Bringing Home the Treasures

Ships Returning Home

by Max Ehrmann

We are all ships returning home
laden with life’s experience,
memories of work, good times and sorrows,
each with his special cargo.
And it is our common lot to show
the marks of the voyage,
here a shattered prow, there a patched
rigging, and every hulk
turned black by the unceasing
batter of the restless wave.
May we be thankful for fair weather
and smooth seas, and in times of storm,
have the courage and patience
that mark every good mariner.
And over all, may we have
the cheering hope of joyful meetings,
as our ship at last drops anchor in
the still water of the eternal harbor.


My response to today’s WordPress prompt: fortune

In spite of all the tales about its ancient origins, the Desiderada was also written by Max Ehrmann, 1872-1945.

Old Poets

By Joyce Kilmer

If I should live in a forest
And sleep underneath a tree,
No grove of impudent saplings
Would make a home for me.

I’d go where the old oaks gather,
Serene and good and strong,
And they would not sigh and tremble
And vex me with a song.

The pleasantest sort of poet
Is the poet who’s old and wise,
With an old white beard and wrinkles
About his kind old eyes.

For these young flipperti-gibbets
A-rhyming their hours away
They won’t be still like honest men
And listen to what you say.

The young poet screams forever
About his sex and his soul;
But the old man listens, smokes his pipe,
And polishes its bowl.


There should be a club for poets
Who have come to seventy year.
They should sit in a great hall drinking
Red wine and golden beer.

They would shuffle in of an evening,
Each one to his cushioned seat,
And there would be mellow talking
And silence rich and sweet.

There is no peace to be taken
With poets who are young,
For they worry about the wars to be fought
And the songs that must be sung.

But the old man knows that he’s in his chair
And that God’s on His throne in the sky.
So he sits by the fire in comfort
And he lets the world spin by.


Alfred Joyce Kilmer, born 1886 in New Brunswick, NJ, USA, was killed
in action in World War I, never obtaining this mellow state he writes of.

Wild Flower….

Are you in the mood for something whimsical today? I came across this poem several days ago and thought you readers might enjoy it as much as I did.
Thanks M-R for allowing me to Reblog your lovely poem.

Montana Rose Photography

dsc_4113I often wonder what it’s like
To be a little wild flower
Lost amongst the others
Out in a big ole field
Bending in the wind
Basking in the sun
Soaking up the rain
It’s the same old story
A little bit cliché really
Still…it doesn’t stop me
From wishing it was so
To be a little wild flower
Dancing in a field of snow

Or maybe something like that. I don’t know really.  Just words rumbling around in my head.  This picture was taken on my trip last year.  I stopped a little place in Wisconsin. No idea what it was called. I remember being disappointed with the actual destination in that area, but I got a few good shots.

This obviously isn’t the original picture. I mean, in a sense.  I played around with it. I like it better this way. I hope that you do too.


View original post 8 more words

Of Empty Wallets and Washing Gifts

While I’m on the subject of haiku this morning, Mark Redfearn’s haiku about after-Christmas window-shopping gave me a chuckle.

And today I must tackle Mount Wash-more, as the FlyLady calls it, which brings to mind another after-Christmas scenario:
New year’s laundry
my red towel gift set
pinks hubby’s pjs

If you enjoy haiku, Mark consistently posts some of the best verses I’ve ever read. Another haikuist, Charlotte Digregorio, posts a collection and often showcases other writers on her blog. Who doesn’t love the rush and whistle of a train? Here’s a verse she’s posted that I really like, written by UK haiku poet Alan Summers.

I also follow poets Bill Bisgood at The Write Idea — here’s one of his verses I enjoyed and you will, too — and Ron Evans at Haiku Odyssey. Here’s one of his haiku. Ron moved this fall, so his site has been inactive for awhile. (Hope all went well with that, Ron?)

Though I haven’t written many this year, I’ve posted all my haiku at Treetop Haiku.

I think everyone should try their hand at haiku — or short verses of that kind. It takes mind-power to get a whole thought condensed into a few syllables without sounding thrill-less. Like:
I went for a walk
saw footprints in the snow
someone else has been here

Haiku is not just a line of words strung together. It takes skill to compose a verse with a twist, something that makes a reader think or imagine without giving them the answer. For example, here’s mine about a scarecrow – which in Japanese haiku symbolism represents an old man or old person.

Too telling, IMO:
this sorry scarecrow
grown stiff in autumn frosts
wishes for summer days

My final version:
this sorry scarecrow
grown stiff in autumn frosts
sighs for the tasseling corn

Which one do you prefer?

The Ugly Quarrel

I posted this some time ago on another blog, but it suits the Daily Prompt word so here it is again:


An ugly quarrel showed its face
and ripped apart some brothers.
It gobbled up their happiness
and quickly spread to others.
Then someone said, “I’m sorry,”
and another, “I was wrong”
And another, “Let’s start over,”
and began to sing a song.

The ugly quarrel wilted.
Indeed, it lost its punch.
No longer did it rip at joy
And gobble it for lunch.
A little love and courtesy,
Like sunlight on the frost,
Had melted all ill feelings,
And the quarrel just got lost.


This poem was written by my dear friend, Margaret Penner Toews
and published in her book, FLY HIGH MY KITE
Printed by Lee Printing, Burns, KS 66840

Margaret’s poem books:
Five Loaves and Two Small Fish
Fly High My Kite (children’s poems)
First A Fire
Fourth Watch
All are available from Gospel Publishers
E-mail address:

The Art of Discovery


by Edgar Guest

A skylark of a by-gone day
mounted the sky
singing its long familiar lay–
and passing by
went men and women up and down
with hearts unstirred.
Theirs was the business of the town–
but Shelley heard.

The air had borne those liquid notes
for ages long;
from countless million golden throats
had poured that song,
and still the people sold and bought
and toiled for fame.
’Tis but a bird that sings, they thought
’Til Shelley came.

Enraptured by that lovely thing
and touched with pain,
with every nerve set quivering
like leaves in rain,
he stood the while the twilight rang
with chords divine,
and caught the song the skylark sang
in deathless line.

Who knows what beauty and what grace
are hidden still
buried among the commonplace
of mart and mill,
waiting with patience through the years,
as did the lark,
until the genius appears
their charms to mark?

From the book, The Friendly Way
© 1931 by the Reilly & Lee Co.

Daily Prompt Word: Pleasure