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

Another Rainy Day=more poetry

PRACTICING CHI GONG WITH THE FISH

I’m at the dock, practicing the form
Flying Crane, Traveling East Over the Ocean,
when I see that the fish are gathering
below me— turquoise-tailed sunfish,
open-mouthed bass— all turned toward me,
gathering out of the weeds, the ribbons
and thickets of grass. I imagine expectancy
in their dappled finning, fanned scholars
of energy, as I salute the sun, give back
to the green world my fears.
The strike of the northern pike, called up
from the planked shadows, scatters us all;
though we return, minus one, for the still passage
called Observing the Full Moon, and my bow.

Robin Chapman

A Bottle And Friend

There's nane that's blest of human kind,
But the cheerful and the gay, man,
Fal, la, la, &c.

Here's a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o' care, man?

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not aye when sought, man.

Robert Burns

Scrambled eggs and whiskey
Scrambled eggs and whiskey
in the false-dawn light. Chicago,
a sweet town, bleak, God knows,
but sweet. Sometimes. And
weren’t we fine tonight?
When Hank set up that limping
treble roll behind me
my horn just growled and I
thought my heart would burst.
And Brad M. pressing with the
soft stick, and Joe-Anne
singing low. Here we are now
in the White Tower, leaning
on one another, too tired
to go home. But don’t say a word,
don’t tell a soul, they wouldn’t
understand, they couldn’t, never
in a million years, how fine,
how magnificent we were
in that old club tonight.

Hayden Carruth