Cajun Cottage Under the Oaks

The Bridge Builder

by Will Allen Dromgoole

An old man, going a lone highway, Came, at the evening, cold and gray, To a chasm, vast, and deep, and wide, Through which was flowing a sullen tide. The old man crossed in the twilight dim; The sullen stream had no fears for him; But he turned, when safe on the other side, And built a bridge to span the tide. "Old man," said a fellow pilgrim, near, "You are wasting strength with building here; Your journey will end with the ending day; You never again must pass this way; You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide- Why build you a bridge at the eventide?" The builder lifted his old gray head: "Good friend, in the path I have come," he said, "There followeth after me today, A youth, whose feet must pass this way. This chasm, that has been naught to me, To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be. He, too, must cross in the twilight dim; Good friend, I am building the bridge for him."

Poetry Friday: Where We Do School on Cold, Blustery Autumn Mornings

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The North Wind Doth Blow / The Robin
The North wind doth blow and we shall have snow,
And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?
He'll sit in a barn and keep himself warm
and hide his head under his wing, poor thing.

Back to list of Winter Preschool Songs and Rhymes

The Sugar-Plum Tree

I chose this poem for Poetry Friday (the round-up is over at HipWriterMama) because I so remember a child's love of sweets and candy and a secret Christmas list to Santa Claus which begged for the Candyland game and a personal adoration of Shirley Temple singing I'm the Good Ship Lollipop and a fanciful dream of doing and seeing all the candy-coated lyrics, especially seeing bon-bons play on Peppermint Bay and landing on a chocolate bar.

Oh, how sweet is childhood!

The Sugar-Plum Tree by: Eugene Field (1850-1895)

HaVE you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?

'T is a marvel of great renown!

It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop sea

In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;

The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet

(As those who have tasted it say)

That good little children have only to eat

Of that fruit to be happy next day.

 

When you 've got to the tree, you would have a hard time

To capture the fruit which I sing;

The tree is so tall that no person could climb

To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!

But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,

And a gingerbread dog prowls below--

And this is the way you contrive to get at

Those sugar-plums tempting you so:

 

You say but the word to that gingerbread dog

And he barks with such terrible zest

That the chocolate cat is at once all agog,

As her swelling proportions attest.

And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around

From this leafy limb unto that,

And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground--

Hurrah for that chocolate cat!

 

There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes,

With stripings of scarlet or gold,

And you carry away of the treasure that rains

As much as your apron can hold!

So come, little child, cuddle closer to me

In your dainty white nightcap and gown,

And I 'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree

In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.

Like Lilies on Sand

Like lilies on sand, you will cry of such boldness.

But color and light awakens thee from such rough darkness,

and brings light.

Behold!

Such short notice of thy sweet accent and words.

With such wonderful words is a beautiful voice which brightens the moon with such style as a goose flying to her goslings,

And lights the sky with a smile, lovely, as thy sweet heart.

~ by Chelsea Gibson (age 9)

Poetry Friday: I am a Christian

When I say... "I am a Christian"
I'm not shouting "I'm clean livin."
I'm whispering "I was lost,"
Now I'm found and forgiven.

When I say..."I am a Christian"
I don't speak of this with pride.
I'm confessing that I stumble
and need CHRIST to be my guide.

When I say... "I am a Christian"
I'm not trying to be strong.
I'm professing that I'm weak
and need HIS strength to carry on.

When I say... "I am a Christian"
I'm not bragging of success.
I'm admitting I have failed
and need God to clean my mess.

When I say... "I am a Christian"
I'm not claiming to be perfect,
My flaws are far too visible
but, God believes I am worth it.

When I say... "I am a Christian"
I still feel the sting of pain,
I have my share of heartaches
So I call upon His name.

When I say... "I am a Christian"
I'm not holier than thou,
I'm just a simple sinner
who received God's good grace, somehow.

Poem credited to Carol Wimmer

Poetry Friday: Stopped We Did Much to Mr. Frost's Grief

I just realized we left Robert Frost sitting on his "...little horse..." stopping by woods on a snowy evening.

My children "...ask(ed) if there is some mistake".  We only learned the first stanza this whole week.

I know, I know... it's "...the darkest evening of the year...the woods are lovely, dark, and deep" and "his woods (are) fill(ing) up with snow."

But, sometimes, that's life and you just have to sit and wait and be patient.  Of course, we all have "promises to keep" so, be assured, we'll be back to rescue him on Monday.

(Image from Picture.net)

In honor of Poetry Friday:

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

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.

Chelsea Morning

Because I am blessed to have a "Chelsea" morning every morning... Lyrics for: Chelsea Morning by Joni Mitchell

Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I heard Was a song outside my window, and the traffic wrote the words It came a-reeling up like Christmas bells, and rapping up like pipes and drums Oh, won't you stay We'll put on the day And we'll wear it 'till the night comes Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I saw Was the sun through yellow curtains, and a rainbow on the wall Blue, red, green and gold to welcome you, crimson crystal beads to beckon Oh, won't you stay We'll put on the day There's a sun show every second Now the curtain opens on a portrait of today And the streets are paved with passersby And pigeons fly And papers lie Waiting to blow away Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I knew There was milk and toast and honey and a bowl of oranges, too And the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses Oh, won't you stay We'll put on the day And we'll talk in present tenses When the curtain closes and the rainbow runs away I will bring you incense owls by night By candlelight By jewel-light If only you will stay Pretty baby, won't you Wake up, it's a Chelsea morning

Poetry Friday ~ E.E. Cummings

<p><a onclick="window.open(this.href, '_blank', 'width=245,height=379,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0'); return false" href="http://caygibson.typepad.com/.shared/image.html?/photos/uncategorized/cummings.jpg"></a><a onclick="window.open(this.href, '_blank', 'width=245,height=379,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0'); return false" href="http://caygibson.typepad.com/.shared/image.html?/photos/uncategorized/cummings_1.jpg"><img title="Cummings_1" height="309" alt="Cummings_1" src="https://caygibson.typepad.com/cays_cajun_cottage/images/cummings_1.jpg" width="200" border="0" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 5px 5px 0px" /></a>Since today is known as Poetry Friday in the blog world, I thought I'd share the poet Princess is studying at the moment.&nbsp; She was assigned <a href="http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/a_f/cummings/cummings.htm">poet E.E. Cummings</a>.&nbsp; At first she was disappointed and lamented that a friend had gotten<a href="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/126"> Walt Whitman</a> whom she would have preferred.&nbsp; I lamented with her because I know a thing or two about Walt's poetry and we could have enjoyed researching him together.</p> <p><span style="color: #663300;">A poem should not mean<br />But be.<br />~Archibald MacLeish, <em>Ars Poetica</em>, 1926</span><br /><br />I consoled her that it's always nice to learn about a new poet and to enjoy the adventure.</p> <p>She did.&nbsp; She has.&nbsp; She's excited with Cummings poetry and, upon reading some of his poems, I'm not sure why.&nbsp; Perhaps I'm missing the boat here.&nbsp; Perhaps I'm just not into Modern American Poetry.&nbsp; </p> <p>Much of his poetry seems lovey-dovey...sickeningly so.&nbsp; Perhaps that is what appeals to a sixteen-yr-old's heart and soul.&nbsp; To the practical mind of a forty-yr-old mother, it's a little...much. </p> <p>Still I'm glad to see my daughter has an excitement and appreciation for poetry-in-general and my role is to follow her along her chosen path and enjoy the scenery with her.</p> <p>I think it's time she and I share a moment with the <em><a href="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5705">Dead Poets Society</a>.</em></p> <p>Here is one of Cummings' poems that I could tolerate:<a name="strangers"></a></p><blockquote dir="ltr"><center><u><strong><span style="font-size: 1.2em;">if strangers meet</span> </strong></u></center></blockquote><pre>if strangers meet life begins- not poor not rich (only aware) kind neither nor cruel (only complete) i not not you not possible; only truthful -truthfully,once if strangers(who deep our most are selves)touch: forever (and so to dark) </pre><blockquote dir="ltr"><div><pre><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Georgia"><span style="color: #663300;">We don't read and write poetry because</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Georgia"><span style="color: #663300;"><span style="FONT-FAMILY: Georgia"><span style="color: #663300;">it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering -- these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love -- these are what we stay alive for. ~ <em>Dead Poets Society</em></span></span></span></span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">&nbsp;</p> </pre></div></blockquote>

Poetry Friday ~ E.E. Cummings

Since today is known as Poetry Friday in the blog world, I thought I'd share the poet Princess is studying at the moment.  She was assigned poet E.E. Cummings.  At first she was disappointed and lamented that a friend had gotten Walt Whitman whom she would have preferred.  I lamented with her because I know a thing or two about Walt's poetry and we could have enjoyed researching him together.

A poem should not mean
But be.
~Archibald MacLeish, Ars Poetica, 1926

I consoled her that it's always nice to learn about a new poet and to enjoy the adventure.

She did.  She has.  She's excited with Cummings poetry and, upon reading some of his poems, I'm not sure why.  Perhaps I'm missing the boat here.  Perhaps I'm just not into Modern American Poetry. 

Much of his poetry seems lovey-dovey...sickeningly so.  Perhaps that is what appeals to a sixteen-yr-old's heart and soul.  To the practical mind of a forty-yr-old mother, it's a little...much.

Still I'm glad to see my daughter has an excitement and appreciation for poetry-in-general and my role is to follow her along her chosen path and enjoy the scenery with her.

I think it's time she and I share a moment with the Dead Poets Society.

Here is one of Cummings' poems that I could tolerate:

if strangers meet

if strangers meet
life begins-
not poor not rich
(only aware)
kind neither
nor cruel
(only complete)
i not not you
not possible;
only truthful
-truthfully,once
if strangers(who
deep our most are
selves)touch:
forever

(and so to dark)

We don't read and write poetry because

it's cute. We read and write poetry 
because we are members of the human 
race. And the human race is filled with 
passion. And medicine, law, business, 
engineering -- these are noble pursuits 
and necessary to sustain life. But 
poetry, beauty, romance, love -- these 
are what we stay alive for. ~ Dead Poets Society


 

Poetry Friday

<p align="center"><strong><span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a onclick="window.open(this.href, '_blank', 'width=350,height=274,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,toolbar=no,directories=no,location=no,menubar=no,status=no,left=0,top=0'); return false" href="http://caygibson.typepad.com/.shared/image.html?/photos/uncategorized/baby.gif"><img title="Baby" height="117" alt="Baby" src="https://caygibson.typepad.com/cays_cajun_cottage/images/baby.gif" width="149" border="0" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 5px 5px 0px" /></a>Negligent Mary</span></strong></p> <p align="center"><span style="font-size: 0.8em;">AH, Mary! what, do you for dolly not care?<br />And why is she left on the floor?<br />Forsaken, and cover’d with dust, I declare;<br />With you I must trust her no more.</span></p> <p align="center"><span style="font-size: 0.8em;">I thought you were pleased, as you took her so gladly,<br />When on your birthday she was sent;<br />Did I ever suppose you would use her so sadly?<br />Was that, do you think, what I meant?</span></p> <p align="center"><span style="font-size: 0.8em;">With her bonnet of straw you once were delighted,<br />And trimm’d it so pretty with pink;<br />But now it is crumpled, and dolly is slighted:<br />Her nurse quite forgets her, I think.</span></p> <p align="center"><span style="font-size: 0.8em;">Suppose now–for Mary is <em>dolly</em> to me,<br />Whom I love to see tidy and fair–<br />Suppose I should leave you, as dolly I see,<br />In tatters, and comfortless there.</span></p> <p align="center"><span style="font-size: 0.8em;">But dolly feels nothing, as you do, my dear,<br />Nor cares for her negligent nurse:<br />If I were as careless as you are, I fear,<br />Your lot, and my fault, would be worse.</span></p> <p align="center"><span style="font-size: 0.8em;">And therefore it is, in my Mary, I strive<br />To check every fault that I see:<br />Mary’s doll is but waxen–mamma’s is alive,<br />And of far more importance than she.<br /><strong><a href="http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/taylor/little-ann/la-mary.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #909d73;">~Isaac Taylor~</span></a></strong></span></p> <p align="center">~~.~~.~~.~~</p> <p align="center">(I saved this from someone's blog to share on Poetry Friday and now can't remember whose blog I snatched it from.&nbsp; &nbsp;So, my apoligies for being as negligent as little Mary.)</p>