DayPoems: A Seven-Century Poetry Slam
93,142 lines of verse * www.daypoems.net
Timothy Bovee, editor


A Boy's Song

James Hogg

1770-1835



WHERE the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That 's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That 's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That 's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That 's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That 's the thing I never could tell.

But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and over the lea,
That 's the way for Billy and me.




Too Many Things to Remember About You

Jay LeBorgne

21st Century



Too Many Things to Remember About You

You never said I was dumb
Always said I was kinda smart
So much to remember, my head feels numb
I'm not really sure where I should start

I remember you differently
Yet, you're really the same
Even keeled, keeping consistency
You the man with Dad as your name

You taught me how to ride a bike
As well as hunt and fish
Sailed in a boat we launched from a dike
I believe you said I could be anything I wish

Too many things to remember, too many things to tell
You kept it all going strong, always on the run
Always the pillar in times of living hell
A wry humor for the lighter side when things were really not much fun

Grinch-like, chasing Santa and his reindeer
In the wee hours of the morn, faster than you can shake a stick
As you put away your 20-gauge, "I'll get you fat man, maybe next year"
"We could use the venison," you'd say with a grin. "Better be careful, Ol'
St Nick."

Too many things to remember, no time to ponder
All the lessons you had for me
At times your lack of knowledge made me wonder
As I got older, you got smarter, that was easy to see

On the phone often we talk
Whenever we can, minutes here and there
When we visit each other we go for walks
Sometimes with few words but know what each other would share

Retired, a word you say with such muse
No fairways, greens or bad lies in the ruff
Taking it easy - hah! that's just a ruse
For you its building a deck, tending the garden and other busy stuff

Getting a little slower as time goes by
"Nearly down to average," you always say
Don't worry, I'll always know how high you can fly
Thanks, Pops. I love you and oh yeah, Happy Father's Day




Men of Harlan

William Aspinwall Bradley

1878-1939



Here in the level country, where the creeks run straight and wide,
Six men upon their pacing nags may travel side by side.
But the mountain men of Harlan, you may tell them all the while,
When they pass through our village, for they ride in single file.
And the children, when they see them, stop their play and stand and cry,
"Here come the men of Harlan, men of Harlan, riding by!"

O the mountain men of Harlan, when they come down to the plain,
With dangling stirrup, jangling spur, and loosely hanging rein,
They do not ride, like our folks here, in twos and threes abreastn of Tui Viti,
Through the mellow dusk thy proas glide,
So soon!
So soon by the rising tide,
The rising tide, my Sina, and the setting moon!

The mooring-poles are left,
The whitening waves are cleft,
By the prows of Tui Viti!
By the sharp keels of Tui Viti!
Broad is the sea, and deep,
The yellow Samoans sleep,
But they will wake and weep --
Weep in their luxurious odorous vales,
While the land breeze swells the sails
Of Tui Viti!
Tui Viti -- far upon the rising tide,
The rising tide --
The rising tide, my Sina, beneath the setting moon!

She leaps to meet him!
Her mouth to greet him
Burns at his own.
Away! To the canoes,
To the yoked war canoes!
The sea in murmurous tone
Whispers the story of their loves,
Re-echoes the story of their loves --
The story of Tui Viti,
Of Sina and Tui Viti,
By the rising tide,
The rising tide, Sina, beneath the setting moon!

She has gone!
She has fled!
Sina!
Sina, for whom the warriors decked their shining hair,
Wreathing with pearls their bosoms brown and bare,
Flinging beneath her dainty feet
Mats crimson with the feathers of the parrakeet.
Ho, Samoans! rouse your warriors full soon,
For Sina is across the rippling wave,
With Tigilau, the bold and brave.
Far, far upon the rising tide!
Far upon the rising tide!
Far upon the rising tide, Sina, beneath the setting moon.




A Saint's Hours

Sarah N. Cleghorn

1876-1959



In the still cold before the sun
(Her Matins) Her brothers and her sisters small
She woke, and washed and dressed each one.

And through the morning hours all
(Prime) Singing above her broom she stood
And swept the house from hall to hall.

Then out she ran with tidings good
(Tierce) Across the field and down the lane,
To share them with the neighborhood.

Four miles she walked, and home again,
(Sexts) To sit through half the afternoon
And hear a feeble crone complain.

But when she saw the frosty moon
(Nones) And lakes of shadow on the hill,
Her maiden dreams grew bright as noon.

She threw her pitying apron frill
(Vespers) Over a little trembling mouse
When the sleek cat yawned on the sill.

In the late hours and drowsy house,
(Evensong) At last, too tired, beside her bed
She fell asleep -- her prayers half said.




May is building her House

Richard Le Gallienne

1866-1947



May is building her house. With apple blooms
She is roofing over the glimmering rooms;
Of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams,
And, spinning all day at her secret looms,
With arras of leaves each wind-swayed wall
She pictureth over, and peopleth it all
With echoes and dreams,
And singing of streams.

May is building her house. Of petal and blade,
Of the roots of the oak, is the flooring made,
With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover,
Each small miracle over and over,
And tender, traveling green things strayed.

Her windows, the morning and evening star,
And her rustling doorways, ever ajar
With the coming and going
Of fair things blowing,
The thresholds of the four winds are.

May is building her house. From the dust of things
She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings;
From October's tossed and trodden gold
She is making the young year out of the old;
Yea: out of winter's flying sleet
She is making all the summer sweet,
And the brown leaves spurned of November's feet
She is changing back again to spring's.




Graffiti

Junior Burchall

21st Century



nobody listens
to
us
so we scrawl
our troubled
souls
on your barren
walls
and hope that

someday

you all will
understand.....