Category Archives: Poetry

Santa Baby

Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree for me

Been an awful good girl

Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight

Santa baby, a ’54 convertible too, light blue

I’ll wait up for you, dear

Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight

Think of all the fun I’ve missed

Think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed

Next year I could be also good

If you’ll check off my Christmas list

Santa honey, I want a yacht and really that’s not a lot

Been an angel all year

Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight

Santa cutie, there’s one thing I really do need, the deed

To a platinum mine

Santa cutie, and hurry down the chimney tonight

Santa baby, and fill my stocking with a duplex and checks

Sign your ‘x’ on the line

Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight

Come and trim my Christmas tree

With some decorations bought at Tiffany

I really do believe in you

Let’s see if you believe in me

Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing, a ring

I don’t mean on the phone

Santa baby, and hurry down the chimney tonight

Hurry down the chimney tonight

Hurry, tonight

Songwriters: Joan Javits / Philip Springer / Tony Springer


Chicago

Chicago
Carl Sandburg, 1878 – 1967

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation’s
Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
Bareheaded,
Shoveling,
Wrecking,
Planning,
Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people,
Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.


The Word

The Word
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Oh, a word is a gem, or a stone, or a song,
Or a flame, or a two-edged sword;
Or a rose in bloom, or a sweet perfume,
Or a drop of gall is a word.

You may choose your word like a connoisseur,
And polish it up with art,
But the word that sways, and stirs, and stays,
Is the word that comes from the heart.

You may work on your word a thousand weeks,
But it will not glow like one
That all unsought, leaps forth white hot,
When the fountains of feeling run.


Morning Song

Morning Song
by Sara Teasdale

A diamond of a morning
Waked me an hour too soon;
Dawn had taken in the stars
And left the faint white moon.

O white moon, you are lonely,
It is the same with me,
But we have the world to roam over,
Only the lonely are free.


Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea (Sonnet 65)

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea (Sonnet 65)
by William Shakespeare

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.


October-November 

October-November
by Hart Crane

Indian-summer-sun
With crimson feathers whips away the mists,–
Dives through the filter of trellises
And gilds the silver on the blotched arbor-seats.

Now gold and purple scintillate
On trees that seem dancing
In delirium;
Then the moon
In a mad orange flare
Floods the grape-hung night.


The Witches of Macbeth

Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I [Round about the cauldron go]
William Shakespeare, 1564 – 1616

The three witches, casting a spell

Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights hast thirty one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

While I love this passage from Macbeth, it quite possibly may not have been written by Shakespeare but added after the initial performance. In fact, all of the witches scenes may have been added later. However, with that being said, Macbeth was written during the reign of James I, who had an obsession with witches, even writing a book about them. This means that Shakespeare himself may have included the witches to garner the favor of James. In addition, Banquo from Macbeth is also believed to be a true character as well as an ancestor of King James I of England, who was also James IV of Scotland. Macbeth portrays Banquo as a hero, while in actual history, he was an accomplice of Macbeth. Whether the witches were really written by Shakespeare or not, Macbeth is a homage to King James I.

So, if you have read this far, here is some good news. This afternoon I have an interview for the job in Chicago, and tomorrow afternoon, I have an interview for the job in Florida. Both are preliminary telephone interviews, but it’s a start.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!


Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nothing Gold Can Stay
By Robert Frost, 1874 – 1963

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.


The Little Ghost

The Little Ghost
 By Edna St. Vincent Millay

I knew her for a little ghost
     That in my garden walked;
The wall is high—higher than most—
     And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that
     Till after she was gone—
I knew her by the broad white hat,
     All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet,
     By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
     Her gown’s white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay,
     What she would do—and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
     I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favourite mint
     With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled—there was no hint
     Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side
     To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
     The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new
     And is of ivy bare
She paused—then opened and passed through
     A gate that once was there.


Fragment: Questions

Fragment: Questions
 By Percy Bysshe Shelley

Is it that in some brighter sphere
We part from friends we meet with here?
Or do we see the Future pass
Over the Present’s dusky glass?
Or what is that that makes us seem
To patch up fragments of a dream,
Part of which comes true, and part
Beats and trembles in the heart?


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