Happy Valentine's Day - poem by Del “Abe” Jones

Hearts and Flowers

A day for hearts and flowers
The time to say you care
A chance to tell your loved ones
You're glad that they are there.

But!, wonder why we wait
Until, this certain day
To do those "special" things
And, say those things we say?

Why not? Tell mate or lover
Each day, the whole year through
"Valentine, I'm glad you're mine
And, I sure do love you".

Del “Abe” Jones

Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower - Poem by Emily Dickinson

Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower

Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower,
But I could never sell—
If you would like to borrow,
Until the Daffodil

Unties her yellow Bonnet
Beneath the village door,
Until the Bees, from Clover rows
Their Hock, and Sherry, draw,

Why, I will lend until just then,
But not an hour more!

Emily Dickinson

Lost in the Forest - A poem by Pablo Neruda

Lost in the forest...

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

Pablo Neruda

The Faded Flower - A poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Faded Flower

Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk,
Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way;
Inhal'd awhile thy odours on his walk,
Then onward pass'd and left thee to decay.
Ah! melancholy emblem! had I seen
Thy modest beauties dew'd with Evening's gem,
I had not rudely cropp'd thy parent stem,
But left thee, blushing, 'mid the enliven'd green.
And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom,
And drop the tear - as Fancy, at my side,
Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Abra's tomb -
'Like thine, sad Flower, was that poor wanderer's pride!
Oh! lost to Love and Truth, whose selfish joy
Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy!'

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Flower- A poem by Rabindranath Tagore

Flower

Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it
droop and drop into the dust.

I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of
pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am
aware, and the time of offering go by.

Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower
in thy service and pluck it while there is time.

Rabindranath Tagore

Tears Fill the Earth - A poem by Sophia White

Tears Fill the Earth

Too tired. Gazing up. Life gone.
The world is terribly white.
Very scared. Eyes wide. Heart numb.
My dreams are nowhere in sight.

How can I go on?
The road is much too lonely.
The flowers once were lovely
But now they’re gone
And tears fill the earth.

Nerves tingling. Ears ringing. Voice dead.
Tears stream down my face.
Blankly staring. Not even caring. Like death.
Such a very frightening place.

Dare I walk another day?
I hold a pool of tears in my hands
Watching them drain into the sand
Running down on their grieving way
And tears fill the earth.

Sophia White

I Meant To Do My Work Today - A poem by Richard LeGallienne

I Meant To Do My Work Today

I meant to do my work today,
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.
And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand,
So what could I do but laugh and go?

Richard LeGallienne

Abroad Too Long - A poem by Sophia White

Abroad Too Long

Walking down the cobbled street,
Wondering distantly how old those stone were
And looking with disinterest at the cathedrals,
And the columns and arches that rise
Like a great garden of stone flowers
That I cannot pick.

Hearing the muted strains of a violin
From some unseen corner where some unseen
Frustrated musician is playing for forints,
And I feel the sorrow in each strike of the bow
Reverberate against my tired bones
In a sepulchral strain.

Thoughtlessly tossing pebbles into the river,
Then realizing I am tossing coins,
So I pour out my purse with melancholic abandon
And let the river have its fun,
Because I have had my fill of it,
And want only to go home.

Sophia White