1 Minute with The Bald-Headed Poet

The Snail by William Cowper 

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, 

The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, 

As if he grew there, house and all

Together.

Within that house secure he hides, 

When danger imminent betides 

Of storm, or other harm besides

Of weather.

Give but his horns the slightest touch, 

His self-collecting power is such, 

He shrinks into his house, with much

Displeasure.

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone, 

Except himself has chattels none, 

Well satisfied to be his own

Whole treasure.

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, 

Nor partner of his banquet needs, 

And if he meets one, only feeds

The faster.

Who seeks him must be worse than blind,

(He and his house are so combin'd,)

If, finding it, he fails to find

Its master.

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To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anne Bradstreet

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.

Thy love is such I can no way repay;

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,

That when we live no more, we may live ever.

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Birds of Prey by Claude McKay

Their shadow dims the sunshine of our day,
As they go lumbering across the sky,
Squawking in joy of feeling safe on high,
Beating their heavy wings of owlish gray.
They scare the singing birds of earth away
As, greed-impelled, they circle threateningly,
Watching the toilers with malignant eye,
From their exclusive haven--birds of prey.
They swoop down for the spoil in certain might,
And fasten in our bleeding flesh their claws.
They beat us to surrender weak with fright,
And tugging and tearing without let or pause,
They flap their hideous wings in grim delight,
And stuff our gory hearts into their maws.

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Poems are green and Poetry is mean.
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When We Two Parted by George Gordon, Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met— In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee After long years,

How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.

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Myself by Edgar Albert Guest

I have to live with myself and so
I want to be fit for myself to know.
I want to be able as days go by,
always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don't want to stand with the setting sun
and hate myself for the things I have done.
I don't want to keep on a closet shelf
a lot of secrets about myself
and fool myself as I come and go
into thinking no one else will ever know
the kind of person I really am,
I don't want to dress up myself in sham.
I want to go out with my head erect
I want to deserve all men's respect;
but here in the struggle for fame and wealth
I want to be able to like myself.
I don't want to look at myself and know that
I am bluster and bluff and empty show.
I never can hide myself from me;
I see what others may never see;
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself and so,
whatever happens I want to be
self-respecting and conscience free.

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Poems are green and Poetry is mean.
-Poetry Beast
 
Please accept my endless gratitude,
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It's a blessing you've stopped to observe and listen.


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Tormented by my Mind by Jay Word © 

Multiple Sclerosis has ravaged me –

Not just my body, but my brain. 

Even with a stable mood, it often feels like I'm going insane. 

I get confused; say the wrong words with a stutter. 

I complete tasks in the wrong way. 

I can't trust my calculations on any given day.

I forget the pin I've used for two decades;

have to ask my daughter to confirm my date of birth. 

Some days I feel like an alien here on earth.

I've volunteered for a trial of brain training; 

I'll do anything to try and reclaim my mind. 

When your brain was your greatest asset, 

this is torment of the greatest kind.

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Poems are green and Poetry is mean.
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Artist in the Spotlight: Jay Word reads her poem Stuck | Navigating Life's Challenges with MS Part 1

In this heartfelt episode, poet Jay Word shares her moving piece, "Stuck." Through raw and imaginative verse, she captures the daily reality of living with Multiple Sclerosis—the frustration, the complexities, and the fight to keep moving forward. A must-listen for anyone facing an invisible illness or life's unexpected obstacles.

Follow Jay Word:

https://www.jaywordauthor.com/

https://www.instagram.com/jay.word.poetry/

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Poems are green and Poetry is mean.
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It's a blessing you've stopped to observe and listen.


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Life's Tragedy by Paul Laurence Dunbar

It may be misery not to sing at all,
And to go silent through the brimming day;
It may be misery never to be loved,
But deeper griefs than these beset the way.
 
To sing the perfect song,
And by a half-tone lost the key,
There the potent sorrow, there the grief,
The pale, sad staring of Life's Tragedy.
 
To have come near to the perfect love,
Not the hot passion of untempered youth,
But that which lies aside its vanity,
And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth.
 
This, this indeed is to be accursed,
For if we mortals love, or if we sing,
We count our joys not by what we have,
But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

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Poems are green and Poetry is mean.
-Poetry Beast
 
Please accept my endless gratitude,
I'm tickled pink,
You're a gift!
Thank you for your time and attention.
It's a blessing you've stopped to observe and listen.


ADDITIONAL INFO: @thebaldheadedpoet | Linktree

9/11 Tribute Poem

I rushed past the memorial to get to a gig. I stared at the monuments from the 17th floor glass. The towers are gone yet the twin squares are a sight to be seen. I walked over to Greenwich Street. The place was sacred, peaceful and serene, I’m sure the spirits of the loss are amongst the crowds, I couldn’t believe how quiet it was although folks were all around. Typical Manhattan vibes: Tourists, visitors, employees and such. Names are engraved all around the pools. Flowers and flags were posted. The waterfalls are gorgeous. It didn’t feel like a cemetery, yet I paused in moments of silence. So beautiful. Although many have perished, over an asinine and heinous crime by terrorists. I was in my dorm room when I heard the news on the radio. Watching the photos and videos are still alarming. I turn away and move on from the replays. Friends and family recall that fatal day. Fumes, debris, screams, and people running hysterically. Suicide attacks against the United States. Those evildoers left a lasting impact on New York City and on our nation, Death isn’t enough for the devastation.  And close to 3000 people are no longer here. We’ll never be the same. We honor all the fallen heroes, loved ones and those who made it out of the rubble and pentagon attack. The flight 93 passengers were brave and fought back.  Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered. Psalm 68 verse 1. And let peace and protection be upon us in the of the LORD. May God give comfort and healing and be with those who mourn and have been affected by September 11th. Twenty-five years later, people will come together, ceremonies will be held and two lights will beam in the sky. Perhaps the angels will rejoice in heaven. I will continue to visit the sites, pay my respects and observe 9/11.

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Poems are green and Poetry is mean.
-Poetry Beast
 
Please accept my endless gratitude,
I'm tickled pink,
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Thank you for your time and attention.
It's a blessing you've stopped to observe and listen.


ADDITIONAL INFO: @thebaldheadedpoet | Linktree

Bear In There by Shel Silverstein

There's a Polar Bear
In our Frigidaire--
He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.
With his seat in the meat
And his face in the fish
And his big hairy paws
In the buttery dish,
He's nibbling the noodles,
He's munching the rice,
He's slurping the soda,
He's licking the ice.
And he lets out a roar
If you open the door.
And it gives me a scare
To know he's in there--
That Polary Bear
In our Fridgitydaire.

Support the show

Poems are green and Poetry is mean.
-Poetry Beast
 
Please accept my endless gratitude,
I'm tickled pink,
You're a gift!
Thank you for your time and attention.
It's a blessing you've stopped to observe and listen.


ADDITIONAL INFO: @thebaldheadedpoet | Linktree