Tag Archives: Robert Frost

The Bad Gardener

19 Thursday Jul 2018

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Robert Frost was a bad farmer.

I don’t think he made a dime,
couldn’t master that which
others could grow and sell
time after time after time.

But every effort led him outside,
and once there, he could observe
what would become words;

Poetry danced in a way no one
had before seen, a truth so
hard and cold, soft and strong,
every letter springing like shaved
weeds, the song of wildflowers
killing wheat.

Robert Frost was a bad farmer;

me?  I’m kind of a failed gardener,
a shoddy planter of plants
and flowers probably not best
for my soil because I failed
to study.

Worse yet, I lack the talent some
have, the desire to make things
grow other than thoughts and
feelings through words on paper,
sometimes rhyming!

Me and Frost are bummers, but
I dream to make those lemons
yield lemonade, his nine year
dance in wind not a full-on
charade!

I try my best out there every day,
after a morning of writing, I
set out to chop around, plant
and dig, water and spray.

Sometimes things die, others live
with an occasional “strive,” but
then I come inside, write it all
down, God giving us all not a billion
talents, more like one or two,

making everything all right!

I play golf like a poet; I garden
like a total writer, and have learned
to accept it.

I am pretty bad, but water to
whine, I reverse the fog that
clutters my mind, the dance in
soil just a ruse that produces
an occasional flower, endless
higher power,

and inspiring winds that turn
poems from springing weeds,
slithering snails, the dodging
lizard, jumping into an apple
tree now killed.

I did not see through the success
of the tomato at last; but in
watching it strive, doing my best
to water it daily, I found
reasons to sit down, plant some
words—

a skill not fully mine but God’s
ship to blast.

Ride the Spaceship

08 Friday Jun 2018

Posted by in God, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Space, Space Travel, Universe

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Sit still.

Even so, we’re traveling fast, a
thousand miles per hour around
our axis, 67,000 miles per hour
around the sun, our solar system
clocking in at 490,000 miles
per hour around our galaxy.

Our galaxy itself moving at about
1.2 million miles per hour around
something really big and attractive,

I’m thinking about porn stars,
also wondering why there is a
space program trying to propel
“into” space, when in fact the Earth
is a great spaceship, already doing
great work getting us around
this universe, and others.

Sometimes I sit on my chair in
a room traveling one thousand miles
per hour around the earth’s axis,
67,000 miles per hour around the sun,
in my cozy little house—which
along with the galaxy is going 1.2
million miles per hour around something
really big and attractive and wonder
how I do it.

Sometimes I just hold on, sit for
hours on end, just wondering
where the spaceship will take us next.

The seasons change, the wind howls,
bringing new things, new ideas,
tumbleweeds—evidence of all the
motion!

“Earth is the right place for
love,” said Frost, and with good
reason, for where indeed could it
ever go better for us?

Speed is relative, and it always
depends upon where you are standing
when the reading is taken.

I like to be on my chair, often writing
or watching a movie, or crazy
news about humans trying to control
our planet, calling ourselves
Powerful and smart.

I hold on tight to my position, knowing
the high speeds, but trusting in
other forces that keep this
concoction in balance, so many
things unknown to the brightest
scientists in the world.

When I really want to visit space, I
leave the city lights, sleep under
the stars.

Is there a guy who looks like me
looking back millions of light years
away?  We may never meet, but
it would be neat, if the curve of
everything we don’t know
converged on the rain drop
under Mom’s microscope, the
first sounds we hear registered
next to professions of love for
grandpa, as he cries a final tear
of thanks.

“Terrorism”

30 Wednesday May 2018

Posted by in Crime, Criminal Law, Law, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry, Tao

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is a myth.

We’re trying to group and organize
our thoughts and conditions,
what racists do to keep things easy.

Brand a group or situation “X.”

Mark the spot of a crime “Y.”

The devil loves conflation, combining
and confusing, hates when we make
decisions, loves when we lump and
generalize.

Declare something “Good” or “Evil?”

Judge not lest ye be judged was not
a religious statement, but true.

Ask not what your country can do
for you, but what you can do for
your country was not political but true.

It’s a tragedy when murder happens,
but does it help to label the evil with
further labels like “terrorism” or
“terrorist act?”

Evil is evil, wrong is wrong, and to go
further to categorize is to welcome
a slew of lies.

Muslims.  “Radical Islam” are terms
born from these lies, we start witch
hunts against a group instead of fighting
the evils inside your own heart.

Gandhi was right, in part, and at the
time of his murder was a great voice
for peace.  (why he was killed)

Did terrorism kill him?

Irrelevant, your honor, it was wrong,
unfortunate, and God shall punish
all such acts, where God could be:

Good
Orderly
Direction,

a Higher Power, or just good
common sense.

A good fence.  The neighborhood in
check, my mind and body in balance
because I prayed first,

then acted.

Or did nothing—the spiritual way
of the Tao.

Accepting my Balls

29 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by in Acceptance, Anatomy, Blog, Blogs, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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As I see and feel balls sagging
from right to left, left to right,
I like to think someone’s been
swinging them.

But swinging them doesn’t bend
them down to stay.   Nature does
that.  Time, age: you wake up, and
your rocks dropped.

***

This can be a sad event, and was
for me, especially when I felt
nothing much happened in my
youth, no great wear and tear

that would leave an item or thing
stretched out or overused,
necessitating the sag, precipitating
a change, a drop, the swing—

Sad!!

I turned thirty years old, and
they dropped.

It was not at the brink of death,
closing in on very old age but
thirty years in, thirty times around
the sun, and they sagged!!!

I wrote several books, a screenplay,
thought of all different ways not
to think of my sagging rocks;

wrote about kids, a Kids World,
figured I was done so give the world
over to the tight-balled and perky
youths, think of myself less and less,
that’s it the ticket is to be more and
more Selfless!

***

That didn’t work, and I stayed depressed,
did the twelve steps on the problem
at last, and it went away for a time, the
depression about sagging—but then it
came back with a vengeance!

***

Then one day, it went away.  I accept
my sagging balls because they’re here
to stay.

What’s more, I’m powerless over them,
my age, and this rock spinning through space,
giving me cool ideas to write as long as
I walk on her and thank.

The best way out of a good depression
is to do nothing, wait for it to pass,
accept all things and Thank.

America

02 Saturday Sep 2017

Posted by in America, Poem, Poems, Poetry

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Is nothing without the meaning we give,
the soul of place—words we sing, Amerigo
Vespucci coining something, a coast with waves
and life, indigenous and white.

America is nothing, words without meaning
until we pray and bring in Gods to bless, the
day to day rising like a tide, word to word we
try to match feelings inside.

You look at the world, our word for it, try to
get past Borgesian fictions to accept that words
are what we have to conjure and communicate.
We settle, call things “things”—dream.

America is nothing without the dream we bring,
we fill an empty vessel, the uncarved block
of the Tao Te Ching.  A rose by any other name would
smell as sweet, Shakespeare meat,

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
wants it down in Frostian weeds.  Dust thou
art except the soul, and the demons you fight
in others, immigrants, outsiders

are really inside of the fighter.  Our current
“president” watches a lot of TV, some say this
candidate of hate accentuates the divide the
devil tries.

Good news: you don’t have to do anything.
Stand tall or low, firm or soft—do nothing.
Gandhi wanted to change their minds, not kill
them for universal weaknesses shared by all.

Trump talks taxes during a lethal storm, an evil
brought by the wind of bigotry, hating black
people and women—their turn to lead.  Right and
left, all spending too much,

money we do not have, playing God with promises
impossible to keep, getting elected with
private campaign money the eye of the storm
putting money, not ideas… in government.

We kick the natives and their god out,
run our slaves then pay them not, kill JFK
and accept the official story, for to delve in
too deep gets you killed, CIA diabolical feats.

Mark Lane defended Oswald perfectly from
afar, indicted CIA skillfully for anyone with time
to read. They call our president “powerful,”
a laugh, God’s got a bigger stack of chips—

just think about that.  Asymmetry of information
leans on Trump campaign dudes until we might
segue back to 1972, Nixon in flames, Congress
to blame, or is it Samuel for asking for a king?

Lying every other line is consistent with guilt,
the cover up worse than the crime, corrupt
politicians fattening all the time, and what could
we expect with such a wide path to Evil?

Jesus and the elders were right, but we keep
looking around for an easier fight, until a few accept
the narrow road to heaven, seeing we can’t do
much so wait, ask for a blessing, aspire to patience.

We sometimes embark on geographic solutions,
head off where the grass is greener, the whole
discovery period in Europe one of these but worth it
to advance and bring the world closer to itself.

One click away from the other side of the planet seems
a large feat while a photon of light travels seven times
around it, there must be larger powers, atheists,
there must be!!

The wide narrows when we call out pharmaceutical
ads in their evil, C2H5OH the flammable thing sold
as “drink” by devil’s agents, sport itself a great
gateway to alcoholism and divorce.

While writing this screed, the poem looked back
got hit in the front, wearing headphones, looking
down at a cell while walking—which is worse,
that or driving?

Gan the word for eyesight placed first by Okinawan
karate warriors… Beware!!  Could a man rightly
think he could at least have a Cast Away moment
with his first crush, say good-bye?

God bless us to less whining, more striving—less
expecting on the grateful mission of knowing we
don’t know very much, “America” just a word of
many, a polytheistic remedy to time’s forgotten

mystery, Heaven is peace of mind and “other
such dreams,” life…

“it’s like anything else,” Wood Allen feeds, movies
are what they seem, the daytime soap opera
dream washing out our fatigue, giving us space
to think.

America, lol, let’s look at devils within, be
unafraid looking back, making amends, smoothing
out our belligerence.  Education of the MLK and
Gandhi level takes a special focus,

God bless us to it, the fight for justice.  Never bow
to evil, gird us up, God—let’s beat the devil, cast
him behind;  finally cast away, we can be the knight
in our own epic, be heroes in the strife—

Use words because they’re there, their meaning
growing with every blessing.  God bless these words,
even “America,” and all the other nations needing
you, not men as king.

Freedom Wall

09 Tuesday May 2017

Posted by in Blogs, Frost, Poem, Poetry

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-by Bill Watkins and Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn’t love a lie,
That sends the Washington Post “deep” in
And leaks anonymous sources—deep throat,
Making Truth shine like the sun.
The work of liberals is another thing:
Trump came after them to deconstruct
Where they have barely survived Roger Stone,
But they would have Carter Page out of hiding,
To please constituents from the left and right.
The rifts—no one has seen them made, but
We heard them made in First Amendment-killing
MOAB tweets and claims.  There they are
On our computers and phones; we try to ignore
Them but we can’t, so make a date in the Senate.
There we deconstruct Trump’s deconstructions,
Which is gravely presented by GOP as a lovely
Growing Tree, especially made for you and me.
Never mind Russia and 2016, as old White Men
Keep close control over the next four years.
Bipartisanship is the great dream of fools, until
Matt Schlapp and Bill Maher hug on HBO,
“Hug it out!!” yelling Kevin Dillon from sitcoms
past, reminding us all of Something.
“Good walls make good races,” exclaims Trump,
Bannon behind him—as McMaster tries to be sane
Enough for them both.  Hillary shakes her head,
Smiling not on deck per se, perhaps in baseball’s
Third-up “hole.”  The poet wishes he went with
A naval image over baseball, but it may be too
Late—both of them with sexist overtones, risking
Further hurt pointed out by poignant p-hats
In protest protesting, protesting among other
Things… all the Walls.
“Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,”
Said Frost, but neither does Something love a
Lie, I’m sure of it!!  The poet “sure of it” assuring
So many readers he’s “full of it” until he finds
Matt Schlapp, gives him another hug,
Promotes a Third Party called the Native Party
Led by cheated Native Americans.  Their
Platform a simple one:
“Pay all our debts, financial and moral.”
Trump says again, “Good walls make good races,”
But does so from his newly made Twitter jail,
Where Sally Yates confined him.  Truth is
The great Skeleton Key that opens all doors,
Shuts out Hate, providing the mortar to all
Walls of Freedom constructed—protecting love
And innocence inside.  That hug.  The open
Mind.  The listener.  The tweeter.  The dog
Eat dog Businessman “president” who to succeed
At talking must learn not to talk and do…
Until God blesses our land through Native America
Once more.

“A Line-Storm Song” by Robert Frost

20 Thursday Feb 2014

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           A Line-Storm Song

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.

The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.

There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.

“In Hardwood Groves” by Robert Frost

20 Thursday Feb 2014

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         In Hardwood Groves

The same leaves over and over again!
They fall from giving shade above
To make one texture of faded brown
And fit the earth like a leather glove.

Before the leaves can mount again
To fill the trees with another shade,
They must go down past things coming up.
They must go down into the dark decayed.

They must be pierced by flowers and put
Beneath the feet of dancing flowers.
However it is in some other world
I know that this is way in ours.

“Pan with Us” by Robert Frost

20 Thursday Feb 2014

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                Pan with Us

Pan came out of the woods one day,—
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls were they,—
And stood in the sun and looked his fill
At wooded valley and wooded hill.

He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
On a height of naked pasture land;
In all the country he did command
He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
That was well! and he stamped a hoof.

His heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
Or homespun children with clicking pails
Who see no little they tell no tales.

He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For a sylvan sign that the blue jay’s screech
And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
Were music enough for him, for one.

Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
And the fragile bluets clustered there
Than the merest aimless breath of air.

They were pipes of pagan mirth,
And the world had found new terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
And ravelled a flower and looked away—
Play? Play?—What should he play?

“The Tuft of Flowers” by Robert Frost

20 Thursday Feb 2014

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         “The Tuft of Flowers”

I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been—-alone,

“As all must be,” I said within my heart,
“Whether they work together or apart.”

But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,

Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.

And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

I left my place to know them by their name,
Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

“Men work together,” I told him from the heart,
“Whether they work together or apart.”