# Favorite Poems



## rkunsaw (Dec 2, 2014)

I think I posted this before but I couldn't find it

Big Ed's a Comin'

y tale is of the early years, when the century was new
And the rankest critters in the Basin were cows and buckaroos.

Picture a saloon in Prineville, where the liquor's flowing free,
Where gamblers deal up faro and the girls smile easily.

It's early on a weekend - maybe three in the afternoon,
The pianer's playin somthin 'bout love and a silver moon.

When suddenly the doors burst open and boys, it's a terrible sight...
A cowboy staggers forward his eyes rolled back to white.

His hands they fairly tremble and his face is chalky pale
" I come to warn you, Big Ed's comin'... I seen him on the trail!"

There's a moment of deepest silence, but before another breath is drawn,
The bar empties out like a winter cup when the last of the coffee's gone.

The barkeep, fresh from Ireland, stands frozen to the spot,
Mindful of his immigration and having second thoughts.

Now the windows start to rattle and the chairs begin to dance
And the danger hanging in the air holds the barkeep in a trance.

There's a sound of heavy galloping comin' down the street
And ahead of it an odor like week old vulture meat.

Crashing through the swinging doors and tearing out the wall
Comes a grizzly being ridden by a man near eight feet tall.

He's got a rattler for a bullwhip and he cracks it overhead.
And the grizzly's got a logging chain between his teeth instead

Of a snaffle bit and rein, and the rider draws 'em tight
As he screeches to a halt and slides off to the... right.

Two strides he's to the railin', and he growls to make his point,
" Barkeep give me whiskey, the best that's in the joint.

Now the Darbyman's been hidin' behind the tavern sink,
But he hastens with a shotglass and pours the man a drink.

With a look of raw impatience the stranger knocks it to the floor,
Bites the neck off of the bottle and spits it out the door.

He tosses back the contents and downs it with a swallow
And the look he gives the Irishman is cold and grim and hollow.

The barkeep says his rosary, he's thinkin' of his mother
But trembling courage prompts his lips "Would you care to have another?"

The stranger turns away in silence, he offers not a word,
Then says "There ain't no time, son, I'm surprised you haven't heard.

If I was you I'd close this joint and set my mount a'runnin',
I'm just a step ahead of death... Ain't you heard?...Big Ed's a comin'!"


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## Falcon (Dec 2, 2014)

Geeze Larry,  I can't wait for the sequel.  I want to hear about the REAL  Big Ed.


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## rkunsaw (Dec 9, 2014)

*Poem:* "The Calf-Path" by Sam Walter Foss. Public Domain

*The Calf-Path*

 One day through the primeval wood
 A calf walked home as good calves should;
 But made a trail all bent askew,
 A crooked trail as all calves do.

 Since then three hundred years have fled,
 And I infer the calf is dead.
 But still he left behind his trail,
 And thereby hangs my moral tale.

 The trail was taken up next day
 By a lone dog that passed that way;
 And then a wise bell—wether sheep
 Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep,

 And drew the flock behind him, too,
 As good bell—wethers always do.
 And from that day, o'er hill and glade,
 Through those old woods a path was made.

 And many men wound in and out,
 And dodged and turned and bent about,
 And uttered words of righteous wrath
 Because 'twas such a crooked path;

 But still they followed — do not laugh - 
The first migrations of that calf,
 And through this winding wood-way stalked
 Because he wobbled when he walked.

 This forest path became a lane
 That bent and turned and turned again;
 This crooked lane became a road,
 Where many a poor horse with his load

 Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
 And traveled some three miles in one.
 And thus a century and a half
 They trod the footsteps of that calf.

 The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
 The road became a village street;
 And this, before men were aware,
 A city's crowded thoroughfare.

 And soon the central street was this
 Of a renowned metropolis;
 And men two centuries and a half    
 Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

 Each day a hundred thousand rout
 Followed this zigzag calf about
 And o'er his crooked journey went
 The traffic of a continent.

 A hundred thousand men were led
 By one calf near three centuries dead.
 They followed still his crooked way.
 And lost one hundred years a day,

 For thus such reverence is lent
 To well-established precedent.
 A moral lesson this might teach
 Were I ordained and called to preach;

 For men are prone to go it blind 
 Along the calf-paths of the mind,
 And work away from sun to sun
 To do what other men have done.

 They follow in the beaten track,
 And out and in, and forth and back,
 And still their devious course pursue,
 To keep the path that others do.

 They keep the path a sacred groove,
 Along which all their lives they move;
 But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
 Who saw the first primeval calf.

 Ah, many things this tale might teach —
But I am not ordained to preach.


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## merlin (Sep 13, 2017)

*One of my favourite poems by Dylan Thomas, read over scenes from one of my favourite current movies "Interstellar" a perfect combination...*






Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.​


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## merlin (Sep 13, 2017)

I love Brian Patten's poetry, here is a humorous one.....
*Warning there are a couple of swear words
*
video=youtube;rIh5V6kPRgo]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rIh5V6kPRgo[/video]

*Hair Today, No Her Tomorrow by Brian Patten*

‘I've been upstairs', she said.

‘Oh yes?’ I said.

‘I found a hair,’ she said.

‘A hair?’ I said.

‘In the bed,’ she said.

‘From a head?’ I said.

‘It’s not mine,’ she said.

‘Was it black?’ I said.

‘It was,’ she said.

‘I’ll explain,’ I said.

‘You swine,’ she said.

‘Not quite,’ I said.

‘I’m going,’ she said.

‘Please don’t,’ I said.

‘I hate you!’ she said.

‘You do?’ I said.

‘Of course!’ she said.

‘But why?’ I said.

‘That black hair,’ she said.

‘A pity,’ I said.


‘Time for truth,’ she said.

‘For confessions?’ I said.

‘Me too,’ she said.

‘You what?’ I said.

‘Someone else,’ she said.

‘Oh dear,’ I said.

‘So there!’ she said.

‘Ah well,’ I said.

‘Guess who?’ she said.

‘Don’t say,’ I said.

‘I will,’ she said.

‘You would,’ I said.

‘Your friend,’ she said.

‘Oh damn,’ I said.

‘And his friend,’ she said.

‘Him too?’ I said.

‘And the rest,’ she said.

‘Good God!’ I said.


‘What’s that?’ she said.

‘What’s what?’ I said.

‘That noise?’ she said.

‘Upstairs?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘The new cat,’ I said.

‘A cat?’ she said.

‘It’s black,’ I said.

‘Black?’ she said.

‘Long-haired,’ I said.

‘Oh no,’ she said.

‘Oh yes,’ I said.

‘Oh shit!’ she said.

‘Goodbye,’ I said.



‘I lied,’ she said.

‘You lied?’ I said.

‘Of course,’ she said.

‘About my friend?’ I said.

‘Y-ess,’ she said.

‘And the others?’ I said.

‘Ugh,’ she said.

‘How odd,’ I said.

‘I’m forgiven?’ she said.

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘I’ll stay?’ she said.

‘Please don’t,’ I said.

‘But why?’ she said.

‘I lied,’ I said.

‘About what?’ she said.

‘The new cat,’ I said.

‘It’s white,’ I said.​​


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## merlin (Sep 13, 2017)

Pablo Neruda is another favourite of mine:


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## Trade (Sep 13, 2017)

*"The Raven" By Edgar Allen Poe*


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

      While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

  As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

  “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

              Only this and nothing more.”



      Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

  And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

      Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

      From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

  For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

              Nameless _here_ for evermore.



      And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

  Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

      So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

      “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

  Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

              This it is and nothing more.”



      Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

  “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

      But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

      And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

  That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

              Darkness there and nothing more.



      Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

      But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

      And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

              Merely this and nothing more.



      Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

  Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

      “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

        Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

  Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

              ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”



      Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

  In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

      Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

      But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

  Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

              Perched, and sat, and nothing more.



  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

  By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

  “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

  Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

  Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

              Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



      Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

  Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

      For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

      Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

  Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

              With such name as “Nevermore.”



      But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

  That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

      Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

      Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

  On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

              Then the bird said “Nevermore.”Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
  “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

      Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

      Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

  Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

              Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”



      But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

  Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

      Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

      Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

  What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

              Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”



      This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

  To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

      This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

      On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

  But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

_She_ shall press, ah, nevermore!



      Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

  Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

      “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

      Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

  Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

              Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



      “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

  Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

      Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

      On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

  Is there—_is_ there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

              Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



      “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

  By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

      Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

      It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

  Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

              Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
  “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

      Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

      Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

  Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

              Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”



      And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, _still_ is sitting

  On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

      And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

      And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

  And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

              Shall be lifted—nevermore!


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