“A poem begins with a lump in the throat…
a homesickness or a lovesickness…
A complete poem is one where emotion has found its thought
and the thought has found words.”   Robert Frost

The written word
should be clean as bone,
clear as light,
firm as stone.
Two words are not
as good as one.   Anon.

On the Grasshopper and Cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead,
That is the grasshopper’s – he takes the lead
In Summer luxury – he has never done
With his delights, for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a long winter evening when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stone there shrills
The cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost;
The grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

                                                John Keats    (1795-1821)

Spring Poetry (Updated 10/29/21)

Summer Poetry (Updated 11/19/21)

Fall Poetry (Updated 10/15/21)

Winter Poetry (Updated 10/29/21)

Labrador Poetry (Updated 11/9/21)

Bird Poetry (Updated 6/21/21)

Sky Poetry (Updated 10/1/21)

Other Poetry (Updated 10/29/21)