Happy Birthday Robert Frost!
 

Late Harvest

The harvest moon once seemed so near,
I dreamt that some night I would ride
a sapling down to earth and bounce
into that bright inviting sphere.

When later life revealed what’s real,
and yearly harvest moons arose,
beams would dance through dying leaves,
phantoms of my pure ideal.

Now I brood, old like my tree,
and fading twilight dimmed my vision,
but I recall youth’s harvest moon
and sing of what’s too far to see.

Death of a Hired Man

"Silas is home," Mary said.
"Warren, be nice! He's in bed."
"I''ll go and I'll check 'nd
be back in a second,"
said Warren. But Silas was dead.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in the wood.
Confused, for a moment I stood
and muttered an oath.
I could not take both,
but damn how I wished that I could!

Birches

I bend the tree down, gaining purchase,
then ride the tree up when it lurches,
then back in reverse.
A boy could do worse
than being a swinger of birches.

Reluctance

To man it has always been treason,
confronting the end of a season,
to feel no regret.
But that's what we get
for not being slaves to our reason.


Stopping by the Woods

Whose woods? Well, I think that I know.
I'd like to lie down in the snow
and perish right here,
but my horse thinks it queer.
And he's right. I've got miles to go.

Out! Out!

The saw cut the boy and he bled.
"Please save my hand!" the boy said.
The boy, alas, died,
and everyone cried,
but briefly, since they were not dead.

Roger/Bob and Matt, terrific gifts of poetic candles! And funny.

Frost’s Auto-Epitaph

Until I reached the age of eighty-eight,
Any roads I took, both long and steep,
Were headed for fulfillment of my fate
To sound these final breaths before I sleep.

Robert Frost Tackles the Blockage

I have been one acquainted with the shite
That gathers in the gloom of septic tanks
And shoulders-up the lid with foetid might.

I was the one selected from the ranks
To face the faeces, armed with only hope
And rubber gloves, a pair of scaffold planks,

A good stout stick, a bucket on a rope
And a technique passed down the family.
Human shadoof, I bent to dip and grope;

A thrusting-under and a hauling-free
Dropping the dollops from a dizzy height
Until I won my Pyrrhic victory.

No-one will stand downwind of me tonight.
I have been one acquainted with the shite.

Good one, Ann. And you taught me a new word: shadoof. I watched several YouTube videos about the shadoof, but my favorite (though perhaps least informative) was this one.

I've taught you several words over the years, Rogerbob (e.g. "treen"). I hope you like this one as much as I liked that video. It's utterly charming - and also a very good demonstration of the technique.

I must peek in on "Drills and Amusements" more often. All of these were fun.

Ann, I had to recover from your first line before I could enjoy the rest. :D And shadoof: now a verb in my mental idiolect. I gotta shadoof this somehow. . . . Thanks.

My tardy offering:

Frost in Heaven

We're grateful You forgave his jokes, O Lord;
since Bob got here, Your hosts are much less bored.

We usually rise to a challenge here on D&A, Daniel. If you investigate, you'll find the "Flyting" topics I mentioned on your "Slam" thread.

Here's the first one...
https://www.ablemuse.com/erato/showt...hlight=flyting

And here's the second...
https://www.ablemuse.com/erato/showt...hlight=flyting

Posts nos. 18 and 21 in the latter thread are relevant to our recent discussion, I think.

You should join us more often.
.

These aren't as good as Ann's, but in any case ...

The Quietude of Night

Our master loves the quietude of night.
He loves it whether overcast or clear.
When clear our master gazes at the light

of stars that flicker through Earth’s atmosphere
or planets he can spy with naked eye.
(Without his glasses, though, they’d look unclear.)

But when he starts to walk we nearly fly!
We mutts, our master’s dogs, do try our best
to slow him down. We think that crazy guy

is nuts to walk so fast. Is it a test?
We try to pee on every tree for spite.
With speed our master truly is obsessed.

To slow him down we use our brawn and might,
but he keeps pulling us. It’s impolite!


Reacquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
All of my closest friends say I’m insane.
They tell me I don’t see enough daylight.

What my friends think of me is very plain.
They’re gossipy, they’re rash, they’re indiscreet.
They say I’ve lost my marbles—gone insane.

They make it known to everyone they meet.
It seems they even tell the birds that fly—
their tale, it seems, has wings as well as feet!

So maybe it is time to say good-bye
to all those rumormongers, impolite.
My feelings are too strong—they do not lie!

I’ll write a note to them by candlelight.
I’ll then be reacquainted with the night.

Octopus’s Garden
(Beatles song in the style of Robert Frost)

Whose plot this is beneath the sea,
I think I know. He lives as free
as fish and whales. A mollusk owns
this garden. Buddy, come with me.

It’s snug enough to warm our bones
below the storm, where no one moans
or tells us what we ought to do.
Nobody here needs chaperones.

A sea horse might come into view
and shake his head, ask, “Who are you?”
We’d swim and shout and sing and dance.
Beneath the sea I’d be with you.

What joy for boy and girl to glance
at all the octopus’s plants.
They might just put us in a trance.
They might just put us in a trance.

This one's pretty silly, but ...

Trapped

Whose house I’m in? Well, it’s my friend’s,
who’s now at work where a pick tends
to patients’ teeth. She will not see
me sitting here with pad and pens.

I can’t get out the door (poor me)
because I do not have a key
and cannot leave with the door open.
I feel like a skiff adrift at sea.

I just was in the shower soapin’
myself, but now I sit here hopin’
that soon my friend will come back here—
for all I’m doing now is mopin’.

Her house is lovely, full of cheer
but I have to go out for beer,
and hours to go before she’s near,
and hours to go before she’s near.

Thanks, Ann!

The "tomfoolery" was fun, your qualified critique/hail of it, better.

Daniel

BUMP!

On March 26

After Robert Frost: Acquainted with the Night

Acquainted with the Light

I have been one acquainted with the light.
I have walked out in sun—and back in sun.
I have outwalked the darkest city night.

I have looked down the sunniest city lane.
I have passed utopians, dreamy and sweet,
And raised my eyes to see no one in pain.

I have strutted, jumped and danced on echoing feet
When on my sunlit path a constant cry
Rose from dark caves beneath the city street

that meant for me to pause and praise the sky;
And closer still there was a hopeful sight:
Proud Chanticleer, his ruby comb held high,

Proclaimed in song this day would bring delight.
I have been one acquainted with the light.