Song of Years

Was just randomly scribbling this while thinking of him. I wasn't able to put the date when I did made this. But here it is.

by: Robert Frost

Molly, Duchess Of Nona Maurice Howlett Little Novel Of Italy

by: Robert Browning

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
looking as if she were alive. I call
that piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf’s hands
worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read
strangers like you that pictured countenance,
the depth and passion of its earnest glance,
but to myself they turned (since none puts by
the curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
and seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
how such a glance came there; so, not the first
are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
her husband’s presence only, called that spot
of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
must never hope to reproduce the faint
half-flush that dies along her throat”: such stuff
was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
for calling up that spot of joy. She had

by: Francis C. Macasantos

It would be nice to have a house
with a yard big enough to put a garden in.
In front of the house, of course, facing the sunrise.
I suppose they must have gardens and gardens of these
out there in the country, where they came from...
So early in the morning yet, yes?
Jeepload of them I hear.
Only, I never get to wake up that early.
It must be nice to have a job like that...
Just pick them at early dawn
and you've got room and board, yes?
It would be nice to put them under the pillow-cover
and let their sweet perfume put you to sleep.
But how would I know where they end up
before I get to sleep, somewhere?
The poor things... they gey wilted and dusty
at the end of the day. But my customers don't complain.
Mommy says to smile and offer up the garland
Until the fellow bends. Ha! Ha! Then you can see his scalp!
But you must gently shake your head if he dig for some coins.

by: Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.

by: Rene Estrella Amper

Pete, old friend;
there isn't really much change
in our hometown since you left.

This morning I couldn't find anymore
the grave of Simeona, the cat we buried
at the foot of Miguel's Mango tree,
when we were in grade four,
after she was hit by a truck while crossing
the street. The bulldozer has messed it up
while making the feeder road into the mountains
to reach the hearts of the farmers.
The farmers come down every Sunday
to sell their agony and their sweat for
a few pesos, lose in the cockpit or get
drunk on the way home.

For years now, I have been so curious of the meaning of this song by Simon and Garfunkel that finally I did a research on the internet. It turned out, this was an old English Ballad that could date back to the 1600  and is similar to the Elfin Knight tale. So many versions have already been made to this tale that it is quite hard to know which is the original (if ever the original version could be traced).

Compared with the popular song we know today, I find this version, published in 1889, more beautiful because of the exchange of conversation between the two lovers with each one demanding some impossible task to be performed by the other. Although love for them is conditional and will greatly depend on the task being carried out, yet somehow the reader knows that the lovers will be able to perform them. And although both show hesitancy in giving their hearts to the other, yet the reader also knows that they are madly in love with each other but is just being coy and coquettish thus, making the dialogue graceful and witty.

As to Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme, I have always interpreted them as representing a season of the year and that the lovers, no matter when, will always love each other. However, upon research, it turned out that none of them matched my interpretation  and the one which I liked was that Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme are ingredients for a love potion and that the repetition is necessary in order for the concoction to be more stronger. The reader now then is given an image of a witch (a beautiful one I should say) in a hut chanting and dancing while mixing a potion in a big steaming cauldron.

I always tease my escort and sometimes call him my knight in shining armor. He laughs whenever I do that and he in turn calls me "chinita". The joking is really fun and gets me in the mood throughout the day especially when he wakes me up very early in the morning with his message and initiates the teasing. Yes, it's pathetic, but fun anyway.

Now I haven't told my escort yet that I once made a poem entitled "My Knight" back when I was still in High School. I am currently on the process of getting to know him better and there are of course, still some things that I am holding back from him. I will not reveal everything yet. I will only do that when I am already married to him.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

"Thou art a fool"; said my head to my heart,
"Indeed, the greatest fools thou art,
to be led astray by the trickle of tears,
by a smiling face or a ribbon smart."
And my heart was in sore distress.


Then Phyllis came by, and her face was fair,
The light gleamed soft on her raven hair;
And her lips were blooming a rosy red.
Then my heart spoke out with a right bold air,
"Thou art worse than a fool, O head!"

I will tell you the story of Jonathan Brown
The wealthiest man in Vanastorbiltown.
He had lands, he had houses, and factories and stocks,
Good gilt-edged investments, as solid as rocks.
"Every thing that I have," he so frequently said,
"Shall belong to the Lord just as soon as I'm dead."

So he made out his will, with particular care,
A few hundred here, a few thousand there.

For the little home church in the village close by
He planned a new building with spire so high,
And chimes to be heard from miles upon miles,
And deep crimson carpet all down its long aisles.
For his pastor, a new home, with rooms large and nice;
For the village library, a generous slice.
And then he remembered a college,
Where young folks were taught the essentials of knowledge.
The promising son of his very best friend
To prepare for the ministry he planned to send.
He'd pay for his board and his room and tuition,
Expecting the lad to fulfill a great mission.

Since it's a new year, thought I might post the very first poem I wrote when I was still a sophomore in high school. And brave as I might seem to be, I am compelled to add that I do this with downcast eyes and a blush on my cheeks because I am posting it the way I wrote it back then. Though I am very much tempted to edit all the wrong tenses, still I am prevented by my 'better nature' to not do anything and just leave things the way they are. After all, it is nice to laugh at yourself once in a while.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea sands damp and brown
The traveler hastens toward the town,
     And the tide rises, the tide falls.


Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft white hands,
Efface the footprints in the sands,
     And the tide rises, the tide falls.


The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveler to the shore,
     And the tide rises, the tide falls.

"Do you love Me?"
Was Your piercing question
I immediately answered You
"Of course Lord, You know I do".

Again You asked, "Do you love Me?"
I quickly answered "Yes!"
Thinking of the many blessings
And the graciousness sent.

Again You asked, "Do you love Me?"
I hesitated for a moment
I thought about the sufferings ahead
I answered, "Maybe Lord".

Again You asked, "Do you love Me?"
I did not answer You
I was thinking of my losses
But instead I said, "Do You?"

by: Robert Frost

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

(road - decisions
It is the consequences of the decisions you did not choose to follow)