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The Thorn

I

'There is a Thorn--it looks so old,
In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two years' child
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no prickly points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens is it overgrown.

II

'Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop:

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poem by William Wordsworth
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The Force of Argument

Lord B. was a nobleman bold
Who came of illustrious stocks,
He was thirty or forty years old,
And several feet in his socks.

To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea
This elegant nobleman went,
For that was a borough that he
Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent.

At local assemblies he danced
Until he felt thoroughly ill;
He waltzed, and he galoped, and lanced,
And threaded the mazy quadrille.

The maidens of Turniptopville
Were simple - ingenuous - pure -
And they all worked away with a will
The nobleman's heart to secure.

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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Fergus Falling

He climbed to the top
of one of those million white pines
set out across the emptying pastures
of the fifties - some program to enrich the rich
and rebuke the forefathers
who cleared it all at once with ox and axe -
climbed to the top, probably to get out
of the shadow
not of those forefathers but of this father
and saw for the first time
down in its valley, Bruce Pond, giving off
its little steam in the afternoon,

pond where Clarence Akley came on Sunday mornings to cut down
the cedars around the shore, I'd sometimes hear the slow spondees
of his work, he's gone,
where Milton Norway came up behind me while I was fishing and
stood awhile before I knew he was there, he's the one who put the
cedar shingles on the house, some have curled or split, a few have
blown off, he's gone,

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poem by Galway Kinnell
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Water so Deep and Profound

Water so sinuous and devious,
And as mystifying as you.
Water is always hiding its true self,
Never in one form.
Water can be the shimmer,
Reflecting off the light of the pond,
Making the pond seem magnificent.
Water can be the rushing sound,
As it escapes the secretive pond,
And runes down into the vast ocean,
Seeking adventure and unfound dreams.
Water can be the feeling of calmness,
As it sits there, overlooking the pond,
With wonder and seeing how it made it what it is.
Water so supple and wondrous,
The pond is born from the water.
Water so deep and profound,
Just like you,
The pond so incomplete without water,
Just like your family.

poem by Music Galore
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I C E D A N C E R

In engaging a walk, on a Winter's crisp morn,
On a snow-feathered path,
Glazed with ice-ladened branches,
Lies a Pond of most striking impression,
Mother Nature's Kiss.
Crystalized Ice in the shape of a Heart,
An ardor of Winter's Majesty.
Subtle breezes stir the Pines,
As I step towards the Mirror-like Pond.
Wafts of Snow leave their landing
And looking up I'm bedaubed,
With a breath-chilling freckling Snowmist.
And the Pond, an image of Celestial capture,
A figuration of amorous grandeur.
Its surface in shades of Silver and Amber;
Kaleidoscopic, from the young Sun in Birth.
A spindrifting Breeze
Snares the cusp of my Nose,
And my eyes close.
The Wind changes course, and am soon alerted

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poem by Frank James Ryan Jr.
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The Village Pond

Here, there, women, children and men
Talk animatedly, little water waves disrupted by scooping
Water vessels, the faded green water lilies, shoved aside.

Cows moo, the goats bleat,
School children scramble for a spill,
The edges, slippery and muddy, non of a bother.

The gold, liquid of life, simmers under the hot sun,
Though, shrinking in size, by every draw,
The earth is bare, the pond tags their hope.

Here in the pond, they see, sigh and fall
The feminine and masculine bodies attract
The gossip, filters, confirmed, a new life sees dawn.

Wild tree fruits, like monsters surround the village pond
I'm told the fruits, purify the village pond
Lives ruled, made to see day, Honor to the village pond.

poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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Fetching Water

Come on now; let’s go fetch some water
grab a pail in each hand and let’s go.
Down the hill, to the pond in the holler,
then we’ll climb back up the hill with that water!

Everyone today has forgotten
what it’s like to haul water in a pail.
Every house must have a Jacuzzi,
and a big swimming pool, as well.

Come on now; let’s go fetch some water
grab a pail in each hand and let’s go.
Down the hill, to the pond in the holler,
then we’ll climb back up the hill with that water!

And our homes must have a green lawn
to keep it looking really good!
The water we waste on that green grass
could be used by the farmer to grow food.

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poem by Emma Beverage
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The Swan ~ A Villanelle

Floating upon the crystal pond
She kept wearing her diamond crown
While the other white swan was gone

Never doubting their fierce loving bond
As the leaves went from reddish to brown
Floating upon the crystal pond

Her blue eyes searching far beyond
Couldn't see that he'd recently drowned
While the other white swan was gone

So curling, becoming withdrawn
When ten suns in the sky settled down
Floating upon the crystal pond

She talked to the geese that were blond
And asked where he was with a frown
While the other white swan was gone

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poem by Sara Fielder
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Coyote and Frog (Native American)

Coyote and his friends walked to a pond
But found Frog and his clan now living there.
“This pond is small for all of us, ” Frog said.
“ Find water of your own. We cannot share.”

“If you will let us drink our fill and bathe,
I’ll get you a warm blanket and a blue stone
That’s bigger than your fist, ” Coyote offered.
When Frog agreed, Coyote went for them alone.

Frog took the gifts and led them to the pond.
Later as they left Frog laughed, “Good trade! ”
In fact, Coyote stole the gifts from Thunderbird,
Now furiously tracking prints the thief had made.

Coyote returned next day to find the Frog clan dead.
He took his people to the pond. “Good trade, ” he said.

poem by Chuck Toll
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Sally of the Valley

In the valley their lived sally,
She owned a dog named fog,
She found fog in the pound,
Fog loved frogs.

In the valley their lived sally,
With her dog named fog,
By the pond she found frond the cat,
Frond loved the pond.

In the valley their lived Sally,
With her dog named fog,
And frond of the pond
She found a bird and named him word.

In the valley their lived sally,
Word was a small bird,
He loved to fly high in the sky,
Frond was fond of him.

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poem by Nicolette Gonzalez
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