Pay me no mind I'm in my head

[Jersey Girl]

The Sound of Trees

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.

~Robert Frost

[Jersey Girl]

The tree-lined streets formed golden archways of autumnal color, and whatever foliage had already fallen
formed a russet carpet that came alive and danced around our wheels as we drove over it.

~ Alex Kefford

[Jersey Girl]

FALL

As leaves turn red, yellow, gold.
It is a vision to behold.
Watch as they fall to the ground,
a winters carpet, hushing sound.
Most every color we have seen,
started off a shade of green.
As they fall out of the sky,
watch the seasons pass us by.
As trees now fall into sleep,
replenish roots, strong and deep.
Mighty limbs stretch up high,
Skeletons as winds rush by.

~Ian T Rowan

[Jersey Girl]

October was a beautiful month at Green Gables, when the birches in the hollow turned as golden as sunshine and the maples behind the orchard were royal crimson and the wild cherry trees along the lane put on the loveliest shades of dark red and bronzy green, while the fields sunned themselves in aftermaths.

Anne reveled in the world of color about her.

“Oh, Marilla,” she exclaimed one Saturday morning, coming dancing in with her arms full of gorgeous boughs, “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn’t it? Look at these maple branches. Don’t they give you a thrill—several thrills? I’m going to decorate my room with them.”

“Messy things,” said Marilla, whose aesthetic sense was not noticeably developed. “You clutter up your room entirely too much with out-of-doors stuff, Anne. Bedrooms were made to sleep in.”

“Oh, and dream in too, Marilla. And you know one can dream so much better in a room where there are pretty things. I’m going to put these boughs in the old blue jug and set them on my table.”

Anne of Green Gables, Chapter 16: Diana is invited to tea with tragic results ~ Lucy Maud Montgomery

[msnobody]

I stepped into your head for a bit, but ran out when I realized I had left my rake behind.

[Father Francis]

I rarely get poetry other than song lyrics and the classic epic poems. The only poets I can say I enjoy are Shel Silverstein, e e Cummings, some of Shakespeare (Macbeth's soliloquy is seared into my mind) and Poe. I read people like Robert Frost and don't feel a thing, which is odd because literature, music and visual arts fill me with emotion. I'll admit that sometimes plays, movies and tv shows can make me cry. When I was in high school I used to wrtie absurdist poems and hand them to girls I had a crush on. I remember one of them quite well, and it went like this:

The cat floats like a piano,
Gently gliding towards the Sun,
Which it swallows,
Then coughs up a baseball,
Fish climb the kennel walls,
Surely Santa and his Holy Reindeer will save us!

[Jersey Girl]

Thumbs

Oh, the thumb-sucker's thumb
May look wrinkled and wet
And withered, and white as the snow,
But the taste of a thumb Is the sweetest taste yet
(As only we thumb-suckers know).

~ Shel Silverstein

[Jersey Girl]

Listen To The Mustn'ts

Listen to Mustn'ts, child, listen to the Don'ts.
Listen to the Shouldn'ts, the Impossibles, the Won'ts.
Listen to the Never Haves, then listen close to me.
Anything can happen, child, Anything can be.

~Shel Silverstein

[Jersey Girl]

The Lovely Shall Be Choosers


The Voice said, "Hurl her down!"

The Voices, "How far down?"

"Seven levels of the world."

"How much time have we?"

"Take twenty years.
She would refuse love safe with wealth and honor!
The lovely shall be choosers, shall they?
Then let them choose!"

"Then we shall let her choose?"

"Yes, let her choose.
Take up the task beyond her choosing."

Invisible hands crowned on her shoulder
In readiness to weigh upon her.
But she stood straight still,
In broad round earrings, gold and jet with pearls,
And broad round suchlike brooch,
Her cheeks high-colored,
Proud and the pride of friends.

The Voice asked, "You can let her choose?"

"Yes, we can let her and still triumph."

"Do it by joys, and leave her always blameless.
Be her first joy her wedding,
That though a wedding,
is yet--well, something they know, he and she.

And after that her next joy
That though she grieves, her grief is secret:
Those friends know nothing of her grief to make it shameful.
Her third joy that though now they cannot help but know,
They move in pleasure too far off
To think much or much care.

Give her a child at either knee for fourth joy
To tell once and once only, for them never to forget,
How once she walked in brightness,
And make them see it in the winter firelight.
But give her friends, for then she dare not tell
For their foregone incredulousness.
And be her next joy this:
Her never having deigned to tell them.
Make her among the humblest even
Seem to them less than they are.

Hopeless of being known for what she has been,
Failing of being loved for what she is,
Give her the comfort for her sixth of knowing
She fails from strangeness to a way of life
She came to from too high too late to learn.

Then send some one with eyes to see
And wonder at her where she is,
And words to wonder in her hearing how she came there,
But without time to linger for her story.
Be her last joy her heart's going out to this one
So that she almost speaks.
You know them--seven in all."

"Trust us," the Voices said.


~Robert Frost

[Jersey Girl]

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

~Robert Frost