~The Dragon Flies' Lair~XVII~

January 9, 2005 | bentfeather and Poets of The Lair

[Soaring Feather]

My Dragon Fly and Me

If I could be a Dragon Fly
and wing my way through the sky
I would never be shy
just me and my Dragon Fly!

By moonlight we ride the wind
chase the comets tail for fun
by day we would hide from the sun
our fragile wings would come undone

On darkest nights we would use
fireflies as our guide
we would dip and we would glide
through the heavens open wide
and scatter diamonds in the night sky
my Dragon Fly and me...

And we would wing past our lovers
silent in the night...
to kiss their face in our flight
much to their surprise and delight
my Dragon Fly and me in sight...

Such a view do we share
away up here in the air
of breezes soft through our hair
my Dragon Fly and me a pair...

bentfeather©

[SAMWolf]

NIGHT MAIL



This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from the bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheepdogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes.

Dawn freshens, the climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends
Towards the steam tugs yelping down the glade of cranes,
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In the dark glens, beside the pale-green sea lochs
Men long for news.

Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from the girl and the boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or visit relations,
And applications for situations
And timid lovers' declarations
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled in the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Notes from overseas to Hebrides
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

Thousands are still asleep
Dreaming of terrifying monsters,
Or of friendly tea beside the band at Cranston's or Crawford's:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
And shall wake soon and long for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

W H Auden

[Soaring Feather]

Good morning, Sam.

NIGHT MAIL
W H Auden

Wonderful poem today - it's so true we do so look forward for the mail, email, just mail and its news beyond us.

Enjoying Marty Robbins today.

Thank You, Sam.

[Soaring Feather]

On this date in history:



In 1856, The American Party, also known as the "Know-Nothing
Party," nominated its first presidential candidate, former
President Millard Fillmore. But, he carried only Maryland
and the party soon vanished.

In 1861, Jefferson Davis was sworn in as provisional
president of the Confederate States of America.

In 1865, after a long siege, Union naval forces captured
Charleston, S.C.

In 1930, Pluto, the outermost planet of the solar system, was
discovered by astronomer Clyde Tombaugh.

In 1967, J. Robert Oppenheimer, the "father of the atomic
bomb," died in Princeton, N.J., at the age of 62.

In 1985, after 18 weeks of testimony, Gen. William
Westmoreland dropped a $120 million libel suit against CBS.

In 1991, one person was killed and 40 more injured when the
IRA bombed two railroad stations in central London.

In 1993, a ferry carrying more than 800 people capsized off
Haiti's western coast, killing at least 150 people and
leaving several hundred more missing and presumed drowned.

Also in 1993, a plane used by missionaries with 13 people
aboard was commandeered at gunpoint in Haiti and flown to
Miami, where the alleged hijacker surrendered.

And in 1993, euthanasia advocate "Dr. Death" Jack Kevorkian
assisted in the suicides of two cancer patients, just three
days after he helped a suburban Detroit man take his own life.

In 1995, Myrlie Evers-Williams, widow of assassinated civil
rights leader Medgar Evers, was elected chairwoman of the
NAACP.

In 2001, a 25-year veteran of the FBI, Robert Hanssen, was
arrested at a park near his suburban Washington home and
charged with spying for the Russians.

Also in 2001, Dale Earnhardt Sr., stock-car racing's top
driver, was killed in a crash in the final turn of the final
lap of the Daytona 500. He was 49.

In 2003, around 200 people died and many more were hurt
in a South Korea subway fire set by a man authorities say
apparently was upset at his doctors.

In 2004, 40 chemical and fuel-laden runaway rail cars
derailed in northeastern Iran, producing a massive explosion
that killed at least 265 people,

[My Melody]

Well Good morning to you Bitty

Is it true cats rule? It`s in your eyes ;)


Do you have a Calico, Du?
See you tonight, your day :)

* Sleep

We sleep, but the loom of life never stops and the pattern which was weaving when the sun went down is weaving when it comes up tomorrow.

Henry Ward Beecher
Life Thoughts

P.S. I took pictures of a most wonderous sunrise this morning. A vivid range of pink to red, contrast tall Mtn`s of pure white snow.

Do you have a favorite between sunrise ~ sunset, or do you prefer moonglow?

daylight :)

[My Melody]

Good morning Bentfeather,

and all Hearts :)



"Night Mail"

This is such a rich poem, so detailed. It takes us everywhere, it moves with feeling....

I hear the train whistle several times each day, I love the sound.

There is a certain smell, walking along side the tracks that I will never forget. I used to find lots of blackberries by them too, the sound of birds and nature all around. Trains have been part of my whole life, a comfort sound.

This is a wonderful poem and I enjoyed it so very much.


Helga, did you make a smorgasbord this morning?

Did you have berry tarts too?
I have blueberries and raspberries from summer yet. Tarts or pie!

but right now,

I have to catch a train.

till soon.....

[Soaring Feather]

Good morning to Alaska gal!!


Ja Helga had some bakes home fry potatoes with cubed ham, sharp cheese, and onion left over from supper last night. Good Brunch food with lot's of coffee.

Getting ready for the afternoon nap, cold today with strong North Winds and occasional snow storms.

[Soaring Feather]

Illuminating the pillars
the flickering lights are
wingless shadows
of juggernauts
like caverns winding
in a night love
huddling to steel
rolling to the zephyr winds
and their earthbound desire
zooming through their hot
decaying human bones

bentfeather
02.15.05

[My Melody]

ja Helga you cook a fine supper den take nap, write poem, den vhat? No dinner?

Vell maybe dere iss sumting here, I find me a herring.

I dont know vherrre yu be...uff`da

Hagar

[Soaring Feather]

Ja, dere Helga she no cook supper tonight. What you have some salty fish and hardtack??

LOL

Dat Hagar, always thinks of his belly, he is gonna wind up in the Long Boat if he not careful.

[Soaring Feather]

Big Mama Thornton~Hound Dog
De Hagar gonna like dis tune!!

[My Melody]

ja now Helga...yu be guud now. :)


It is very quiet here.

Good night for sleeping.

Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows ~

I read this from as essay by Alexander Pope this morning before leaving.

I see zephyr used in your poem tonight.

Sweet sweet sleep ~
dream peaceful

good night *
m m

[SAMWolf]

Good Morning Everybody.

You Know The Drill
Click the pics

Coffee & Donuts

[SAMWolf]

POND NATURE



Pristine crystal pond
Green fish eyes a soaking bug
Splash, rippling, it's gone

Steve Robertson

[LunaRed]

WIND.....The swirling wind met I; with open arms raised toward the sky.The whistling air did shy, I am and then good buy. And through my fingers cool it ran, As if to say, I am, I can.

[Soaring Feather]

Good morning LunaRed,


O wonderful poem this morning.

Precious little gems
you pen
little whirling winds
that sing
and slip through your
fingers as they
had never ever been

[Soaring Feather]

Good morning, Sam!


Another little gem today
they seem to help you
find the way into the
room we call the Lair
they tickle us here and there
well, everywhere

The graphics are always best
on the mark they do not jest
a perfect match manage you do
to keep the theme running thru



Happy day to you Sam and thank you.

[Soaring Feather]

Good morning everyone.

[My Melody]

Wind song

Dancing traveling
Fog white mist cold icy snow
sunshine warmth hoofed buffalo

[My Melody]

Good morning Bentfeather and Lair

Happy *Today* ! :-)

I was reading from Thoreau early this morning.

All that a man has to say or do that can possibly concern mankind, is in some shape or other to tell the story of his love, - to sing; if he is fortunate and keeps alive, he will be forever in love.

Journal


Do not speak for other men; speak for yourself.

Journal

It is vain to write of the seasons unless you have the seasons in you.

Journal

A journal is a record of experiences and growth, not a preserve of things well done and said.

Journal

A journal, is a book that shall contain a record of all your joy, your ectasy.

Journal

Is not the poet bound to write his own biography? Is there any other work for him but a good journal? We do not wish to know his imaginary hero, but how he, the actual hero, lived day to day.

Journal



I was speaking wih a customer only yesterday, about lives and how many people really really know about the other. So often the ones we see everyday, near and dear, do not know all the incidents that shaped our lives, the embarrassments, the criticisms, or the things that brought deep joy.

We spoke about all the books we have collected on the shelves. Does anyone really care? Will they end up in a garage sale, never read by those we care?

It is not accident nor coincidence that I pick up Thoreau this morning. I have not picked up one his books in over a year.

It is Life ~ Happening ~

Today I am to begin a different kind of journal. This one will be

` my song `

my melody

[My Melody]

Thoreau

Journal;

Peaches are unquestionably a very beautiful fruit, but the gathering of them for the market is not nearly so interesting as the gathering of huckleberries for your own use.


How fitting to have every day in a vase of water on your table the wildflowers of the season which are just blossoming!

I know of no object more unsightly to a careless glance than an empty thistle-head, yet, if you examine it closely, it may remind you of the silk-lined cradle in which a prince was rocked.

The great green acorns in broad, shallow cups. How attractive these forms! No wonder they are limited on pumps, fence and bed posts.


How did these beautiful rainbow tints get into the shell of the fresh-water clam buried in the mud at the bottom of our dark river? Even the sea-bottom tells of the upper skies.

Nothing is so sure to make itself known as the truth, for what else waits to be known?


I would rather never taste chickens` meat nor hens` eggs than never to see a hawk sailing through the upper air again.

The hooting of the owl! That sound which my red predecessors heard here more than a thousand years ago. It rings far and wide, occupying the spaces rightfully,- grand, primeval, aboriginal sound.

The poet must continually be watching the moods of his mind, as the astronomer watches the aspects of heavens.

The poet is a man who lives at last by watching his moods. An old poet comes at last to watch his moods as narrowly as a cat does a mouse.

In company, that person who alone can understand you you cannot get out of your mind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Nothing makes the earth seem so spacious as to have friends at a distance; they make the latitudes and longitutes.

Thoreau

Familiar Letters