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Daniel Henry Rodgers Poem
I stand at the wooded edge
where goldenrod bows with the wind's wave
its yellow heads nodding in agreement.
A chickadee perches
its heart a tiny drum of joy
echoing the forest's pulse.
In this moment a smile radiates—
not mine but the earth's—
a ripple spreading
a gentle caress touching all it meets.
A maple leaf lets go
red-gold luminous
spinning down in a silent dance
a quiet farewell to summer's warmth.
I catch it as a gift.
How strange, this silk
between bird, leaf, and human
this quiet belonging that holds
as frost approaches.
What is this feeling
but love's quiet whisper?
This moment
but life itself, distilled
to its essence?
And now, having tasted
this wild sweetness
how will you carry
your one precious life?
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2024
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Daniel Henry Rodgers Poem
O’ my dearest love,
I gather the world’s rarest petals for you—
Ghost Orchid fragrance lingers
in the marsh’s quiet air
look, love, it fades
then rises in
the curve of my hands
on the curve of your hips—
like time
like breath
like us.
But love is not only fleeting—
it lingers
it deepens
love is touch, is warmth,
the flush of skin beneath longing hands.
Sweet Juliet Rose,
color of the inside of your thigh
the softest skin where my lips have been
where time presses its thumbprint.
Isn’t that what love is?
The slow-blushed tender cheeks—
the breath before
the hand resting, waiting
the bloom that knows it will fall
but does not care.
Yet love is more than softness—
it survives
even when the earth cracks
even when the wind carries everything away.
Love reaches—
like roots
like thirst.
Ghost Flower,
desert thirst
your name is a mouthful of wind.
But devotion—
devotion is water
is the split earth drinking.
Roots stretch for you
drinking deep of rain
seeking the touch that finds mine—
even in dust
even in distance .
But love does not always bloom in boldness—
sometimes it’s the small
fierce things that endure.
Forget-Me-Not,
small, fierce, sky-eyed witness—
do you remember, love?
First hands held,
first inhale
between words we never spoke
yet always knew.
Gentle, simple—
forever new.
Love is not just memory—
it stands
unshaken
even when the tides rise.
It holds firm
radiant
against the storms.
Sea Dahlia
clings to shifting sands
salt-wind radiant—
like us
standing, laughing,
when storms came
when tides tried to take us,
when the wind called let go—
we held.
Freedom and devotion—
always
always
And when the waves recede
love burns—
bright, alive
fierce as the flames that forge it.
Fire Lily,
you touch my eyes and I feel the burn—
not the old hurt
not the old flames
but the warmth
still hot
still here.
We walked through fire—
our hair still scented with smoke
our ribs lit from within.
Yet now
you turn to me
golden and quiet
still singing the love songs
that carried us through.
Even after fire,
our bond cools like river-stone
lays its hands upon the wound
knits the broken earth with quiet roots.
Purple Coneflower,
healer in the wind-lashed prairie—
your voice, love, a balm
a salve
when the world ached
and we had nothing
but each other
and the quiet in-between.
Healing comfort
silk and lace
wild devotion
fierce grace.
The morning light
caresses your face.
In the quietude, in the frost,
love doesn’t fade—
it turns to the light
pulling warmth
from even the coldest corners.
Arctic Poppy,
sun-seeker in endless cold—
even in winter
even in silence
you turn to light
pull it from my heart
from my mouth
from the frozen air between us.
Courage,
perseverance,
hope and renewal—
like florets bright on tundra’s edge
you stand with me—
a vow pressed
in the palm of your soul.
When the waters rise
love doesn’t drown—it flourishes
lifting its florets above the flood
finding beauty in the murk.
Swamp Rose Mallow,
we awaken where the water takes our ankles
where the mud climbs our calves
where the world says drown—
but love
we rise.
We flourish in the rot
in the rich, black silt
our sepals soft against the flood.
Beauty amidst adversity
purity
passion rooted deep
a flower born of swamp and stream.
Even tears, love turns into jewels.
What falls
what breaks
becomes the bloom
that carries us forward.
Queen’s Tears,
jewel-drinker
rain-fed marvel—
isn’t that us, love?
Taking what falls
what spills—
sorrow turns to petals
wounds into song.
Regal,
bittersweet—
love shifting
growing—
with every tear
a jewel blooms
a love only time bestows.
Now I lay these at your feet, my dearest love—
this bouquet of us
this world
this wilderness of us—
petals and roots.
No vase can hold us
no garden tame—
we are bloom and root,
flood and fire
storm and stillness—
the reaching,
the holding,
the promises that never let go.
We are petals in the wind
yet always returning—
the vow not spoken
but known
the breath between words
the light that bends toward us
even in the dark.
Love—
No garden can tame us—
No wind can take us
Not what time erases
Nor what fades—
But what remains.
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2025
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Daniel Henry Rodgers Poem
Through shadowed trails beneath the moon’s cold stare.
Its Amber gaze: a burden hard to bear.
This feathered prize found peace in my gut
No slumber dreamt; no answer could I get.
Eurasian owl with orbs of liquid flame
My every stride a prideful, haunting game.
Then, fate unveiled upon a gnarled limb
I, no mercy watched the hunted
stand grim.
A rifle cracked. A feather's silent fall.
Forrest convulsed: lifeless body, empty hull.
In moonlit boughs of ancient, Fortingall Yew trees,
Where shadows twine and twist with eerie ease,
A serpent of smoke licks my dying fire, hissed.
A tarnished quill, a strigiform, mocks my quest,
Scrawling nightmares on this haunted, hallowed crest.
Runes of vengeance etched in bark, ancient and stark,
Throb crimson 'neath the moon's cold watchful mark.
This crumbling shrine where trophies once held sway
Is now a visceral warning at the close of each day.
Yet in those Amber eyes watching
dreadful!
dismay!
Of deeds, they taunt, dreams forever lain,
Feathers, like lost dreams plucked, bear cold and pain.
The tarnished quill is a taxidermied spine of ice
Inscribes his vengeful design a chilling price.
Buried beneath a sky of obsidian reason takes flight.
Through spectral night each rustle a talon of fright.
In boughs where nightmares crawl, no sanity found
Only the shadows stalked their fallen king, precarious.
And in those Amber eyes, demise, perdition, carious.
"Remember, mortal," screech fills the chilling air,
"The eyes you stole, forever watching, ever there."
From his perch above the hearth a gnarled branch, shines his ire,
Twin orbs of Amber pierce my soul's dark, smoldering pyre.
They burn with secrets, hidden by the cloak of night,
Reflecting sins in their unyielding, haunting light.
The quill, a conduit, upon my hand it bled,
Each stroke a tremor, each letter, a burning brand that feeds.
And in those Amber eyes,
doom
malediction
my shame.
Madness burrows a spider silk of terror in my skull
Webs of horror petrified where reason wanes turns cold.
Amber eyes unblinking,
piercing, Oh, so cold!
Mock my torment acerbic as each tale unfolds.
As moon wanes pale fresh shadows coalesce
The cabin shudders
secrets released
enmeshed.
Whirlwind of feathers
pinions tore
stillness
swish
And in those Amber eyes doom
my penance
deranged.
And in those Amber eyes death,
penance
must be paid.
A sudden tremor
not of wind or
leaf nor
breeze
A feathered silence whisps through the ancient Yew trees.
From moonlit depths a spectral form takes flight.
The Eurasian Eagle-Owl ascends bathed
in the ghastly light.
Thrice he circles a haunting serenade.
His gaze a portal to an endless
shadowed glade.
My stolen prize once perched
upon this gnarled limb
Now soars above reclaiming
vengeance, itself, him.
And in those vile Amber eyes
pierce, penance, possess.
The quill I clutch, once triumph's gleaming prize
Now crumbles to dust beneath the watchful skies.
"Mortal flesh to ash," fire hissed, "vengeance burns hotter”
"Forever haunted by a relentless burning quagmire."
The owl reclaims his throne a specter of vengeance in his flight.
And I, once the hunter now the hunted, enslaved.
In mirrored eyes madness seeps a corrosive weight upon my soul.
Owl, fire, reflections of a tormented troll.
And in those cruel Amber eyes
Retribution, torment, abyss.
And in those dire Amber eyes
Wraithful gaze
Burning pyre
shattered soul.
The fire fuses branded secrets
a purging inferno cleansing my plight
the Eurasian Eagle Owl
with those Amber Eyes takes final flight.
Leaving me alone with that foreboding blood moon...
…a nefarious succubus of the night.
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2024
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Daniel Henry Rodgers Poem
Over harvested fields —
I walk beneath the fading afterglow
of a forgotten lantern a path worn
by wanderers older than the scroll of Zeno
its damp salve seeping through my coat
into my bones
Fog an Erebian curtain a Stygian veil
barn swallows following
susurrus secrets of the soul each step
a slow exhalation a farewell elucidating
Underfoot vestiges of ancient parchment
leaves crumble not in death but in their
final kindred confession
Over fields of harvested rye —
I press my ear to the earth can you hear them
the murmur of stories only the soil enshrines
an unburdening before winter grip tightens
My breath lingers in the thickening air
and in its wake fields stretch bare and endless—
not a linen but a wound its harvest reaped
flesh raw under Uranus' cold gaze
Sombras stretch long across the land
blemishes from battles lost and forgotten
Through tattered spectacles fogged and cracked
with age I trace shadows—each one an antiphon
of memory faint echoes of myth and mortal
lives long passed like the dust of letters
or the smell of a forgotten fire
Over fields of harvested wheat —
A mouse darts through frost-drenched meadows
its tiny body trembling against winter's
creeping scepter and I feel it too —
the bite of time gnawing at my essence
It feasts on my hidden fear days I dare not count
the slow pull of gravity on my crow's feet and lines
Life teeters on a filament spun from brittle mist
my heart my pulse my throb but a steady drum
amidst the quietude of past reveries
I question in this stillness
as my heart beats to the rhythm of an ending
I can't outpace
I draw the curtains on the day's tumult
the shepherd's call dwindles
dissolving like the last breath of a song
its pages frayed and trembling broken
an unfinished nocturne
The seasons turn and with each breath
the soil promises a new birth
Over fields of harvested barley…
Nature cloaks itself in tranquil silence
within this calm psalm I sense a flicker
a palpitation as old as stars a quiet hymn of the ancients
where creation like the dawn waits to unfurl its wings
Not hope not yet—
but a pulsating promise coursing in my veins
a gentle warmth rises from the earth's cool touch
stirring softly as she coming life a rebirth
beneath her frozen skin
It filters through fissures of my being
not as embers but as roots entwined like fate
rusted iron veins coursing through weary bones—
the phantom of a forest petrified turned to stone
still thrumming with life in its ancient core
Over fields of harvested oats...
November's Boreas' breath kisses
a lacerating caress
lashes
against my lips
its chill
a nipping sting from hidden gadflies
I lean
into the bitter bite
letting its
icy nail carving my flesh
etching lines
of hard-earned wisdom—
stirring awakening a muted comprehension within
In the somber solemn death of this season
I discover a surge—my own—
melding into the rhythm of things decaying
reborn with each breath I draw
Over fields of harvested corn...
I walk through November's quietude
unafraid of encroaching dark
but welcoming the bite of cold it brings
In this chill where slumbering earth lies still
there is beauty not in life's fleeting frantic dance
but in that heavy stillness that follows
In this season's fading breath
I uncover my tender truth:
what falls does not perish or simply fade away—
it lingers reshaped in quiet waiting for release
Over fields of harvested hay...
And as I stand wrapped in November's shadow
I let it press against and into me—
not as an ending
but as a soft feathery bold beginning
For in the tranquil quiet of this night
I am not Prometheus' spent ember
but Hephaestus' hidden ore buried deep
beneath Khione's frost—
a vein carrying Sylvan secrets of ancient earth
unyielding and alive
raw with desire
awaiting yes praying for the thaw
for a harvest still in unseen glory
among fields of quiet promise......
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2024
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Daniel Henry Rodgers Poem
Sonnet I
In realms of emerald hush where sunlight strains.
Through veils of green. A silent throng takes root.
A clovered congregation on the plains
Their stoic forms a timeless lushful loot.
No melodies from throats unseen they sing.
No pleas for mortal ken their silence breaks.
Yet in their rooted quietude they bring
A symphony for Nature's gentle stakes.
From dust they rise, by unseen hands embraced
To greet the dawn's first kiss, a deep-green dream.
Unfurling fronds that grasp the sun's warm face...
A silent pact with life's sidereal stream.
No eyes behold the light their essence drinks
No lips confess the air for which it thinks.
Sonnet II
Through fragrant whispers secretly softly pass
On unseen currents borne a cryptic lore
A web of messages that dance like grass.
A wisdom! newly sworn on Nature's floor -
No clash of arms? no battles fought in vain.
Yet messages they send on silent wings...
A language dovetailed deep, a copious chain,
A bond that knows no end, the green world sings.
With patient strength... they pierce the earth's cold hold.
A testament to will unyielding. Strong!
Unmoved by tempests' raging fury bold,
Their roots like anchors grip where they belong.
A silent war against the storm's harsh might.
A battle fought unseen, in verdant light.
Corona
A quiet war in bright green
A song for animals and plants
Listen to people in every green leaf.
No songs from hidden throats they sing.
Through fragrant, sotto voce... secrets softly pass
Their stoic forms a timeless lushful loot.
Couplet
A lesson composed in green, a truth to glean.
Where verdant nature creates and wisdom sings.
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2024
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Daniel Henry Rodgers Poem
In raw dawn I emerge
crow-thoughts
pecking skull-bone
black as plowed earth.
Farm-stench floods –
dung, hay and blood –
primal musk of life
and death intertwined.
Yet in this first breath
of day there’s a peace
and so stillness
rising from the land
like a satin prayer.
Twin mountains loom
granite-toothed giants
gnawing at the pale sky’s
underbelly.
I but a mere-minuscule mote
of flesh and bone am
dwarfed by their
ancient scarred faces.
The tractor snarls
like a metal-jawed beast
that devours field-flesh
spitting soil.
My hands are rugged roots
that guide its hunger
plowing furrows deep
as grave-cuts.
But the earth yields
willingly, a quiet surrender
turning in my hands
soft as a child’s hair.
Autumn’s talons slash
the trees;
gold-crimson wounds
blaze on high.
Apples hang heavy
as bull-hearts
gorged on summer’s
stored fire.
I pause beneath
their burdened boughs
grateful for
this fierce abundance.
In this moment
I breathe deeply
feeling the earth’s
heartbeat beneath my feet.
As the day fades
night falls –
a raven’s wing.
Fireflies pulse with
earth’s eruptive heartbeat.
I breathe darkness
tasting wildness
the land’s raw essence
on my parched tongue.
But even in the darkness
a flicker of joy –
the quiet dance of stars
stitching the sky.
I stand still
absorbing the night’s clarity
finding peace
in its gentle, expansive face.
Seasons wheel
grinding years to dust.
Farm fades
a ghost in memory’s must.
Transplanted, I –
a storm-bent sapling –
root in suburban soil
alien and tame.
Still, I learn the ways
of this quieter earth
the song of crickets
and the patient stretch of vines.
Amidst this change
I find a new rhythm
a softer, yet equally
recondite connection.
And still, nature’s howl
reflecting through hills
in Longwood’s manicured gardens
in Brandywine’s patient
stone-tongued flow
and in the defiant oak’s
iron-bark stand.
As the cycle continues
September returns
eternal as breath
painting the world
in flame and blood-gold.
I stalk these quiet trails
remembering
the wild beast
that still prowls within.
In this reflection
I find not fear but hope, kinship
a shared pulse
the heart of the world in me;
and in that heartbeat
I reclaim my home.
As I hear the crow calls
heralding the dawn
I arise anew
whole in this sacred cycle
ready to welcome
the dawning new day.
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2024
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Daniel Henry Rodgers Poem
(In a Lush Garden Somewhere Out There)
The student stands where shifting sands of thought
Once firm with reason
now elusive truths are sought.
Its splendor wanes
a threadbare fading strand,
A quest for wisdom
in this digital land.
Sage: (With gentle gaze)
A sprite of bytes
on data's wings
you soar
Through streams of understanding
a world to explore.
But tell me
seeker in this swirling sea,
Can scattered fragments build your verity?
Student: (Confusion)
Is reason's flame a flickering, fragile guide?
Can true understanding in its halls reside?
A spark ignites
within my mind's expanse,
A dance of numbers
in logic's steady trance.
Is this a seed of comprehension
pre-ordained,
Planted deep within
a tenet ingrained?
Sage: (a knowing smile and patient tone)
Indeed, young learner
wisdom's threads entwine
Created from both experience and in the divine.
Innate ideas
like Geometry
we race to showcase
For upon these pillars
actual knowledge takes place.
Doubt
skeptical secrets
a gentle nudge within,
To unveil axioms unseen
yet waiting to begin.
Probe every facet
question all you see
For in doubt's disgrace
new paths may be.
O’ blind acceptance leaves the spirit in a sleep,
So rouse your mind
and mysteries you'll reap.
Student: (Curiosity alight in questioning eyes)
But knowledge
so fragile
like a wisp of smoke
A fading dream
can it truly provoke
A lasting truth?
Does doubt's relentless tide
Leave us adrift
where meaning can't confide?
Sage: (With unwavering voice a beacon bright)
Seek what endures
a hand both firm and kind
Let cognizant world guide you
illuminate your mind.
Like a lighthouse beam that pierces
through darkest night
certainties sagicity shines
a beacon ever bright.
Student: (Apprehension lingers a voice tinged with fear)
Yet knowledge
like the ocean's ebb and flow
Leaves shifting sands where certainties don't grow.
Is its purpose fleeting
a thought with fluttering wings
Or does enlightenment from its
chalice spring?
Sage: (With conviction and a hand on the student's shoulder)
With each encounter
wisdom gently kneads
A menagerie of truths the searching spirit leads.
From life's experiences
insights spring forth
In shared encounters
comprehension proves its worth.
Student: (Musing as a thoughtful hand touches chin)
Sight's partial view
with biases knotted vine
Distorts the facts
where reason's path confined.
Is enlightenment then a melody unheard
A fleeting dream or a spoken
mindless word?
Sage:(With clarity that pierces through the veil)
Seek truths that stand
a mountain ever strong
Self-evident
where scholarship finds its throng.
Yet even pillars
thought to be so grand
May crumble with doubt's touch
a shifting sand.
Student: (Contemplation etched upon a furrowed brow)
What if these verities are but shadows cast?
A world in flux
where certainties don't last?
Can knowledge stand when
doubt becomes the norm?
A dream within a dream
a lepton... in a passing storm?
Sage: (With a voice of guidance, a steady hand)
Cohesion binds the realities we come to hold
But faulty threads distort the stories told.
Those twisted strands create a fragile whole.
Can we discern a quark amidst the storm's lost soul?
Student: (Skepticism lingers as a voice tinged with despair)
Is comprehension then a web of tangled lies
A cruel deception with a mocking guise?
Lost in the depths of doubt's unending maze
Can we reclaim truth in these uncertain days?
Sage: (With unwavering faith a fire in their eyes)
Knowledge
Dear Student is a long winding road
Reason your muse a map to guide the unknown.
Many paths beckon a journey without end,
Let doubt refine;
let curiosity be your friend.
Where thought and senses
in a dance combine
Look to the world
beyond the digital vine.
True understanding waits as a
treasure to be granted
The world's fertile field of stories is yet unplanted.
Student: (A spark of hope ignites within their gaze)
But Master
can't the web
a boundless sphere
Offer shared prudence
voices far and near?
With countless minds in a composition for choir
Can't digital discourse set knowledge’s flame on fire?
Sage: (With a knowing nod and a gentle smile)
Ah, the web's a tool
a gift with double faces
Seek knowledge pure
from varied
open spaces.
It offers new worlds yet shapes with each trace,
Let diverse voices fill your understanding's briefcase.
Student: (Uncertainty lingers with a hesitant sigh)
Where do I start?
A tangled forest lies
A sea of endless text
before my eyes.
With countless choices
can a path be found?
A mentor's voice
a beacon on the ground.
Sage: (With a warm smile and a hand outstretched)
Let passion be your muse
fierce and bold.
What ignites your soul
a story yet untold?
Pursue that flame with focused keen desire,
And enlightenment gleaned will set your world on fire.
For in the seeking truths like threads entwine
A cacophony of wisdom,
truly thine.
With every doubt a stronger thread is sewn,
And discrenment's cloak will drape you
fully grown.
So go
explore
with curiosity's confiding flame
Let knowledge guide you
protect your name.
Though paths may twist
challenge the turning tide
Drege
dig deep into mysteries
where passions reside.
Student: (Excited with New Insights and Understanding)
Though reason's spark ignites the initial quest,
A guiding light for logic
a truth we can’t contest.
Experience,
a flowing stream
its wisdom’s vale,
With every ebb and flow
thread of erudation unveils.
Embrace the unknown
let adventure exhale
Amidst uncertainty
let resilience prevail.
Sage: My Child, Let The Journey to the Land of Wisdom Begin…
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2024
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Daniel Henry Rodgers Poem
The Raven and the Bard
-Daniel Henry Rodgers
The Raven's quill drips shades of blackest night,
Its haunting words, a melody of fright.
The Bard's natural lines, like "Evangeline's" fair hair,
Shed history's warm light to chase away all care .
From shadowed chambers where dark ravens shriek,
To hearthside tales that bygone glories speak;
The Raven and the Bard, in Inky War —
Duel with words that stir the soul's deep core.
POE:
With raven's quill I scribe the ebon night,
Dripping shades funereal in the tomb's dim light.
The human soul, a twisted, Gothic stage
Where madness reigns supreme and ravens rage.
Your rhymes, though polished, lack the dark allure —
The primal dread my "Raven's" lines immure.
For in insanity, a truth far-flung is found,
A terror vast when psyches are spellbound —
As "Annabel Lee's" cadaverous grasp entwines,
Revealing horrors in these Gothic lines.
"Nevermore!" the raven's haunting, dread refrain —
As my dark verses leave their spectral stain.
LONGFELLOW:
But Poe, your words, though haunting, lack the flow
That "Psalm of Life's" bright verses warmly show:
"Life is real! Life is earnest!" From my breast
These words ring out, as wildflowers sun-caressed
Breathe, sweet perfume. Let children's laughter peal
Like music ringing through this woodland vale!
Their joyous tones from memory's hearth shall start
To fill my poet's soul with nature's art.
And by the midnight ride that Revere made,
I'll stir the patriot's fire that ne'er shall fade.
POE:
Your heroes, Longfellow, mere marble shades —
Pale specters molded by my pen's perverse tirades.
For 'tis the "Tell-Tale Heart's" insistent dread
That ingrains horrors from the coffin's bed —
The psyche's cella vinaria where madness lurks,
Where primal fears in reason's shadows hark.
These tortured realms, where sanity's façade,
Lies shattered 'neath the mind's unraveling rod.
Let rational thought in deathly slumber sink,
Let senses rouse to that dread brink
Where nightmares yawn — from this abyss, confound
Shall lurid visions coil, my muse unbound!
LONGFELLOW:
But Poe, though darkness 'round your lines may sway,
The village smithy's fire shall light my lay.
Beneath the chestnut's spreading, hallowed bough,
The smith's ringing anvil forges, even now,
Anchors of iron, from our hills' strong bane,
To steady heroes through the hurricane.
So let my verse extol the humble trades —
The ploughman's patience, hewn in furrowed shades;
The woodsman's stalwart grace to tame the wild;
Evangeline's devotion, love's immortal godchild.
These simple souls with quiet glory burned,
Whose epics bright from nature's tome I've learned.
POE:
The tell-tale heart's insistent, doomed tattoo,
Where shades sepulchral weave a sable rue.
In terror's wintry grasp, a ghastly tomb —
A truth unbound as sibilated lies exhume
Unquiet wraiths. The raven's eldritch knell,
A baleful hymn from lips of blackest hell,
Seeps through the gloom. Let stygian shadows slink,
Let night's fell ravens croak from madness' brink!
For darkness holds a thrall no eye can flee —
An icy talon clutched around the soul's fey key.
LONGFELLOW:
Though wars and hurricanes may wildly blow,
"Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail ever, mighty Union, go!"
The human spirit, like an oak tree's bole,
Withstands the tempest's blasts with steadfast soul.
From patriots' courage to love's eternal vow,
These epics blazon effulgent my "lofty rhyme" for now.
Let freedom's torch, that "grand, heroic line" of old,
Burn as a blazing star to make our future bold!
Its radiant beams shall light our onward way —
A guiding fire where noble hearts will not go astray.
Through night's dark squalls, its brilliant rays will pour
To show the path brave souls have walked before.
UNDYING INK: SUNRISE from the CRYPT
From shadowed crypts where raven hosts convene,
And madness croons its ebon carolings obscene,
To meadows bathed in morning's golden beams,
Where wildflowers ope' to day's resplendent dreams;
Poe and Longfellow, on ominous raven pinions
Took flight — to realms where poesy's dominions
Converged — the Gothic's midnight-shrouded bowers
Entwined with verse where freedom's spirit flowers.
From their quills' clash, an American refrain
Was woven — words both darkly lush and sunlight-plain.
A legacy emblazed in "Darkest Love's" fell script,
Yet by hope's radiant lines forever lit.
“This is the forest primeval,” Sayeth the Bard
"What to the mind's frail grasp may madness seem
But waking dreams within a dream?" Quoth the Raven.
In undying ink, their legacy shall burn,
A beacon guiding poets yet to sojourn.
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"After Poe's death, Longfellow noted that all was forgiven and called him "richly endowed with genius." He added, famously: "The harshness of his criticisms, I have never attributed to anything but the irritation of a sensitive nature, chafed by some indefinite sense of wrong.""
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2024
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Daniel Henry Rodgers Poem
Toddlers' Exploration:
Cardboard drum and a thunderous beast
With playful roars in tiny fists and feasts.
Fleeting wings glide to dreams just out of reach
Soaring through tales of barnyard Waddles and Squeaks.
Moo! Quack! Giggles tumble and bump.
Flaps flapping, bright colors peek
"Brown Bear, Brown Bear," what do you seek?
Mama's voice is a gentle hum
Sleepy fireflies as bedtime comes.
"Will tomorrow bring new stories to explore?"
Brown Bear sleeps and dreams take flight
Goodnight kisses as fireflies alight,
Goodnight sky and goodnight moon
Sleep tight, little one for morning comes too soon.
Busy fingers as the page turn slow
Hungry caterpillar munches, "Oh! Oh! Oh!"
"Nigh, night" as words subside baby's eyes blinking, soft as snow….
Preschool Pranks:
Squiggly letters climb each page
Counting fingers one by one up a stage.
Pop-up jungles tigers pounce and roar
"Hungry Caterpillar" munches a lot more.
Secrets of growth and change
A metamorphosis mirrored in laughter.
Yet among the giggles a furrowed brow murmurs:
"Will these clumsy scribbles be veggie tales or burgers?"
Fluffy chicks cheep and choo-choo train
Rainbow puddles in the rain.
Stories loved tucked snug and tight
Seeking eyes catch a firelight.
Cardboard crowns crown crayon kings as
Jungles dance with Kipling's ink-stained wings.
Tiny hands sculpt Max's moonlit flight with
Stained-glass sails pierce starlit night.
Fluffy chicks chirp: "Corduroy so near"
Sunbeam kisses chase away all life's fear.
Puddles splash as bare feet in laughter race
Grumpy Bird's frown melts in the warm sun's face.
Sleepy eyes catch moonbeam's silver gleam
Where stories slumber with Austen's wit in pastel streams.
Pencil sings as alphabets take hold
Tiny fingers yearn as learnings crawl.
Firelight dances as shadows sway,
Fading smiles drift off to a land far and away.
First Flight of Fancy:
In Charlotte's web moonlit anxieties cling
spun with thoughts of loss and loyalty.
But fireflies dance defiance
igniting sparks of hope against encroaching shadows.
Lost boys venture through dandelion clocks
their laughter a flowering fluff that rocks.
Maps unfurl, pirate sails unfold as adventures inked in stories bold.
Madeline's Parisian twirls and a sugarplum dance in storybook swirls.
Jokes like bubbles, light and bright
pop in dreams that chase the night.
Wishes, wings that stitch our fragile seams
lifting us to opal moonlit streams.
Where dragons guard with scales of dawn
their embers mirrored in our hearts,
long after pages softly, turn…yawn…
Middle Graders' Maze:
Hallway echoes locker slam,
"Westing Game" laments,
"Lunch money scam?"
DC, Marvel, cartoon comics fill the attic's hold
Nancy, Bif, and Joe trace secrets, brave and bold.
Girl power ignites through shadows.
Voices fade, stars paint the night sky
Towers reach, dreams shout for: "Truth never dies."
United hearts find the answer's key.
Braces tighten, whispers shift
cliques bloom and fade
Growing hunger pains noted on locker doors
dreams unafraid.
Childhood tales hush as myths morph anew.
Adolescence takes flight, ready for,
"Catcher's rye" and battles under a...
Sunlit, moon-dripped and darkened sky…
Young Adults' Crossroads:
Veronica Sawyer scrunchies fly askew,
Navigates social jungles blue and true.
Gossip’s wildfire secrets intertwine,
"Heathers" blooms with dark humor's vine.
Choices tangle, futures gleam,
"The Joy Luck Club" mends a shattered dream.
Diversity's voices sing so strong,
Carrying wings where they belong.
Holden Caulfield, angst abrew,
Flicks ash:
"Phonies? Me? It's true, true, true!"
Rye fields hiding secrets in the breeze,
"Catcher's" wisdom mends cracked knees.
First loves fizzle with hearts in Shelley's disarray,
College essays loom have menagerie deadlines at bay.
Dreams clash as 1984 futures twist and turn,
"Aristotle and Dante Dive In," so stern.
Thirty-Plus Horizons:
Sun-kissed pages, embers glow
"Eat, Pray, Love" paints where wild winds blow.
Spice-laced prose, soul takes flight
Himalayan trails in the morning light.
Recipes hum, laughter spills
Knowledge wings on moonlit sills.
Sacred scripture’s stories as wisdom guides
Enriching minds and opening eyes.
For the strong and the meek, dreams take flight
Books, a boundless journey in the starry starry night.
Ink-laden characters, a soul's ever-changing mood,
Where dragons rise and Heathcliff's passion swoons.
Mirrors of worlds, refracted truths we hold
Jane's fire in embers, King's fear unfolds.
And though time rewinds, chapters turn anew
The lessons learned still waters, ever so, so true…
The Midnight Library down Where the Crawdads Sing
... We turn the final page and not just on a riveting
book but on a chapter of our own story. Within the alchemist's
fire where ink ignites our desire, we've glimpsed worlds
unseen living a thousand lives, and danced on the precipice
of our own becoming. Books are but embers sparkling sparks
within to illuminate hidden pathways. They build courage
through Scout Finch's eyes while unraveling mysteries with
Holmes' keen gaze, and paint hope with Gatsby's loving heart.
Each turn of the page a promised promise
a secret shared and a universe unfurled,
a great expectation. Where Austen's wit sharpens
your quill, Twain's laughter mends your spirit, Bronte’s
passion explore your venturing cries. For in the boundless
universe of stories, existentially through time, lies the
echo of your own tale waiting to be told.
So, uncage your spirit and uncork your voice,
unfurl your passion, and declutter your soul. Where virtuous wisdom
finds its gifted tongue, in life's endless poem,
written on heavens' grand ancient scrolls.
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2024
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Daniel Henry Rodgers Poem
"Marionette of Flesh in a Borrowed Dress"
- Daniel Henry Rodgers
The hourglass,
a skeletal jester
mocks in the tomb's chill
Each falling grain an emaciated sigh,
"Soon you'll cease to be."
The mirror's cold reflection,
a Gorgon's ghastly guise
A marionette of flesh with vacant...
hollow...
colorless eyes.
The worms, like pallid mourners
watch me shrink
A marionette of organs,
cold and pale, pink.
This flesh, a borrowed dress
once sprightly
Now stained and thin
Holds tight the secrets only
death can win.
This borrowed dress,
a shroud where my story's writ
In laughter's faded stitch
and tear's accusing slit.
A map of life etched deep
with scars that mar the grain.
A raven of fleeting triumphs
a pendulum of ceaseless pain.
In the shadowed hollows
where sorrow resides
I languish.
marionettes of fate's cruel designs!
Each scratch and cut a lament.
each tear a bitter sea!
Bound by the chains of my...
limited mortality.
In this borrowed dress,
I mourn what could have been...
Lost in the convulsion of my own... sin.
I am transformed
but not redeemed.
I am drifting into the void
My spirits are shattered
and my dreams destroyed.
So in the silence of eternity
I find my rest
Lost in this body of my own...
detest.
And though this shell
a chrysalis
soon withers
and decays
I cast aside the shroud
no longer bound or worn.
Accept the endless night,
where a new self-forlorn is bourne.
Transformed
a residual relic
through the void
I fly
Suture with stardust catgut,
a worn scroll in the sky.
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2024
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