Poems by Charles Ash
There was a road with the end never in sight
Winding, non-hazardous, but nonetheless
Indecisive in its traversing of my limited
Wherever it desired it shot off toward
Eventually seducing the physical me to
Adventure, I call it, going toward?
As it turned it neither ran over or through
Ever searching for the last stop and home
Evading its grasp-time won't grant it respite
Till time itself is tired of the game.
Only then will fulfillment achieve its end
And the road will find--toward.
Here I am longing for a name
For while I'm alone, nameless I'll be
Not for money nor for fame
Nor for the oceans or the shallow seas
Quest it be a fight for identity
To find myself above the rest
Making my actions stand the test
To achieve the worthy role
Finding me a name--my goal!
Prince Rafiel Eristavi
Dust am I, to dust I cling;
A rustic born, my life is one
Eternal strife and endless toil
And endless woe...till life is gone.
I plow, I sow, I labor on.
With muscles strained, in sun and rain.
I scarce can live on what I earn
And tired and hungry I remain.
The owner of the land torments me;
Even the tiny ant's my foe.
For townsfolk, priests and native
In bloodlike sweat I plow and sow...
How long, O God this endless grind
This life of sorrow and of toil?
Alas! I fear that death alone
Will bring me rest within this soil!
Song of the Open Road
BY WALT WHITMAN
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.
The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.
(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)
I dwell in Possibility – (466)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –
Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –
Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise –
Viveca Smith Publishing