Best Sandburg Poems
“Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.” – Carl Sandburg.
Glowing like the roused firefly glows,
Stirring souls, poetry just knows,
Love, fire, boldest winds of desire,
Rains blessing, song without a choir.
Words pouring out soft, gentle prose,
Glowing like the roused firefly glows,
Glistening dreams, love to extremes,
Beckoning from silence that screams.
Dance of dances, fluid verses,
Poetry that grace coerces,
Glowing like the roused firefly glows,
Poems who don’t just tell but shows.
Rhymes and rhythms, tenderly abide,
Singing of light, sometimes wild-eyed,
Hearts might remain in the shadows,
Glowing like the roused firefly glows,
Categories:
sandburg, appreciation, muse, poems, poetry,
Form:
Quatern
They wouldn’t let me be White
Oh I wanted to be
Dreams of that Pulitzer haunted me
They said, Sir, you have ten minutes to play
I gave them Milton, Poe and Millay
I stood before that panel
Like I was auditioning for Jesus On judgment day
I belted out those rhymes like Sandburg
Gave them sweet elegant words
I gave them personification and anapest
Gave them Trochee with syllables unstressed
I played those Robert Frost Blues
Those Road less traveled Blues
Those Thomas Hardy
going down on the Titanic Blues-
And they said, Son, You could be the greatest
Since Langston Hughes!
And oh I was out of sight
Switched up / Got Fancy
Moved the stressed syllable
From the middle to the right
But still they wouldn’t let me be White
I had every judge popping their fingers
Moving their heads from left to right
So I took a bow
And smiled up at those lights
I gave them Dickinson, Browning and Keats
Oh I had those White judges on their feet
I played until they saw stars
A judge leaned over and said,
You remind me so much of- What’s his name?
Paul Lawrence Dunbar
I played Eliot I played Cummings
I played Stevens too
I had those White Poets out of their shoes
Oh I lifted them a hundred miles off the ground
But when they came down
They said, You could be the next Sterling Brown
I said, Come on! Get out of town!
I closed that audition with my best Haiku
They said, M.e. Don’t take this wrong we like you
I took a final bow I had performed to their delight
But still they wouldn’t let me be White
Categories:
sandburg, allegory, anxiety, black african
Form:
Quatrain
Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire
smokestacks, waffles, pansies, people,
and purple sunsets.
Carl Sandburg
PURPLE PANSIES
A pensive-pansy bouquet,
vibrant diffusion of lot,
Borscht belt, Catskill-sunshine core,
platonic petals of thought.
Purple pansies are childhood,
of God’s wide-eyed creation,
innocence in royal cloak,
a roused imagination.
Deft purpleness recollects,
not grandma’s frilly feast days -
a sixty’s mod Easter dress,
painted nails of royal praise.
Fresh fairyland apogee
o’er green-sea, circular bowl.
Petal’s shades of light and dark -
a poet’s purple, vibrant soul.
6/1/2022
Purple Flowers Poetry Contest
used Rhymezone and HMS
Categories:
sandburg, flower,
Form:
Rhyme
Where is the great engine of life?
How many mechanics does it take
to keep it running smooth as a baby's bottom?
All those wheels and sockets and spindles ---
must need great care;
The scientists say that if it ever broke down ---
it wouldn't matter!
Its merely made of parts ---
ordered from some non-existent wholesaler ---
the great garage of cells and atoms (now dark matter)
Even the most callous child knows
that great engines do not merely happen,
but are created by great minds...
It seems we must put some of these 'great scientific minds'
into a new category of stupid:
(they would make terrible mechanics)
(A la Carl Sandburg, whom I admire deeply)
Categories:
sandburg, creation, humor, life, science,
Form:
Free verse
It is like a drunk
or addict reaching that 'so called' stopping off point. That point
where one can't imagine life with or without the fix. Writing is like that.
Obsessive, progressive, addictive. A fix. Scribes need it to 'feed the rat.'
Recently I have felt
overwhelmed reading all of the BFAs and MFAs out there, being at most an
amateur ham and egger myself. Writers all strive arduously to organize words
into some form or message that people enjoy. That touches them. That they
identify with.
I've dreamt of hearing,
"Ahh, your words meant so much to me!" And, immediately I fall into
delusional dreams of people swooning. This helplessly addicted novice would
be left to wallow, pro tempore, in the juices of their nouveau riche, yet
auspicious skills? It is simply not like that though, people!
Most of the time
writing is line by line, meter by meter, and word beside word. Then edit,
clip, and rewrite. And all of that to be a novice 'ham and egger.'
Look at
E.E. Cummings, James Agee, Carl Sandburg, Ernest Dowson, Gana Gioia.
All of them capable of writing something complete, abiding, and significant
in less than sixty words.
So significant that
one can return to read and reflect upon the words all the years of a life.
No chance of my ever
writing something compelling like one of those guys? Maybe, I could channel
an inner Dylan Thomas? Perhaps, if I touched the oxfords of Dr. Seuss?
Now, there is a good plan! That Sam I Am, That Sam I Am,
I do not like that Sam..............E-I-E-I-O!
Perhaps, if I had voted for Barack Obama I would be
more sensitive and artistic? All muses, artists, and
sensitive people vote Democratic, don't they? ---
Yes, that's it! If I change my voter registration I'll suddenly
awake one day with all of the angst and existentialist ardor
of Sartre or Dostoyevsky!...........................****, not a chance.
A better strategy might be
to write poetry for all of the right reasons. It is very much worthwhile
expression and communication in our age. It is an accomplishment if
even a handful of people every read the words. Poetry is still important
today. Its benefits enable the author to 'dig the well' of their life experience
deeper with every topic completed.
The words are there. All one has to do is gather them fearlessly!
Categories:
sandburg, appreciation, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
Another World Series
I lay down and watched
as the Cubs
won it in ten
A victory after one hundred and eight years of frustration
My hometown team - the Mets
didn't mention it this year
but I salute the Cubs of Chicago
Carl Sandburg wrote of that metropolis and
wrote of baseball
Thousands upon thousands
of fans
in
the
stands
cry out
for the their team
After the struggle
I pick up a pen - write this ode
about the field of dreams
Categories:
sandburg, baseball,
Form:
Concrete
MINI VACATION
sweetness of four days
off in a row
to pitter, to dream, to combat
the clutter and dust, even the walls
how have i missed that? to dream
on paper with dot to dots, morse
code – oh, help-me-not! so relaxed
like a mini vacation 24/7 – no rush
the slow grind of coffee beans –
taking moment to filter the smell through
my nose, the ah and ah, having time
on my side. the interlude of grands
their giggle girl laughs, rolling eyes,
oh – their sweet hugs, i can’t buy
and the birthday of a g-son too far
away – hope he had fun, a good one!
a lone pink cloud comes into sight
brimming at the window’s corner,
more of pink and lavender, like
eyelid shades. it’ going to be a pretty day,
my last day before work calls my name.
the wall of books surround me, poetry
of course – Langston Hughes, Carl Sandburg;
Unsinkable and even Little House On The Prairie
and first season of Downton Abbey – lotsa
chattering in that one (missing Poldark)
and just a scintilla of news, only a tiny bit
ah, yes, a vacation of sorts. and the best part –
visiting my folks, a day trip – asking my dad
questions that prompt his eyes to light up.
and to inundate me with so many details –
of water holes near the tracks, of Bethel Island,
of not eating ever, as he recalls in his childhood
memory sleepy state. a movie with mom.
perhaps an Oscar for LaLa Land. two great
big hugs as i leave. i needed this week!
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Categories:
sandburg, vacation,
Form:
Free verse
Silvery Moon drifts through open window.
Baby's bassinet is bathed in evening sky.
Across the open yards, Silvery Moon gifts,
gifts love and devotion to taper the shadows.
A shimmer to shield from darkness
dusting sleepy lids with light like baby powder.
Hold fast to fleeting innocence
and boldness of brilliant shield
as you swaddle my tender babe tonight
through open window, Silvery Moon.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, August 7, 2012
Inspired by Babyface (Carl Sandburg)
Categories:
sandburg, childhood, family, children, moon,
Form:
Personification
I love so much the book company,
More than anything in the world,
More than cats or butterflies,
Looking at the books in my room, soothe me,
Henry James amazes me, what intelligence,
Yachar Kemal makes me travel on Turkish roads
The pleasure of writing, of thinking, they offered that to me,
Books calm me more than anything,
Carl Sandburg, Billy Collins, Thucydides,
They are landscapes, angels from heaven,
Jean Giono amazes me; I go with him to Manosque,
My library offers me so many joys, Apollinaire, Sam Shepard,,
Just looking at books makes me dream,
I’m thinking about Jack London, I’ve read everything,
He made history, so humanly, such humility,
I think of Marcel Proust, a genius,
Style makes the man, especially à l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs
I love so much the book company,
Camus, Alejo Carpentier makes me intelligent, so to speak,
They understood me, every word, every story, every verb,
Books understand me
More than people, Kafka, Faulkner, Joyce, understand us,
They reassure me with their titles, their presences,
What would we be without books?
Thank them; look at them, life is short,
They are the best friends in the world.
Categories:
sandburg, appreciation, art, books,
Form:
Free verse
Sandburg saw you
more than a century ago
in prairie-town Galesburg -
an old lady on the porch -
unbothered by the whooping cries
of ball-playing boys.
Strangely, you had become a missing piece
in the jigsaw puzzle of my life
and I found myself on a quest to find you.
A caption to a missing image alerted me -
followed by a tale
of deleted files and
hard drive crashes
until a reply
from a Knoxville college -
they had a picture of you!
A beggared five dollars later
your image arrived,
and I shared you with the world-
so that everyone may know
the face of the woman who taught us
the importance of little things.
____________________________________________________
Julia Carney (1823-1908) is the author of "Little drops of Water".
Categories:
sandburg, dedication, poets, woman,
Form:
Free verse
Carl Sandburg
Life is a garden; What’s not to like?
You can’t grow an onion without proper soil.
You peel back the rocky top and remove it,
You haul off the dirt next; there’s no lack of toil.
One layer of compost to place at the bottom,
another of oak leaves, well past their time.
And sometimes, delightful, the straw from a horse barn:
earthy, nutritious, amendment sublime.
You tend, and you water your beautiful garden
A fence of protection enhanced when you pray
But He who made onions put snakes, without pardon,
And there will be weeping when plans go astray.
—————
This also contains the same embedded Carl Sandburg quote.
The poem is “ok”, but I liked the “Keola - Rhyme” better.
Categories:
sandburg, life,
Form:
Quatrain
As a poet who likes to make things rhyme,
It has been a mystery to me why some prefer "Free Verse".
I rarely, if ever at all, understand how to write in that style.
Perhaps, that is why I chose it here.
Like any poet, I have often been faced by a blank page in front of me.
That is my challenge, my gauntlet, the duel in which I must fight.
My words are the bullet, my thoughts the aim, my meaning the target.
You may ask, "Do I always hit my mark?
No. Like a ballplayer swinging at strike three, it just makes an out.
But, walking back to the dugout of my team with bat in hand,
I hear them tell me, "Good swing, get 'em next time".
That is true in writing or painting or any artistry.
Those droughts come too often, quickly upon me, and last far too long.
Whenever I feel the pressure of staring at that blank page,
I just shut down for a time and wonder if I will ever write another word.
Then, some inspirational line comes into my head,
and I realize that it is my turn to step up to the plate again.
It is only at those times do I write what seem to me,
some of the best poetry that my soul will let me put together.
Oh, by no means does it have the sage of a Whitman, Arnold, or Sandburg.
But, it does have something that none of them ever could have.
It has my thoughts, impressions, gifts, talents, soul, and more.
That poem has only the words I was blessed enough to find.
Even if I strike out with this one...it is me!
I have tried to use allegory and allusion
in writing this. Perhaps it is not your
definition of "Free Verse", but it is my swing at the ball.
Categories:
sandburg, analogy, confidence, conflict, feelings,
Form:
Free verse
Looking for Carl Sandburg
almost one hundred years
after your Chicago apologetic
i am searching for century-old signs of the city
rushing to see them in a few too-short days
when it is bundled in
cloud and rain and mist and fog
but the bold Big Shoulders are still there
braced against that famous wind
cocooning the brash and brazen young man
defiantly declaring the city as a
titan of industry
but still
on street corner after street corner
the polite poor sing to the city
jangling coins in paper cups
pauper islands in a luxurious sea of
business – industry – culture
almost one hundred years on
looking for signs of your city
i finally sense a shadow of you
sauntering down a grey sidewalk
in the mist and fog
your charcoal coat open – flapping
in the wind
your grey-white hair swept sideways
in that gentlemanly style
yet you are only almost visible
like a water-thin reflection or
a film of clouds backlit by
the inconstant moon
your steel eyes ponderous
your lips a solid line
the words to call your name
are as much an apparition as you
disappearing around the corner
a wraith in the mist
Categories:
sandburg, visionary,
Form:
Free verse
they come like little pawed feet
gathering strings and yarns of life
silently sitting on their haunches
eager to peek further in the door
'til hounds arouse to nip at bytes
and paws skitter and move on
© Goode Guy 2013-12-25
with appreciation to Carl Sandburg
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174299
Categories:
sandburg, analogy, imagery, society,
Form:
Blank verse
Should one watch sports or
go see great art
Why not do both ?
After all Carl Sandburg wrote a poem
about baseball
and he was an artist
No. I don't draw as well
as the old masters
but I do enjoy doodling
There is no joy in Mudville
if you receive rejections letters!
Categories:
sandburg, art, poetry, sports,
Form:
Blank verse