Sunday Poem ~

Cahoots
by Carl Sandburg

Play it across the table.
What if we steal this city blind?
If they want any thing let ‘em nail it down.

Harness bulls, dicks, front office men,
And the high goats up on the bench,
Ain’t they all in cahoots?
Ain’t it fifty-fifty all down the line,
Petemen, dips, boosters, stick-ups and guns—
what’s to hinder?

Go fifty-fifty.
If they nail you call in a mouthpiece.
Fix it, you gazump, you slant-head, fix it.
Feed ‘em. . . .

Nothin’ ever sticks to my fingers, nah, nah,
nothin’ like that,
But there ain’t no law we got to wear mittens—
huh—is there?
Mittens, that’s a good one—mittens!
There oughta be a law everybody wear mittens.

Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility
‘One can judge a nation by the way it treats its most vulnerable’ ~ Aristotle
Victoria Kaloss

Sunday Poem ~

A SUMMER DAY

by Lucy Maud Montgomery

I

THE dawn laughs out on orient hills
And dances with the diamond rills;
The ambrosial wind but faintly stirs
The silken, beaded gossamers;
In the wide valleys, lone and fair,
Lyrics are piped from limpid air,
And, far above, the pine trees free
Voice ancient lore of sky and sea.
Come, let us fill our hearts straightway
With hope and courage of the day.

II

Noon, hiving sweets of sun and flower,
Has fallen on dreams in wayside bower,
Where bees hold honeyed fellowship
With the ripe blossom of her lip;
All silent are her poppied vales
And all her long Arcadian dales,
Where idleness is gathered up
A magic draught in summer’s cup.
Come, let us give ourselves to dreams
By lisping margins of her streams.

III

Adown the golden sunset way
The evening comes in wimple gray;
By burnished shore and silver lake
Cool winds of ministration wake;
O’er occidental meadows far
There shines the light of moon and star,
And sweet, low-tinkling music rings
About the lips of haunted springs.
In quietude of earth and air
‘Tis meet we yield our souls to prayer.

http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/montgomery/watchman/watchman.html#68

 Summer is here

 

I do believe Summer has finally arrived 🙂

 

Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility

‘One can judge a nation by the way it treats its most vulnerable’ ~ Aristotle

Victoria Kaloss

Sunday Poem ~

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
A Maine Historical Society Website

Decoration Day

Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest
On this Field of the Grounded Arms,
Where foes no more molest,
Nor sentry’s shot alarms!

Ye have slept on the ground before,
And started to your feet
At the cannon’s sudden roar,
Or the drum’s redoubling beat.

But in this camp of Death
No sound your slumber breaks;
Here is no fevered breath,
No wound that bleeds and aches.

All is repose and peace,
Untrampled lies the sod;
The shouts of battle cease,
It is the Truce of God!

Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!
The thoughts of men shall be
As sentinels to keep
Your rest from danger free.

Your silent tents of green
We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
The memory shall be ours.

http://www.hwlongfellow.org/poems_poem.php?pid=260

 

Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility

‘One can judge a nation by the way it treats its most vulnerable’ ~ Aristotle

Victoria Kaloss

Sunday (Post-game) Poem :)

So–the NY Rangers move ahead in the Stanley Cup playoffs

🙂

Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility

‘One can judge a nation by the way it treats its most vulnerable’ ~ Aristotle

Victoria Kaloss

Sunday Poem ~

 

 

Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility

‘One can judge a nation by the way it treats its most vulnerable’

Victoria Kaloss

Sunday Poem ~

The Slave Auction
The sale began—young girls were there,
   Defenseless in their wretchedness,
Whose stifled sobs of deep despair
   Revealed their anguish and distress.
And mothers stood, with streaming eyes,
   And saw their dearest children sold;
Unheeded rose their bitter cries,
   While tyrants bartered them for gold.
And woman, with her love and truth—
   For these in sable forms may dwell—
Gazed on the husband of her youth,
   With anguish none may paint or tell.
And men, whose sole crime was their hue,
   The impress of their Maker’s hand,
And frail and shrinking children too,
   Were gathered in that mournful band.
Ye who have laid your loved to rest,
   And wept above their lifeless clay,
Know not the anguish of that breast,
   Whose loved are rudely torn away.
Ye may not know how desolate
   Are bosoms rudely forced to part,
And how a dull and heavy weight
   Will press the life-drops from the heart.
Source: American Poetry: The Nineteenth Century (The Library of America, 1993)

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/47686

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Poet Details

1825–1911

Born in Baltimore, poet, fiction writer, journalist, and activist Frances Ellen Watkins Harper was the only child of free African American parents. She was raised by her aunt and uncle after her mother died when Frances was three years old. She attended the Academy for Negro Youth, a school run by her uncle, until the age of 13, and then found domestic work in a Quaker household, where she had access to a wide range of literature. After teaching for two years in Ohio and Pennsylvania, she embarked on a career as a traveling speaker on the abolitionist circuit. She helped slaves escape through the Underground Railroad and wrote frequently for anti-slavery newspapers, earning her a reputation as the mother of African American journalism.

A prolific writer, Harper published many collections of poetry, including Autumn Leaves (also published as Forest Leaves) (1845); Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects (1854), which was reprinted 20 times; Sketches of Southern Life (1872), which chronicles Reconstruction; Poems (1857); The Martyr of Alabama and Other Poems (1892); The Sparrow’s Fall and Other Poems (1894); and Atlanta Offering (1895). Harper also published several novels, including Iola Leroy (1892), and essay collections. Her short story “The Two Offers” was the first short story published by an African American. Her poetry has been collected in Complete Poems of Frances E.W. Harper (1988, ed. Maryemma Graham), and her prose in A Brighter Coming Day (1990, ed. Frances Smith Foster).

She married Fenton Harper in 1860. He brought to the marriage three children of his own, and together they had a daughter. When her husband died in 1864, Harper continued to support her family though speaking engagements. During Reconstruction she was an activist for civil rights, women’s rights, and educational opportunities for all. She was superintendent of the Colored Section of the Philadelphia and Pennsylvania Women’s Christian Temperance Union, co-founder and vice president of the National Association of Colored Women, and a member of the American Women’s Suffrage Association. Harper was also the director of the American Association of Colored Youth.

She was active in both African Methodist Episcopalian and Unitarian Universalist churches, and was buried in Philadelphia’s Eden Cemetery, next to her daughter Mary.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/frances-ellen-watkins-harper

Sunday Poem~

Winter

And the robin flew
Into the air, the air,
The white mist through;
And small and rare
The night-frost fell
Into the calm and misty dell.

And the dusk gathered low,
And the silver moon and stars
On the frozen snow
Drew taper bars,
Kindled winking fires
In the hooded briers.

And the sprawling Bear
Growled deep in the sky;
And Orion’s hair
Streamed sparkling by:
But the North sighed low,
“Snow, snow, more snow!”

from Poems (1906) Hazell, Watson and Viney, LD. This poem is in the public domain.

Walter de la Mare

Walter de la Mare was born on April 25, 1873 in London.

(I think I’m falling in love with Walter de la Mare)  😉
Living Life to the Best of Your Possibility
‘One can judge a  nation by the way it treats its most vulnerable’ ~ Aristotle
Victoria Kaloss

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