Friday, January 30, 2015

Sonnet on the Author's Birthday

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,
See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear,
Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart;
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys—
What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high heav’n bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share.

Robert Burns

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Rock Tree

Walk in the park
By the pond
A sturdy trunk
Branches hacked
By rough pruning

Yellow lichen
Speckle the skin
gnarled and beaten
Knowing sentry
Of countless tales

Close your eyes,
Touch the bark
Flash of granite
Solid and rough
Of the rock tree

Raymond Foss