April 9, 2009 #527
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is an Easter poem.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
Each of us must know You personally --
As friend or father, counselor, mentor, guide --
Someone we invite to come inside
That we might be Your witness literally,
Even of ourselves, though we may die,
Resurrected only eye-to-eye.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Poem of the Week
April 2, 2009 #526
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a Passover poem.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
Palpably, You are in this room,
A presence just as certain as our own,
Singing with us – family friend, well-known --
Someone, not just something we assume.
One can know You only intimately.
Vast as You are, You fit into our home.
Every tick of life we're not alone,
Rejoicing in a love we feel and see.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a Passover poem.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
Palpably, You are in this room,
A presence just as certain as our own,
Singing with us – family friend, well-known --
Someone, not just something we assume.
One can know You only intimately.
Vast as You are, You fit into our home.
Every tick of life we're not alone,
Rejoicing in a love we feel and see.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Poem of the Week
March 26, 2009 #525
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a poem for the beginning of spring.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
So have we survived another winter!
Pleasure once again comes out to play.
Remember when our days were dark and bitter?
In a few short weeks, warm winds have had their way,
Nestling into hollows where there lay,
Gripped by cold, winter's last white litter.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a poem for the beginning of spring.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
So have we survived another winter!
Pleasure once again comes out to play.
Remember when our days were dark and bitter?
In a few short weeks, warm winds have had their way,
Nestling into hollows where there lay,
Gripped by cold, winter's last white litter.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Poem of the Week
March 19, 2009 #524
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a poem for British Mother's Day (Mothering Sunday).
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
Mothering Sunday, Mothering Sunday,
Oh, what gratitude --
Till Monday!
Have a bit o' bliss
Each one day
Reserved as your
Intended fun day.
Nor should a normal
Got-to-run day
Silence love
Until some someday;
Nor word not light a
Desperate glum day
As we await
Your Mothering Sunday.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a poem for British Mother's Day (Mothering Sunday).
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
Mothering Sunday, Mothering Sunday,
Oh, what gratitude --
Till Monday!
Have a bit o' bliss
Each one day
Reserved as your
Intended fun day.
Nor should a normal
Got-to-run day
Silence love
Until some someday;
Nor word not light a
Desperate glum day
As we await
Your Mothering Sunday.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Poem of the Week
March 12, 2009 #523
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a St. Patrick's Day poem.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
So let it go, that mythic Ireland!
Treasure the past, but let it, let it go!
Perhaps it was at one time wholly our land --
All of it – but that was long ago.
The time when states were nations is now ending.
Races know no borders; people move
In search of life, their clothes and colors rending
Cultures that must now their presence prove.
Know, then, that not politics, but art,
'Mid neighbors various in faith and race,
Sustains a people's history and heart,
Dependent more on ritual than place.
As on St. Patrick's Day we march in green,
Yet we must let go the blood-drenched dream.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a St. Patrick's Day poem.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
So let it go, that mythic Ireland!
Treasure the past, but let it, let it go!
Perhaps it was at one time wholly our land --
All of it – but that was long ago.
The time when states were nations is now ending.
Races know no borders; people move
In search of life, their clothes and colors rending
Cultures that must now their presence prove.
Know, then, that not politics, but art,
'Mid neighbors various in faith and race,
Sustains a people's history and heart,
Dependent more on ritual than place.
As on St. Patrick's Day we march in green,
Yet we must let go the blood-drenched dream.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Poem of the Week
March 5, 2009 #522
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a political poem.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
The last depression led to holocaust.
The rationale for massacre is fear.
Long before it starts, the game is lost.
The neighborhood of hate is always here.
The best place to begin is one's own heart.
There the mad dogs pull against their chains,
Lusting to tear some stranger's throat apart,
Rage that only love and patience tames.
Each heart becomes a lantern in a crowd.
Yes, people see according to your light,
As you by theirs – but speak of love aloud,
Lest other voices drown the coming night.
And do not turn away from victims' cries,
For evil's spooked by nothing more than eyes.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a political poem.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
The last depression led to holocaust.
The rationale for massacre is fear.
Long before it starts, the game is lost.
The neighborhood of hate is always here.
The best place to begin is one's own heart.
There the mad dogs pull against their chains,
Lusting to tear some stranger's throat apart,
Rage that only love and patience tames.
Each heart becomes a lantern in a crowd.
Yes, people see according to your light,
As you by theirs – but speak of love aloud,
Lest other voices drown the coming night.
And do not turn away from victims' cries,
For evil's spooked by nothing more than eyes.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Poem of the Week
February 26, 2009 #521
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a philosophical poem.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
Once a paladin
Rode into mountains
Seeking himself
Among barren stones.
He was a spring
Covered by fountains,
Or an immortal elf
In a dungeon of bones.
Long he rode weary
Through high mountain passes
And deep, lonely canyons
Untouched by the sun.
Long he rode dreary
'Mid snow-covered masses,
His dreams for companions,
And still he rode on.
Yet he found nothing
That matched his ambition
To see himself naked
Of what was not him:
That singular something
Beyond all condition,
The soul he'd forsaken
For life's daily din.
He came on a hermit
Praying in shadow,
Unmoving for hours
In the early spring cold;
His hut near a summit
In a high mountain meadow
Covered with flowers,
Red, white, and gold.
Finally moving,
He turned towards the paladin,
Blank as a snowfield,
Silent as space;
The soul simply choosing
To pass its brief time within,
Steadfastly sealed
Behind its locked face.
“Good Sir,” said the paladin,
“Long have I wandered
In search of the soul
That somehow I lost.
“My life has been sin,
My brief moment squandered,
Yet I would be whole
Regardless of cost.
“O holy man,
Show me the truth
Known to those few
At being's bright core!
“And, if you can,
Yourself be the proof,
For I would be you --
I ask nothing more.”
The hermit then opened
His eyes wide as saucers.
Behind them was emptiness,
Nothing at all.
Sheer nothingness beckoned
Like death 'neath life's wonders,
The absolute stillness
That makes the flesh crawl.
“O God!” shrieked the paladin,
“Heaven, please save me!”
And down from the mountains
He fled on his steed;
Back towards profusion,
The commerce that daily
Surrounds the great fountains
That simple springs feed.
Back, back to the world
Of passion and plunder
The paladin raced
Away from that sight
Of a self self-dissolved
In the truth that lay under
The truth – just a taste
Of the cold, waiting night.
Nor did he ever
Recover from seeing
That vision of nothingness
At being's heart.
Alas! He could never
Embrace his own being,
And so performed graceless
His pitiful part.
© by Nicholas Gordon
Dear Subscriber:
This week’s poem of the week is a philosophical poem.
You can hear me read the poem and listen to the music for it at my site by going to http://www.poemsforfree.com and clicking on "Poem of the Week." You can also cast a vote for it to boost its popularity on Yahoo Buzz.
You can post a comment on the poem or read other comments on it at http://nicholasgordon.blogspot.com.
Yours,
Nick Gordon
Once a paladin
Rode into mountains
Seeking himself
Among barren stones.
He was a spring
Covered by fountains,
Or an immortal elf
In a dungeon of bones.
Long he rode weary
Through high mountain passes
And deep, lonely canyons
Untouched by the sun.
Long he rode dreary
'Mid snow-covered masses,
His dreams for companions,
And still he rode on.
Yet he found nothing
That matched his ambition
To see himself naked
Of what was not him:
That singular something
Beyond all condition,
The soul he'd forsaken
For life's daily din.
He came on a hermit
Praying in shadow,
Unmoving for hours
In the early spring cold;
His hut near a summit
In a high mountain meadow
Covered with flowers,
Red, white, and gold.
Finally moving,
He turned towards the paladin,
Blank as a snowfield,
Silent as space;
The soul simply choosing
To pass its brief time within,
Steadfastly sealed
Behind its locked face.
“Good Sir,” said the paladin,
“Long have I wandered
In search of the soul
That somehow I lost.
“My life has been sin,
My brief moment squandered,
Yet I would be whole
Regardless of cost.
“O holy man,
Show me the truth
Known to those few
At being's bright core!
“And, if you can,
Yourself be the proof,
For I would be you --
I ask nothing more.”
The hermit then opened
His eyes wide as saucers.
Behind them was emptiness,
Nothing at all.
Sheer nothingness beckoned
Like death 'neath life's wonders,
The absolute stillness
That makes the flesh crawl.
“O God!” shrieked the paladin,
“Heaven, please save me!”
And down from the mountains
He fled on his steed;
Back towards profusion,
The commerce that daily
Surrounds the great fountains
That simple springs feed.
Back, back to the world
Of passion and plunder
The paladin raced
Away from that sight
Of a self self-dissolved
In the truth that lay under
The truth – just a taste
Of the cold, waiting night.
Nor did he ever
Recover from seeing
That vision of nothingness
At being's heart.
Alas! He could never
Embrace his own being,
And so performed graceless
His pitiful part.
© by Nicholas Gordon
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