Poem #20: Invitation

If you are a dreamer, come in
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buy-er,
If you're a pretender, come sit by the fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come itn!
Come in!

-Shel Silverstein

Poem #19: Fields of Gold

You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold

So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold

Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in the fields of gold

See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I've broken
But I swear in the days still left
We'll walk in the fields of gold
We'll walk in the fields of gold

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold

-Sting

Poem #18: Auld Lang Syne

Should old acquaintances be forgotten
And never be remembered?
Should old acquaintances be forgotten
and auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne
We'll drink a cup of kindness yet
For auld lang syne!

And surely you'll have your pint cup,
And surely I'll have mine.
And we'll drink a cup of kindness yet
For auld lang syne.


We two have run about the hills
And pulled the daisies fine
But we've wandered many a weary mile
Since auld lang syne.


We two have paddled in the stream
From morning sun till dinner-time
But the broad seas have roared between us
Since auld lang syne.


And here's my hand, my trusty friend,
And give me your hand too,
And we will take an excellent good-will drink
For auld lang syne.

-Robert Burns

Poem #17: The Lion's Mane

Well I woke up in the Lion's Mane
Kissing silhouettes of mountains dancing in the moonlight
Am I awake or is this a dream?
Or am I awaking into a state of wakefulness
Buried deep in my deepest dreaming sleep?

You can only guess what happened next

I swallowed an apple seed and gave birth to angel's wings
Which lifted me to the top of this orange grove
Where I saw a man trying to count
All the oranges
All the trees
And all the leaves

Turns out this man was me
Losing count and starting over
Losing count and starting over
Chasing my own tale until I got dizzy
And fell asleep in the clouds

Well I woke up in the Lion's Mane
On a single lane road deep within God's Dreadlocks
When I gave my banana to the blind man
Only to realize who was really blind
My eyes couldn't decide
My eyes couldn't define

My eyes couldn't see that this blind man was me

We then continued to a village of meeting rivers
Where Mother Earth washed me down and gave me a new birth
Where my sight was restored
And I could see all the gems hiding on the ocean's floor
Well I dove in
Actually did a canon ball
And swam deeper and deeper
As things got clearer and clearer

And when I saw all of the sharks
I wasn't afraid
For this time enshrined in my heart was the Almighty's Name
I think my sanity has gone insane
I woke up in the Lion's Mane

-Trevor Hall

Poem #16: Sangatsu Kokonoka (March 9th)

In the middle of this drifting season
I suddenly feel the length of the days
In the midst of these quickly-passing days
You and I dream away


With my feelings on the March wind
The cherry blossom buds continue on into spring

The overflowing drops of light
One by one warm the morning
Beside you, I'm a little embarrassed
After a huge yawn

I'm standing at the door to a new world
What I've realized is that I'm not alone

If I close my eyes
You're behind my eyelids
How strong has that made me?
I hope I'm the same for you

The dusty whirlwind
Tangled up the laundry, but
The white moon in the morning sky
Was so beautiful, I couldn't look away

There are things that don't go the way I planned
But if I look up to the sky, even they seem small

The blue sky is cold and clear
The fluffy clouds float by quietly
If I can share with you the joy
Of waiting for the flowers to bloom, I'll be happy

From now on, I want you to be quietly smiling beside me

If I close my eyes
You're behind my eyelids
How strong has that made me?
I hope I'm the same for you

-Remioromen

Poem #15:Ao No Sekai (Blue World)

A blue shadow is dimly visible through the misty rain
Mud splattered on the seat of my pants
The smell of fall
Like when we met by chance, we can't laugh

Gazing up at the high sky, there is only one person
Scoop up the kindness from the crisp, clear loneliness
And from inside the small warmth, tears overflow

The future we looked up at on high tiptoes is fragile,
but time goes on in the fall sky,
winding swirls of smoke

As it is, let's try to find a world we don't know, somewhere, together
Like the rainbow in the sky just after the rain
In this season where the cold rain only deepens,
you and I will at least hold an umbrella
and pass under the soaked, bare trees

The wave of the sky turns to wind and rustles my hair
A decayed old metal roof patters and creaks
As we all decay as well, we are reborn

The future that we so carefully planned out is still far off
But our journey will continue on
As the seasons loop continuously

In this saturated time we cannot fulfill our thoughts
Rain falls in the forest of inconsistency
In our heart's fallen leaves I will return to the soil
Covered in mud, let's make a fresh start
As I listen to your breathing
The leaves fall, and the deciduous trees take root in the future

Birds sway underneath the sun
The shadow of the rotation creeps along the ground
The center of fall
The days' circumference
We dream of falling leaves changing color in a world we whittled with the compass needle

Once more let's try to find an unknown world, somewhere, together
We will steadfastly wait for the unending rain, and quiet our breathing
The endless future, our meeting once more
All melts within the air
We will happily, gently mingle inside the fallen leaves

When the rain stops, there we will see the hint of a rainbow

-Remioromen

Poem #14: O Holy Night

O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,

It is the night of our dear Saviour's birth.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

'Til He appear'd and the soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Fall on your knees! O hear the angels' voices!

O night divine, O night when Christ was born;

O night divine, O night, O night Divine.

Led by the light of Faith serenely beaming,

With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.

So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming,

Here come the wise men from Orient land.

The King of Kings lay thus in lowly manger;

In all our trials born to be our friend.

He knows our need, to our weakness is no stranger,

Behold your King! Before Him lowly bend!

Behold your King, Before Him lowly bend!

Truly He taught us to love one another;

His law is love and His gospel is peace.

Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother;

And in His name all oppression shall cease.

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,

Let all within us praise His holy name.

Christ is the Lord! O praise His Name forever,

His power and glory evermore proclaim.

His power and glory evermore proclaim.

-John Sullivan Dwight

Poem #13: Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Sorrowing I shall be in spirit,
Till released from flesh and sin,
Yet from what I do inherit,
Here Thy praises I’ll begin;
Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.

Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood;
How His kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell,
Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me
I cannot proclaim it well.

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless day.

-Robert Robinson

Poem #12: The Love of God

The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.

O love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints’ and angels’ song.

When years of time shall pass away,
And earthly thrones and kingdoms fall,
When men, who here refuse to pray,
On rocks and hills and mountains call,
God’s love so sure, shall still endure,
All measureless and strong;
Redeeming grace to Adam’s race—
The saints’ and angels’ song.

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.

-Frederick M. Lehman

Poem #11: Anyway

People are often unreasonable and self-centered.
Forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of ulterior motives.
Be kind anyway.
If you are honest, people may cheat you.
Be honest anyway.
If you find happiness, people may be jealous.
Be happy anyway.
The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have and it may never be enough.
Give your best anyway.
For you see, in the end, it is between you and God.
It was never between you and them anyway.

-Mother Teresa

Poem #10: Prayer of St. Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved as to love;

For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
It is in dying that we are born to eternal life. 

-St. Francis of Assisi

Poem #9: Eve

When we left the garden we knew that it would be
forever.
The new world we entered was dark and strange.
Nights were cold.
We lay together for warmth, and because we were
afraid
of the unnamed animals, and of the others;
we had never
known about the giants, and angels gone wild.
We had not been told
of dwarves and elves; they teased us; we hid
whenever they played.
Adam held me. When my belly grew taut and
began to swell
I didn’t know what was happening. I thought it was
the beginning
of death, the very first death. I clung to Adam and
cried.
As I grew bigger something within me moved.
One day I fell
and the pains started. A true angel came and
pushed the grinning
creatures back. Adam helped. There was a tearing.
I thought I’d died.
Instead, from within me came a tiny thing, a new
creature,
red-faced, bellowing, mouth groping for my breast.
This was not death, but birth, and joy came to my
heart again.
This was the first-born child. How I did laugh and
sing!
But from this birth came death. He never gave me
any rest.
And then he killed his brother. Oh, my child. Oh,
my son Cain.
I watched from then on over every birth,
seeing in each babe cruelty ready to kill
compassion.
For centuries the pattern did not change. Birth
always meant death.
Each manchild who was born upon the longing
earth
in gratefulness and joy brought me only a fresh
ration
of tears. I had let hate into the world with that first
breath.
Yet something made me hope. Each baby born
brought me hurrying, bringing, as in the old tales,
a gift
looking – for what? I went to every slum and cave
and palace
seeking the mothers, thinking that at least I could
warn
their hearts. Thus perhaps the balance might shift
and kindness and concern replace self-will and
malice.
So I was waiting at that extraordinary intersection
of Eternity and Time when David’s son (Adam’s,
too)
was born. I watched the Incarnate at his mother’s
breast
making, by his humble, holy birth the one possible
correction
of all that I by disobedience had done. I knelt and
saw new
Adam, and I cried, “My son!” and came at last to
rest.

-Madeleine L'Engle

Poem #8: Instruments

The sky is strung with glory.
Light threads from star to star
from sun to sun
a living harp.
I rejoice, I sing, I leap upwards to play.
The music is in light.
My fingers pluck the vibrant strings;
the notes pulse, throb, in exultant harmony;
I beat my wings against the strands
that reach across the galaxies
I play

NO

It is not I who play
it is the music
the music plays itself
is played
plays me
small part of an innumerable
unnumberable
orchestra.
I am flung from note to note
impaled on melody
my wings are caught on throbbing filaments of light
the wild cords cut my pinions
my arms are outstretched
are bound by ropes of counterpoint
I am cross-eagled on the singing that is strung
from pulsing star
to flaming sun
to

I burn in a blaze of song.

-Madeleine L'Engle

Poem #7: The Monkey

Silence is dangerous
We never permit it.
Our vocabulary may not be large
But there is no question that we put it
to constant use.
That's what things are for:
to be used. And used.
And used.
Who knows?
If we didn't talk and chatter from morning
till night (it doesn't matter
whether or not anybody listens; that's
not the point),
Words might start using us.
We never allow silence.
If sometimes it catches us unaware,
I am the first to screech across it
And shatter it to echoing fragments.
You never can tell:
if I listened to the silence
I might discover
that I am real.

-Madeleine L'Engle

Poem #6: The Night

THROUGH that pure virgin shrine,
    That sacred veil drawn o'er Thy glorious noon,
That men might look and live, as glow-worms shine,
                    And face the moon :
             Wise Nicodemus saw such light
             As made him know his God by night.
                    Most blest believer he !
Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes
Thy long-expected healing wings could see
                    When Thou didst rise !
             And, what can never more be done,
             Did at midnight speak with the Sun !
                O who will tell me, where
He found Thee at that dead and silent hour ?
What hallow'd solitary ground did bear
                    So rare a flower ;
             Within whose sacred leaves did lie
             The fulness of the Deity ?
                    No mercy-seat of gold,
No dead and dusty cherub, nor carv'd stone,
But His own living works did my Lord hold
                    And lodge alone ;
             Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
             And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.
             Dear Night ! this world's defeat ;
The stop to busy fools ; cares check and curb ;
The day of spirits ; my soul's calm retreat
                    Which none disturb !
             Christ's* progress, and His prayer-time ;
             The hours to which high Heaven doth chime.
             God's silent, searching flight ;
When my Lord's head is fill'd with dew, and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night ;
                    His still, soft call ;
             His knocking-time ; the soul's dumb watch,
             When spirits their fair kindred catch.
                Were all my loud, evil days
Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,
Whose peace but by some angel's wing or voice
                    Is seldom rent ;
             Then I in Heaven all the long year
             Would keep, and never wander here.
                But living where the sun
Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire
    Themselves and others, I consent and run
                    To ev'ry mire ;
             And by this world's ill-guiding light,
             Err more than I can do by night.
                 There is in God—some say—
A deep, but dazzling darkness ; as men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
                    See not all clear.
             O for that Night !  where I in Him
             Might live invisible and dim !

-Henry Vaughan

Poem #5: The World

I SAW Eternity the other night, 
Like a great ring of pure and endless light, 
              All calm, as it was bright ; 
And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years 
                      Driv'n by the spheres                                   
Like a vast shadow mov'd ; in which the world 
                      And all her train were hurl'd. 
The doting lover in his quaintest strain 
                      Did there complain ; 
Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,                        
                      Wit's sour delights ; 
With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure, 
                      Yet his dear treasure,
All scatter'd lay, while he his eyes did pour 
                      Upon a flow'r.                                             
             The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe, 
Like a thick midnight-fog, mov'd there so slow, 
              He did nor stay, nor go ; 
Condemning thoughts—like sad eclipses—scowl 
                      Upon his soul,                                                 
And clouds of crying witnesses without 
              Pursued him with one shout. 
Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be found, 
                      Work'd under ground, 
Where he did clutch his prey ; but one did see                   
                      That policy : 
Churches and altars fed him ; perjuries 
                      Were gnats and flies ; 
It rain'd about him blood and tears, but he 
                      Drank them as free.                                        The fearful miser on a heap of rust 
Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust 
              His own hands with the dust, 
Yet would not place one piece above, but lives 
                      In fear of thieves.                                
Thousands there were as frantic as himself, 
              And hugg'd each one his pelf ;* 
The downright epicure plac'd heav'n in sense, 
                      And scorn'd pretence ;
While others, slipp'd into a wide excess                             
                      Said little less ; 
The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave, 
                      Who think them brave ; 
And poor, despisèd Truth sate counting by 
                      Their victory.                                            
             Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, 
And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring ; 
              But most would use no wing. 
O fools—said I—thus to prefer dark night 
                      Before true light !                                      
To live in grots and caves, and hate the day 
              Because it shows the way ; 
The way, which from this dead and dark abode 
                      Leads up to God ; 
A way where you might tread the sun, and be                   
                      More bright than he ! 
But as I did their madness so discuss, 
                      One whisper'd thus, 
“This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide, 
                      But for His bride.”                                     

-Henry Vaughan

Poem #4: The Oak and the Rose

An oak tree and a rosebush grew,
Young and green together,
Talking the talk of growing things-
Wind and water and weather.
And while the rosebush sweetly bloomed
The oak tree grew so high
That now it spoke of newer things-
Eagles, mountain peaks and sky.
"I guess you think you're pretty great,"
The rose was heard to cry,
Screaming as loud as it possibly could
To the treetop in the sky.
"And now you have no time for flower talk,
Now that you've grown so tall."
"It's not so much that I've grown," said the tree,
"It's just that you've stayed so small."

-Shel Silverstein 

Poem #3: The Little Boy and the Old Man

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the little old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy,"it seems
Grownups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

-Shel Silverstein 

Poem #2: Reflection

Each time I see the Upside-Down Man
Standing in the water,
I look at him and start to laugh,
Although I shouldn't oughtter.
For maybe in another world
Another time
Another town,
Maybe HE is right side up
And I am upside down.

-Shel Silverstein 

Poem #1: How Many, How Much

How many slams in an old screen door? Depends how loud you shut it.
How many slices in a bread? Depends how thin you cut it.
How much good inside a day? Depends how good you live 'em.
How much love inside a friend? Depends how much you give 'em.

-Shel Silverstein