Can+Poetry+Save+the+Earth?

 Fireflies in the Garden -Robert Frost

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies, And here on earth come emulating flies, That though they never equal stars in size, (And they were never really stars at heart) Achieve at times a very star-like start. Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.

Submitted by Kim Chan

When We Were Here Together by Kenneth Patchen chosen by Lauren Cifelli

When we were here together in a place we did not know, nor one another. A bit of grass held between the teeth for a moment, bright hair on the wind. What we were we did not know, nor even the grass or the flame of hair turning to ash on the wind. But they lied about that. From the beginning they lied. To the child, telling him that there was somewhere anger against him, and a hatred against him, and the only reason for his being in the world. But never did they tell him that the only evil and danger was in themselves; that they alone were the prisoners and the betrayers; that they - they alone - were responsible for what was being done in the world. And they told the child to starve and to kill the child that was within him; for only by doing this could he become a useful and adjusted member of the community which they had prepared for him. And this time, alas, they did not lie. And with the death of the child was born a thing that had neither the character of a man nor the character of a child, but was a horrible and monstrous parody of the two; and it is in this world now that the flesh of man’s spirit lies twisted and despoiled under the indifferent stars.

//Looking Around, Believing// by Gary Soto Submitted by Chloe Stein

How strange that we can begin at any time. With two feet we get down the street. With a hand we undo the rose. With an eye we lift up the peach tree And hold it up to the wind — white blossoms At our feet. Like today. I started In the yard with my daughter, With my wife poking at a potted geranium, And now I am walking down the street, Amazed that the sun is only so high, Just over the roof, and a child Is singing through a rolled newspaper And a terrier is leaping like a flea And at the bakery I pass, a palm, Like a suctioning starfish, is pressed To the window. We're keeping busy — This way, that way, we're making shadows Where sunlight was, making words Where there was only noise in the trees.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Chosen by Samantha Brown code Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.
 * Pslam of Life**

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act to each to-morrow Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us  We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us  Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing Learn to labor and to wait. code Touched by An Angel - Maya Angelou chosen by Kathy DiGiacomo

exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life.
 * We, unaccustomed to courage

Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.

Playgrounds** by Laurence Alma-Tadema

In summer I am very glad We Children are so small, For we can see a thousand things That men can't see at all.

They don't know much about the moss And all the stones they pass: They never lie and play among The forests in the grass:

They walk about a long way off; And, when we're at the sea, Let father stoop as best he can He can't find things like me.

But, when the snow is on the ground And all the puddles freeze, I wish that I were very tall, High up above the trees. -chosen by Rachel Kaufman == **Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein -- (Monica Efman) There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind. Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends. Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends. __Diana Weisman__  ** ==

Of water, water, water.

 * Picture Puzzle Piece** by Shel Silverstein

One picture puzzle piece Lyin' on the sidewalk, One picture puzzle piece Soakin' in the rain. It might be a button of blue On the coat of the woman Who lived in a shoe. It might be a magical bean, Or a fold in the red Velvet robe of a queen. It might be the one little bite Of the apple her stepmother Gave to Snow White. It might be the veil of a bride Or a bottle with some evil genie inside. It might be a small tuft of hair On the big bouncy belly Of Bobo the Bear. It might be a bit of the cloak Of the Witch of the West As she melted to smoke. It might be a shadowy trace Of a tear that runs down an angel's face. Nothing has more possibilities Than one old wet picture puzzle piece. chosen by Terry Ely

There is another sky, Ever serene and fair, And there is another sunshine, Though it be darkness there; Never mind faded forests, Austin, Never mind silent fields - Here is a little forest, Whose leaf is ever green; Here is a brighter garden, Where not a frost has been; In its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum: Prithee, my brother, Into my garden come!
 * __There is Another Sky__**

By Emily Dickenson chosen by Lindsay Bloom

By Robert Frost Submitted By: Sarah Rand The firm house lingers, though averse to square With the new city street it has to wear A number in. But what about the brook That held the house as in an elbow-crook? I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength And impulse, having dipped a finger length And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed A flower to try its currents where they crossed. The meadow grass could be cemented down From growing under pavements of a town; The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame. Is water wood to serve a brook the same? How else dispose of an immortal force No longer needed? Staunch it at its source With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone In fetid darkness still to live and run - And all for nothing it had ever done Except forget to go in fear perhaps. No one would know except for ancient maps That such a brook ran water. But I wonder If from its being kept forever under The thoughts may not have risen that so keep This new-built city from both work and sleep.
 * A Brook in the City

** **__Mushrooms__** Overnight, very Whitely, discreetly, Very quietly Our toes, our noses Take hold on the loam, Acquire the air. Nobody sees us, Stops us, betrays us; The small grains make room. Soft fists insist on  Heaving the needles, The leafy bedding, Even the paving. Our hammers, our rams, Earless and eyeless, Perfectly voiceless, Widen the crannies, Shoulder through holes. We  Diet on water, On crumbs of shadow, Bland-mannered, asking Little or nothing. So many of us! So many of us! We are shelves, we are Tables, we are meek, We are edible, Nudgers and shovers In spite of ourselves. Our kind multiplies: We shall by morning Inherit the earth. Our foot's in the door. By Sylvia Plath Chosen by Angela LoPiccolo

The Armful - by Robert Frost Chosen by - Maximillian Tinati

The Armful by: Robert Frost

For every parcel I stoop down to seize I lose some other off my arms and knees, And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns, Extremes too hard to comprehend at. once Yet nothing I should care to leave behind. With all I have to hold with hand and mind And heart, if need be, I will do my best. To keep their building balanced at my breast. I crouch down to prevent them as they fall; Then sit down in the middle of them all. I had to drop the armful in the road And try to stack them in a better load.

**The Freedom of the Moon by Robert Frost (Michelle Cho) ** I've tried the new moon tilted in the air Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster As you might try a jewel in your hair. I've tried it fine with little breadth of luster, Alone, or in one ornament combining With one first-water start almost shining.

I put it shining anywhere I please. By walking slowly on some evening later, I've pulled it from a crate of crooked trees, And brought it over glossy water, greater, And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow, The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.

Chosen by Bill Murphy**
 * “The Voice of the Man Impatient with Visions and Utopias” by Vachel Lindsay

We find your soft Utopias as white As new-cut bread, and dull as life in cells, O, scribes who dare forget how wild we are How human breasts adore alarum bells. You house us in a hive of prigs and saints Communal, frugal, clean and chaste by law. I’d rather brood in bloody Elsinore Or be Lear’s fool, straw-crowned amid the straw. Promise us all our share in Agincourt Say that our clerks shall venture scorns and death, That future ant-hills will not be too good For Henry Fifth, or Hotspur, or Macbeth. Promise that through to-morrow’s spirit-war Man’s deathless soul will hack and hew its way, Each flaunting Caesar climbing to his fate Scorning the utmost steps of yesterday. Never a shallow jester any more! Let not Jack Falstaff spill the ale in vain. Let Touchstone set the fashions for the wise And Ariel wreak his fancies through the rain.

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune--without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.-Emily Dickinson

submitted by Young Kim

anyone lived in a pretty how town By e. e. cummings (Submitted by Elysia Liang)

anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men (both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april with by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men (both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain

** FIRE AND ICE by Robert Frost submitted by Daniel Wang ** Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favour fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice ** As the Heart Hopes- Lucy Maud Submitted by Max Masur
 * Some say the world will end in fire,

It is a year dear one, since you afar Went out beyond my yearning mortal sight­ A wondrous year! perchance in many a star You have sojourned, or basked within the light Of mightier suns; it may be you have trod The glittering pathways of the Pleiades, And through the Milky Way's white mysteries Have walked at will, fire-shod.

You may have gazed in the immortal eyes Of prophets and of martyrs; talked with seers Learned in all the lore of Paradise, The infinite wisdom of eternal years; To you the Sons of Morning may have sung, The impassioned strophes of their matin hymn, For you the choirs of the seraphim Their harpings wild out-flung.

But still I think at eve you come to me For old, delightsome speech of eye and lip, Deeming our mutual converse thus to be Fairer than archangelic comradeship; Dearer our close communings fondly given Than all the rainbow dreams a spirit knows, Sweeter my gathered violets than the rose Upon the hills of heaven.

Can any exquisite, unearthly morn, Silverly breaking o'er a starry plain, Give to your soul the poignant pleasure born Of virgin moon and sunset's lustrous stain When we together watch them ? Oh, apart A hundred universes you may roam, But still I know­ ­your only home Is here within my heart!

The Crayon Box that Talked by Shane DeRolf submitted by Wakana Horiuchi

While walking in a toy store The day before today, I overheard a Crayon Box With many things to say.

"I don't like red!" said Yellow. And Green said, "Nor do I ! And no one here likes Orange, But no one knows quite why."

"We are a box of crayons that really doesn't get along," Said Blue to all the others. "Something here is wrong!

Well, I bought that box of crayons And took it home with me And laid out all the crayons So the crayons could all see

They watched me as I colored With Red and Blue and Green And Black and White and Orange And every color in between

They watched as Green became the grass And Blue became the sky. The Yellow sun was shining bright On White clouds drifting by.

Colors changing as they touched, Becoming something new. They watched me as I colored. They watched till I was through.

And when I'd finally finished, I began to walk away. And as I did the Crayon box Had something more to say........

"I do like Red!" said the Yellow And Green said, "So do I !" And Blue you are terrific! So high up in the sky."

"We are a Box of Crayons Each of us unique, But when we get together The picture is complete" By Alfred Corn Chosen by Bianca Minuto
 * Promised Land Valley, June '73**

The lake at nightfall is less a lake, but more, with reflection added, so this giant inkblot lies on its side, a bristling zone of black pine and fir at the dark fold of the revealed world.

Interpret this fallen symmetry, scan this water and these water lights, and follow a golden scribble toward the lantern, the guessed boat, the voices that skip across sky to where we stand.

You are vanishing and so am I as everything surrenders color, falling silent to vision. Darkness rises to drown out the sky and silence names us to the asking boat.

Who echoes who in the black mirror? Riddles are answers here at the edge. And still, we can imagine some clear call, a spoken brilliance blazing the trail. . . ourselves moving out across the sky.