Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Moments at the Reptile House















All glory to the ever-fleeting now:
    Hibiscus blooming in blood-centered pink,
        Rank ferns and gold acuba in the wake
Of red volcanic rock, geckos on the prow.
    Inside, small children fuss about the stink
        Of lizard piss—all’s ripe for nature’s sake.

In another slice of now, we watch the grand
    Komodo dragon and draw near to link
        Present to future with the pics we take
Of black-eyed, scaly creatures in the sand:
        All now at stake.

Bert Woodall

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

A Purpose for Death

Death causes us to love the world
Desperately, each little thing,
And to regret the times we quarreled

Stupidly, the abuse we hurled
At the beloved, recall the sting.
Death causes us to love the world,

Remember how rainwater swirled,
Flooding gutters in early spring,
And to regret the times we quarreled

About lunch while maple seeds whirled—
Which café, with swallows on the wing.
Death causes us to love the world,

Viewing in May the wreaths unfurled,
Red and white tied with delicate string,
Bringing regret for every time we quarreled.

How hair hung limp or wildly curled
Is precious to the one lingering.
Death causes us to love the world,
And to regret the times we quarreled.

Bert Woodall






Sunday, June 29, 2014

Ah! Sun-Flower




















Ah, Sun-flower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime,
Where the traveller's journey is done;


Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.

William Blake

Thursday, June 26, 2014

The Sick Rose












O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

William Blake

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went downtown,
    We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
    Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
    And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
    "Good morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich--yes, richer than a king,
    And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
    To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
    And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
    Went home and put a bullet through his head.

    --Edwin Arlington Robinson