@tara penry Oooph, ahhh indeed. Thanks for tagging me to read. Reframing duty/loyalty/fidelity towards love/friendship as the 'why' captures why I do what I do. So it does resonate, thanks. I'll explore more when I have time. Saved!
Word on the street says you might be a better poet than yer old guy. Not many witnesses are willing to come forward, but it seems like a definite maybe.
Little lamb, who made thee, dost thou know who made thee?
Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me.
Tyger, tyger, burning bright, in the forest of the night.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest are these: “It might have been!”
All I could see from where I stood. Was three long mountains and a wood;. I turned and looked another way, And saw three islands in a bay.
Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do or die…
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
And what if one of the gods does wreck me out on the wine-dark sea? I have a heart that is inured to suffering and I shall steel it to endure that too. (My favorite when sitting on a Greek beach at sunset, staring out at the wine dark sea.)
These are some I might just blurt out at the most in opportune times. The world needs more inopportune times to hear blurted out poetry.
I imagine lots of inopportunities on the trail and in camp: “Say, Bear, Glory be to God for dappled things ‘n’ all, but what are these black specks in the spaghetti sauce?”
The black spots in the spaghetti sauce, when eaten at late dusk, are not as worrisome as the grittiness of the spoon, as I found in Hargeysa, Somalia, one night while dining in the semi darkness with a cable spool as a table. And if they expect to be awarded stars for their cuisine, other than those burning brightly high in the desert sky, then they need to do something about all the rogue cats who pester the guests.
@tara penry Oooph, ahhh indeed. Thanks for tagging me to read. Reframing duty/loyalty/fidelity towards love/friendship as the 'why' captures why I do what I do. So it does resonate, thanks. I'll explore more when I have time. Saved!
I love the poem’s sense of the reciprocity of caring. No hurry to the rest. It’s all invitation, no burden. :-)
“Are you loopy enough to walk around with a poem in your pocket and blurt it out when the mood strikes? If so, which poem?”
Yes.
There once was a man named Adam
Who had his hand on the. . .
(I heard it from my old guy and now I can’t get it out of my mind.)
There are other poems, of course.
Word on the street says you might be a better poet than yer old guy. Not many witnesses are willing to come forward, but it seems like a definite maybe.
🙄 Dear Diary, Remind me to send Switter some poetry books when he gets back from the trail. 🤨
Dear Tara’s Diary, make them Kindle editions to minimize weight.
Good idea. How did you know I meant to send ponderous verse? Any other customizations? Kindle gilt edition? Side of fries? 🍟
No fries, please, for they grease up the screen. But the Kindle is waterproof, so Slushys present no danger.
Slushy it is. Your nutritive wish is my command.
Can you imagine Ulysses slurping a Slurpy? I more imagined him like the folks at the state fair eating turkey legs, cave man style.
Little lamb, who made thee, dost thou know who made thee?
Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me.
Tyger, tyger, burning bright, in the forest of the night.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest are these: “It might have been!”
All I could see from where I stood. Was three long mountains and a wood;. I turned and looked another way, And saw three islands in a bay.
Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do or die…
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
And what if one of the gods does wreck me out on the wine-dark sea? I have a heart that is inured to suffering and I shall steel it to endure that too. (My favorite when sitting on a Greek beach at sunset, staring out at the wine dark sea.)
These are some I might just blurt out at the most in opportune times. The world needs more inopportune times to hear blurted out poetry.
I imagine lots of inopportunities on the trail and in camp: “Say, Bear, Glory be to God for dappled things ‘n’ all, but what are these black specks in the spaghetti sauce?”
The black spots in the spaghetti sauce, when eaten at late dusk, are not as worrisome as the grittiness of the spoon, as I found in Hargeysa, Somalia, one night while dining in the semi darkness with a cable spool as a table. And if they expect to be awarded stars for their cuisine, other than those burning brightly high in the desert sky, then they need to do something about all the rogue cats who pester the guests.
Tyger, Tyger burning bright
Who could eat this grit tonight?