Some More of My favourite Poetry

Hello everybody, I am going to be very busy this coming fortnight as I am working Monday to Friday each week of this roster. I will try, to keep up my visiting and posting any time I can find a spare minute. Hope every one is OK out here in blogger land. I have posted some more of my favourite poetry hope you like it.

The Listeners

“Is there anybody there?” said the traveler,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grass
Of the forest’s ferny floor;

And a bird flew out of the turret,
Above the traveler’s head;
And he smote on the door a second time,
“Is there anybody there?” he said.

But no one descended to the traveler;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill,
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners,
That dwelt in the lone house then,
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight,
To that voice from the world of men;

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stairs
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely travelers call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
‘Neath the starred and leafy sky.

For he suddenly smote on the door,
Even louder, and lifted his head……
“Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word he said,” he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house,
From the one man left awake;

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Walter de la Mare

Cargoes

QUINQUIREME of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amythysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

John Masefield

Mrs Gold bloom is playing in the shallows of Hamilton Island with her four year old grandson Aaron on a beautiful sunny day. Suddenly the sky darkens and it starts raining, there’s a clap of thunder, a bolt of lightening and a huge wave crashes onto the shore sweeping Aaron out to sea. With dismay, she looks down at the spot where Aaron used to be then looks up into the heaven and wails, “You call yourself a merciful God? I am an eighty year old woman, I have lived through two world wars, and all sorts of tragedy and you choose to take the apple of my eye, my only grandson, Aaron… You call yourself a merciful God?”

With that there is another clap of thunder, another bolt of lightening and yet another wave crashes onto the beach depositing young Aaron unharmed and laughing, playing with his bucket and spade as if nothing had happened.

Mrs Goldbloom looks down at her grandson, looks up to the sky says to God, “He had a hat.”