Here are the poems you have sent me. Just keep on sending them.
I would love to show them to everybody else. Thanks friends.
Poems on this page:
***** TIME - from The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran
***** THE POWER OF A SMILE - sent from Sheila (friend)
***** A SLICE OF LIFE - by Terence Michael Gabor(Firefly member)
***** STILL - by BradZen (Firefly member)
For now, here's an excerpt from The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran:
And he answered:
You would measure time the measureless
and the immeasurable.
You would adjust your conduct and even
direct the course of your spirit according to hours and seasons.
Of time you would make a stream
upon whose bank you would sit
and watch its flowing.
Yet the timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness.
And knows that yesterday is but today's memory
and tomorrow is today's dream.
And that that which sings and contemplates in you
is still dwelling within the bounds
of that first moment which scattered
the stars into space.
Who among you does not feel
that his power to love is boundless?
And yet who does not feel that very love,
though boundless, encompassed within the centre
of his being, and moving not
from love thought to love thought,
nor from love deeds to other love deeds?
And is not time even as love is, undivided and spaceless?
But if in you thought you must measure
time into seasons, let each season
encircle all the other seasons,
And let today embrace the past with remembrance
and the future with longing.
================================================== Taken from:
Selections from The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran
Thanks to Sheila for this one:
"You don't have to tell
How you live each day;
You don't have to tell
If you work or play.
A tried, true barometer
Serves in its place.
However you live
It will show in your face.
The falseness or goodness
You bear in your heart
Will not stay inside
Where it first got its start.
For sinew and blood
Are a thin veil of lace:
What you wear in your heart
You wear on your face.
If your life is unselfish,
If for others you live
For not what you get,
But how much you give;
If you live close to God
In his infinite grace,
You don't have to tell it,
It shows in your face."
Thanks to Terence Michael Gabor also for this one:
A SLICE OF LIFE
when evening falls and day is done,
From BradZen: composed for me on March 26, 1999
on the whim of my fancy..
It rains here,
A steady drumbeat
like the rhythm of my heart.
Comforting drops from gray skies,
in no hurry to reach the earth.
I step inside,
out of the rain and chill, but
I hear the patter on the windows and know
I am alive.
Further inside, rain recedes
into a clatter
of creaky wooden floorboards,
and whooshing espresso machines,
footsteps and chatter.
Hot, steaming cup
warms my hands as I return
to the window between me and the rain,
and I sit, alone again,
I sip bittersweet warmth and stare
out the bleary-eyed window,
where nothing can be,
and everyone refuses to be,
Drops make moving patterns of circles,
splashes, and waves in slick puddles,
innocent and entertaining and hypnotic,
while my mind is
The beat goes on,
outside, on café tables and sidewalks,
on cars and bicycles and awnings.
And Old Joe.
Old Joe stands on the corner,
yesterday in the rain,
today in the rain,
tomorrow in the rain,
Navy-blue peacoat glistens
with a thousand tiny drops,
rain marking his life, too,
and drops drip, drip, drip
from the brim of his beaten hat.
Umbrellas pass him, unseeing,
bobbing like spring flowers
in a spring shower, moving forward,
ever forward, ever moving, never
No coins for Old Joe
on a busy, rainy day.
No ticket inside for a hot, steaming cup
or enough for a 40 to help him
remember, or forget, or just be
Old Joe sleeps down by the river,
murky brown and rising,
behind a line of black tree skeletons
and sodden bushes and dead, brown reeds.
just beyond the road.
He showed me once,
the quiet place near the river's edge,
where the world was peaceful and
He showed me the old rucksack
with all his things -
dry shirt, can of corn, dog-chewed tennis ball, can opener,
And a photograph
with edges as worn as his hat.
I see him turn and look at my window, where I sit, invisible and warm and wondering
about that photograph,
tucked away in that rucksack
Hidden between the roots
of the droopy willow tree near the water's edge
waiting for Old Joe to return and rub the edges
and stare, and remember.
But he remains on the corner,
eyes searching, hands empty, hat dripping,
feeling his heart beat with the rain.
And beyond the road, the river rises,
swollen, thick and muddy,
murky as memory,
persistent as the passage of time,
moving slowly from past to present,
slipping higher, toward a certain droopy willow,