Junior Ganymede
We endeavor to give satisfaction


August 15th, 2017 by G.

The school year here just started.  The ‘caution: school’ yellow lights were blinking, there was a snarl of traffic, kids walking on the sidewalks with enormous backpacks, little piles of fresh notebooks and pencils in the home.  In short, there is the feeling of a change of season in the air.  The feeling affected me.  It made me want to read poetry. (more…)

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August 15th, 2017 05:50:40

Spring Seedlings

March 01st, 2017 by G.

Jiffy Planter Review | Life Simplified

Small tomato sprouts,

in their greenhouse, do not know

the harsh wind of spring.

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March 01st, 2017 07:44:07

Red Canyon, Manzanos

April 18th, 2016 by G.

Mountain canyon mist,

snow falls on ferns and spring grass,

the swift creek gives voice.


Laughing, children cross

from rock to rock.  The family

chatter echoes with the creek’s.

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April 18th, 2016 08:59:50

The Muse of Goobers Strikes Again

March 16th, 2016 by G.

Wear your bolo solo
and never in a pair.
It’s haute couture for those who dare
like models in their underwear.

Turquoise blue and silver too,
The bolo tie’s the tie for you,
Manly, rugged, and quite prieux,
You’re the cock-a-doodle-doo.

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March 16th, 2016 08:38:43

The Falconer of God

February 18th, 2016 by G.

I flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying.
I said, “Wait on, wait on, while I ride below!
I shall start a heron soon
In the marsh beneath the moon—
A strange white heron rising with silver on its wings,
Rising and crying
Wordless, wondrous things;
The secret of the stars, of the world’s heart-strings
The answer to their woe.
Then stoop thou upon him, and grip and hold him so!”

My wild soul waited on as falcons hover.
I beat the reedy fens as I trampled put.
I heard the mournful loon
In the marsh beneath the moon.
And then, with feathery thunder, the bird of my desire
Broke from the cover
Flashing silver fire.
High up among the stars I saw his pinions spire.
The pale clouds gazed aghast
As my falcon stooped upon him, and gript and held him fast.

My soul dropped through the air—with heavenly plunder?—
Gripping the dazzling bird my dreaming knew?
Nay! but a piteous freight,
A dark and heavy weight
Despoiled of silver plumage, its voice forever stilled—
All of the wonder
Gone that ever filled
Its guise with glory. O bird that I have killed,
How brilliantly you flew
Across my rapturous vision when first I dreamed of you!

Yet I fling my soul on high with new endeavor,
And I ride the world below with a joyful mind.
I shall start a heron soon
In the marsh beneath the moon—
A wondrous silver heron its inner darkness fledges!
I beat forever
The fens and the sedges.
The pledge is still the same—for all disastrous pledges,
All hopes resigned!
My soul still flies above me for the quarry it shall find!

-Stephen Vincent-Benet

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February 18th, 2016 12:04:23

Blessed is the Road

February 12th, 2016 by G.

Blessed is the road that keeps us homeless.
Blessed is the mountain that blocks our way.

Blessed are hunger and thirst, loneliness and all forms of desire.
Blessed is the labor that exhausts us without end.

Blessed are the night and the darkness that blinds us.
Blessed is the cold that teaches us to feel.

-Gioia. From a review by blog friend Huston. I ordered Gioia’s collection on the strength of the review.

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February 12th, 2016 09:37:24

Tennyson Tolkien

February 05th, 2016 by G.

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February 05th, 2016 08:53:42

A Father Sees a Son Nearing Manhood

December 11th, 2015 by G.

A father sees a son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?
‘Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.’
And this might stand him for the storms
and serve him for humdrum and monotony
and guide him amid sudden betrayals
and tighten him for slack moments.
‘Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy.’
And this too might serve him.
Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.
The growth of a frail flower in a path up
has sometimes shattered and split a rock.
A tough will counts. So does desire.
So does a rich soft wanting.

Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
Tell him too much money has killed men
And left them dead years before burial:
The quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs
Has twisted good enough men
Sometimes into dry thwarted worms.
Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.
Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.

Tell him to be alone often and get at himself
and above all tell himself no lies about himself
whatever the white lies and protective fronts
he may use amongst other people.
Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong
and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.
Tell him to be different from other people
if it comes natural and easy being different.
Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.
Let him seek deep for where he is a born natural.
Then he may understand Shakespeare
and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,
Michael Faraday and free imaginations
bringing changes into a world resenting change.
He will be lonely enough
to have time for the work
he knows as his own.

-thus Carl Sandberg

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December 11th, 2015 09:19:09

In dream I met the Faery Queen

November 20th, 2015 by G.

Centuries passed on Middle Earth – My story
Remains, inspires, enchants – is garbled.
But truth persists. The Eildon Hills
Still cast enchantment wide into the world.

-from Bruce Charlton

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November 20th, 2015 10:56:14


September 19th, 2015 by G.

I AM riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains of the nation.
Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall pass to ashes.)
I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he answers: “Omaha.”

Limited, by Carl Sandburg.  Hat tip to Leo.

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September 19th, 2015 10:45:52

One of Frost’s Lovely Poems

February 11th, 2015 by G.

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February 11th, 2015 10:21:29

Trial by Existence, Frost

December 16th, 2014 by G.


Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
Wide fields of asphodel fore’er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still to dare.

The light of heaven falls whole and white
And is not shattered into dyes,
The light for ever is morning light;
The hills are verdured pasture-wise;
The angel hosts with freshness go,
And seek with laughter what to brave;—

-thus Frost. The poem goes on, but not nearly so well. In fairness, though, anything would be letdown after the line ‘wide fields of asphodel forever.’

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December 16th, 2014 12:30:24

Cold iron

December 14th, 2014 by Vader

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December 14th, 2014 22:41:04

Thanksgiving Poetry of a Sort

November 27th, 2014 by G.

Inside every Thanksgiving there is a bout of bad poetry struggling to get out. So my muse informed me yesterday. Behold, my chickadees, and give thanks you were not also so afflicted. (more…)

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November 27th, 2014 09:59:26

Scratching the Itch for Rhyme

June 04th, 2014 by G.

Me and the girls are reciting Ogden Nash to each other these days. I’ve always liked him (him and Barbara Fritchie) and now the girls are liking him too. (more…)

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June 04th, 2014 08:30:32