a poem
That gave me heaven for an hour;

First stars above a snowy hill,
Voices of people kindly and wise,
And the great look of love, long hidden,
Found at last in meeting eyes.

I have loved much and been loved deeply --
Oh when my spirit's fire burns low,
Leave me the darkness and the stillness,
I shall be tired and glad to go.

(Photo taken by my sister, Jenny Semenza.)

Rudyard Kipling

2009-08-20T06:05:00.002-05:00

Butterflies

Eyes aloft, over dangerous places,
The children follow the butterflies,
And, in the sweat of their upturned faces,
Slash with a net at the empty skies.

So it goes they fall amid brambles,
And sting their toes on the nettle-tops,
Till, after a thousand scratches and scrambles,
They wipe their brows and the hunting stops.

Then to quiet them comes their father
And stills the riot of pain and grief,
Saying, "Little ones, go and gather
Out of my garden a cabbage-leaf.

"You will find on it whorls and clots of
Dull grey eggs that, properly fed,
Turn, by way of the worm, to lots of
Glorious butterflies raised from the dead."

"Heaven is beautiful, Earth is ugly,"
The three-dimensioned preacher saith;
So we must not look where the snail and the slug lie
For Psyche's birth.... And that is our death!

(Photograph entitled, "The Butterfly Effect", taken by my niece, Hannah Mitchell. Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

Lola Ridge

2009-08-19T06:05:00.000-05:00

Electricity

Out of fiery contacts...
Rushing auras of steel
Touching and whirled apart...
Out of the charged phallases
Of iron leaping
Female and male,
Complete, indivisible, one,
Fused into light.

(Photo taken in Texas by my daughter, Erika Larsen.)

Robert Creeley

2009-08-18T06:05:00.001-05:00

Water Music

The words are a beautiful music.
The words bounce like in water.

Water music,
loud in the clearing

off the boats,
birds, leaves.

They look for a place
to sit and eat--

no meaning,
no point.

(Photo taken by my daughter, Erika, at the Fort Worth Zoo.)

Emily Dickinson

2009-08-17T06:05:00.000-05:00

Morning -- is the place for Dew

Morning -- is the place for Dew --
Corn -- is made at Noon --
After dinner light -- for flowers --
Dukes -- for Setting Sun!

(Photo taken by my sister, Jenny Semenza.)

Claude McKay

2009-08-16T06:05:00.000-05:00

Dawn in New York

The Dawn! The Dawn! The crimson-tinted, comes
Out of the low still skies, over the hills,
Manhattan's roofs and spires and cheerless domes!
The Dawn! My spirit to its spirit thrills.
Almost the mighty city is asleep,
No pushing crowd, no tramping, tramping feet.
But here and there a few cars groaning creep
Along, above, and underneath the street,
Bearing their strangely-ghostly burdens by,
The women and the men of garish nights,
Their eyes wine-weakened and their clothes awry,
Grotesques beneath the strong electric lights.
The shadows wane. The Dawn comes to New York.
And I go darkly-rebel to my work.

(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell, entitled "Mother Nature at its Best". Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

Robert Frost

2009-08-15T06:05:00.002-05:00

Ghost House

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me--
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South.)

Amy Lowell

2009-08-14T06:05:00.002-05:00

Storm-Racked

How should I sing when buffeting salt waves
And stung with bitter surges, in whose might
I toss, a cockleshell? The dreadful night
Marshals its undefeated dark and raves
In brutal madness, reeling over graves
Of vanquished men, long-sunken out of sight,
Sent wailing down to glut the ghoulish sprite
Who haunts foul seaweed forests and their caves.
No parting cloud reveals a watery star,
My cries are washed away upon the wind,
My cramped and blistering hands can find no spar,
My eyes with hope o'erstrained, are growing blind.
But painted on the sky great visions burn,
My voice, oblation from a shattered urn!

(Photo taken in Hawaii by my father, David South.)

Vachel Lindsay

2009-08-13T06:05:00.003-05:00

On the Garden-wall
(Moon Poems for the Children/Fairy-tales for the Children)

Oh, once I walked a garden
In dreams. 'Twas yellow grass.
And many orange-trees grew there
In sand as white as glass.
The curving, wide wall-border
Was marble, like the snow.
I walked that wall a fairy-prince
And, pacing quaint and slow,
Beside me were my pages,
Two giant, friendly birds.
Half-swan they were, half peacock.
They spake in courtier-words.
Their inner wings a chariot,
Their outer wings for flight,
They lifted me from dreamland.
We bade those trees good-night.
Swiftly above the stars we rode.
I looked below me soon.
The white-walled garden I had ruled
Was one lone flower - the moon.

(Photograph by my niece, Hannah Mitchell, titled "So Skinny and Frail". Check out her photography at jpgmag.com!)

Christina Rossetti

2009-08-12T06:05:00.003-05:00

Who Has Seen the Wind?

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you.
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I.
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

(Photo taken by my sister, Rebecca South, in California.)

John Clare

2009-08-11T06:00:00.002-05:00

Pleasures of Fancy

A path, old tree, goes by thee crooking on,
And through this little gate that claps and bangs
Against thy rifted trunk, what steps hath gone?
Though but a lonely way, yet mystery hangs
Oer crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here.
The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughs
That's slept half an eternity; in fear
The herdsman may have left his startled cows
For shelter when heaven's thunder voice was near;
Here too the woodman on his wallet laid
For pillow may have slept an hour away;
And poet pastoral, lover of the shade,
Here sat and mused half some long summer day
While some old shepherd listened to the lay.

(Picture taken at Bryce Canyon in Utah by my sister, Jenny Semenza.)

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

2009-08-10T06:05:00.003-05:00

To The Rising Full Moon.

Wilt thou suddenly enshroud thee,

Who this moment wert so nigh?
Heavy rising masses cloud thee,

Thou art hidden from mine eye.

Yet my sadness thou well knowest,

Gleaming sweetly as a star!
That I'm loved, 'tis thou that showest,

Though my loved one may be far.

Upward mount then! clearer, milder,

Robed in splendour far more bright!
Though my heart with grief throbs wilder,

Fraught with rapture is the night!

(Photo of the moon over the Snake River in Idaho from the South Family Archives.)

Li Po

2009-08-09T06:05:00.001-05:00

Green Mountain

You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;
I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.
As the peach-blossom flows down stream and is gone into the unknown,
I have a world apart that is not among men.

(Photo taken by my sister, Jenny Semenza, in Anchorage, Alaska.)

Thomas Hardy

2009-08-08T06:05:00.003-05:00

On A Fine Morning

Whence comes Solace? - Not from seeing
What is doing, suffering, being,
Not from noting Life's conditions,
Nor from heeding Time's monitions;
But in cleaving to the Dream,
And in gazing at the gleam
Whereby gray things golden seem.

Thus do I this heyday, holding
Shadows but as lights unfolding,
As no specious show this moment
With its irised embowment;
But as nothing other than
Part of a benignant plan;
Proof that earth was made for man.

February 1899.

(Photograph by my sister, Melinda South.)

Judy Lynne South

2009-08-07T01:14:00.003-05:00

Room For Two

Nowadays, when parents have one child, or two,

some people ask me--oh, I'm Mom of ten--

How can you love them all; what do you do?

I do what Mother did and I tell them:

So long ago I asked my Mother dear,

Do you love me as much as you do Sis?

I worried 'cause I knew a child's fear,

Mom loved my sister...did she love me less?

My dear, she said with loving, smiling face,

I have a place in my heart just for you--

a room no other ever can replace--

and sister, Susan, has a room there too.

Yes, I had many children in my home;

they used to ask me also just the same,

Do you love me as much as you do them?

I drew them gently in and I explained:

I'll tell what Mother said so long ago,

I have a place in my heart, just for you--

a room no other can replace, you know--

My heart has rooms for more than one or two.

One night I knelt and asked in fervent prayer,

Dear Father, do you really love me too?

And then the things I learned from Mother dear,

renewed upon my soul in words of truth,

I have a place in my heart just for you,

a special room no other can replace.

Your home with me has room for more than two,

you're loved and healed by my infinite grace.

My mother taught me this so long ago:

A heart is not a finite rendezvous.

It builds new rooms with birth of each new soul.

When love takes wing, there's always room for two.

NOVEMBER 8, 2001

(Photo of my mother, Judy South, holding her sister, Susan Ames.)

Mary Hannay Foott

2009-08-06T06:05:00.000-05:00

Happy Days

A fringe of rushes, one green line
Upon a faded plain;
A silver streak of water-shine,
Above, tree-watchers twain.
It was our resting-place awhile,
And still, with backward gaze,
We say: “’Tis many a weary mile,
But there were happy days.”

And shall no ripple break the sand
Upon our farther way?
Or reedy ranks all knee-deep stand?
Or leafy tree-tops sway?
The gold of dawn is surely met
In sunset’s lavish blaze;
And, in horizons hidden yet,
There shall be happy days.

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South.)

Raymond A. Foss

2009-08-05T06:05:00.006-05:00

Jellyfish Toss

Please, oh please
catch it (and not wear it)
So were the thoughts
rushing through my mind as I played
jellyfish toss
with the circle
of newfound friends,
at the edge of the sea.
Dripping goo and
stinging cells, who
knew the risks;
but we were definitely
careful, oh so careful.
Toss it gently.

Title 8/9/07, poem August 10, 2007 8:56am
Rogue Bluff Beach on our mission trip,
from Wesley United Methodist Church,
Concord, NH and from First United Methodist Church,
Hudson, MA to Jacksonville and Machias, ME
to the Down East Maine Mission,
Jacksonville United Methodist Campground,
East Machias, ME
Note: Please check out Raymond A. Foss' blog, "Poetry Where You Live." It is rich with wonderful treasures!

(Photo taken by my sister, Melinda South, at the Monterey Aquarium.)

Abram Joseph Ryan

2009-08-04T06:05:00.004-05:00

Singing-Bird

In the valley of my life
Sings a "Singing-Bird",
And its voice thro' calm and strife
Is sweetly heard.

In the day and thro' the night
Sound the notes,
And its song thro' dark and bright
Ever floats.

Other warblers cease to sing,
And their voices rest,
And they fold their weary wing
In their quiet nest.

But my Singing-Bird still sings
Without a cease;
And each song it murmurs brings
My spirit peace.

"Singing-Bird!" O "Singing-Bird!"
No one knows,
When your holy songs are heard,
What repose

Fills my life and soothes my heart;
But I fear
The day -- thy songs, if we must part,
I'll never hear.

But "Singing-Bird!" ah! "Singing-Bird!"
Should this e'er be,
The dreams of all thy songs I heard
Shall sing for me.

(Photo taken by my sister, Jenny Semenza.)

Judy Lynne South

2009-08-03T06:05:00.006-05:00

A Bathtub Full of Toys

Though I'm over sixty one
my bathtub's full of toys.
I sit on little ponies
and rubber duck decoys.

I turn and find a Barbie
stabbing feet into my hip
and leap up grasping hardly
lest I lose my grip and slip.

And then I roll the other way
to try to find a place
not filled with toys in disarray.
I need a little space!

Forgetting pain, I scrub my back
with "dolly on a sponge,"
and plan a clean-up bath attack
until I take a lunge

and fall right down upon my head
amid the toy debris.
I guess I should have stayed in bed
and had a sleeping spree.

Okay, I'll get out, end this pain,
but then I think awhile
about the little elfin child,
and get out with a smile.

DECEMBER 24, 2001
Copyright (c) 2002 by Judy Lynne South

(Image Source: www.picture-book.com)

Alfred Noyes

2009-08-02T06:05:00.000-05:00

Peace

Give me the pulse of the tide again
And the slow lapse of the leaves,
The rustling gold of a field of grain
And a bird in the nested eaves;

And a fishing-smack in the old harbour
Where all was happy and young;
And an echo or two of the songs I knew
When songs could still be sung.

For I would empty my heart of all
This world's implacable roar,
And I would turn to my home, and fall
Asleep in my home once more;

And I would forget what the cities say,
And the folly of all the wise,
And turn to my own true folk this day,
And the love in their constant eyes.

There is peace, peace, where the sea-birds wheel,
And peace in the breaking wave;
And I have a broken heart to heal,
And a broken soul to save.

(Photograph of our old house on the South Menan Butte in Idaho.)

Enid Derham

2009-08-01T06:05:00.000-05:00

The Mountain Road

Coming down the mountain road
Light of heart and all alone,
I caught from every rill that flowed
A rapture of its own.

Heart and mind sang on together,
Rhymes began to meet and run
In the windy mountain weather
And the winter sun.

Clad in freshest light and sweet
Far and far the city lay
With her suburbs at her feet
Round the laughing bay.

Like an eagle lifted high
Half the radiant world I scanned,
Till the deep unclouded sky
Circled sea and land.

No more was thought a weary load,
Older comforts stirred within,
Coming down the mountain road
The earth and I were kin.

(A Pedersen family photo circa 1940.)