Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Written by: Robert Frost
 

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.

Winter Night

 Written By: Kalen Lewis

The winter's silent cold hold's still,

The secrets whispered through the snow.

The moons shining sliver high,

The foggy breath a gentle flow.

~

I looked up to the sky to find the snow quietly falling, sticking to my eyelashes. There was a beautiful silence that seemed to ring through the night. I felt as though the winter was sharing a deep secret with me, whispering in my ear. My breath was visible, mingling with the sliver of the moon.

~

So I wanted to share my inspiration for this short poem and story. When I was twelve years old, I visited relatives in Idaho for Christmas. The morning before we left for home in Texas, we had breakfast in a well known diner called Bucky's in a little town called Cambridge. We got a booth seat at a window. Across the street there were small trees with light colored leaves in front of an old brick museum. As I was eating my pancakes, I looked out that window, it was dim outside and little snowflakes were falling! Snow is so rare in Texas, that it just made my day. Even to this day I still think of that little moment of excitement every winter and every time I visit Idaho, and it still excites and inspires me.
About five months ago, my cousin bought and remodeled Bucky's, it unfortunately wasn't finished last time I was there but I'm excited to see the results of her hard work next summer when I visit again.

The Facile Poet

facile 
[fas-il or, esp. British, -ahyl]

adjective

1. moving, acting, working, proceeding, etc., with ease, sometimes with superficiality:

"facile fingers; a facile mind."

2. easily done, performed, used, etc.:

"a facile victory; a facile method."

3. easy or unconstrained, as manners or persons.

4. affable, agreeable, or complaisant; easily influenced:

"a facile temperament; facile people."

  

poet

[poh-it]

noun

1. a person who composes poetry

2. a person who has the gift of poetic thought, imagination, and creation, together with eloquence of expression. 




http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/facile
http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/poet?s=t 

The Charge of the Light Brigade

By: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

1

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

“Forward the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!” he said.

Into the valley of Death

    Rode the six hundred.

2

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”

Was there a man dismayed?

Not though the soldier knew

    Someone had blundered.

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die.

Into the valley of Death

    Rode the six hundred.

3

Cannon to the right of them,

Cannon to the left of them,

Cannon in front of them

    Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of hell

    Rode the six hundred.

4

Flashed all their sabers bare,

Flashed as they turned in air

Sab’ring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

    All the world wondered,

Plunged in the battery smoke

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the saber stroke

    Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not,

    Not the six hundred.

5

Cannon to the right of them,

Cannon to the left of them,

Cannon behind them

    Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came through the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of hell,

All that was left of them,

    Left of six hundred.

6

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

    All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade,

    Noble six hundred!

~

In honor of Veteran's day. So thankful for the lives that were sacrificed for our Freedom, but even more thankful for Jesus and his sacrifice on the cross for our ultimate and eternal freedom.

Lochinvar

Written By: Sir Walter Scott

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West;
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was a knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,
'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
"Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied.
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up:
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,-
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered "'Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur!
They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forster, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee;
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Colors of the Sky

Written by: Kalen Lewis

Purple and blue,

Yellow and white,

Sometimes a pink,
I see in the sky.

Rare are the colors,

Of black and green.

Storms of anger,

Those colors bring.

Grey also comes,

To remind us of rain,

And the stars that cry,

Onto the terrain.

Orange and red,

Are the colors anew.

So do not fret,

Jesus still loves you.

Red Hair Heritage

I was wondering about where my red hair came from, so I emailed my grandma on my mothers side and she was telling me the story about how where I got my red hair from. (Written in her point of view.)

~

Your red hair must have come from your 3rd great-grandfather Henry Albert Robinson. He was born 12 Aug. 1864 near a town called Holland in Wood County Ohio. He was 6'6" tall. Aren't you glad that you didn't inherit THAT from him? Maybe Clayton did. Anyway his family never remember him wearing anything but black and he had flaming red hair and a long mustache. He always wore black boots that laced up to his knees. He was known for his great feats of strength. The boots play a part in one of the stories.
They tell of a time when the local men had gotten together to bring in hay for a neighbor. In those days they didn't bale it but piled it high on a wagon, then drove wagon to the barn and used a huge 'fork' to pull the hay into the top part of the barn. It was muddy and the wagon got stuck. The horses couldn't pull it forward or back it up. Great-grandpa Henry went in and lifted the wagon and pulled it and the horses out of the mud. He strained so hard that he burst the laces on his knee boots. Another story is told about him going into town to get some food for his family. They were very poor and the store owner knew it. He had a freshly butchered hog that weighed over 300 lb. He told Great-grandpa Henry that if he could carry it home he could have it. It seems that half the town turned out to follow him home. He did it. A mile or a mile and a half all the way to his house. So when you get to heaven and see a huge man with red hair and a red mustache, dressed all in black with lace up boots clear to his knees; don't be scared. It's just your great-great-great-grandfather wanting to pat you on the head.

His wife; your 3rd Great-grandmother was only 5' tall and he would carry her around on the palm of his hand. She would be yelling at him the whole time to put her DOWN!!
Her kids, my grandparents, would laugh so hard when they would tell about that. 

~

Exactly her words! It was pretty fun to learn about this part of my ancestry.

Grey Clouds

Written by: Kalen Lewis

Sometimes I watch the grey clouds pass,
With facinated wonder,
How do they manage? These big grey puffs,
See, clouds are made of water,
I guess when grey clouds get too big,
They cannot hold it in,
They have to blow and let it out,
Oh look! Here comes the rain.

The Lonely House

 Written By: Kalen Lewis

A lamp sits on a lonely table,

The dust collects on a lonely couch,

A lone chair longs to be sat in,

A beetle crawls in a lonely house.

* * * * *

As some of you may or may not know, we've been re-doing the inside of our house. A portion of it was empty for a time while we were painting and such. Now we're starting to put furniture back in, but it's still kind of empty.

And that's what inspired me to write this poem.

Hope you enjoyed it!

Kalen

From Grandma,

Written By: Vonadean Frederick

I will be working outside for many hours and come in

too tired do anything but sit. Before I know it I am

strolling across a meadow, tall and willowy with a

flower chain twined within my russet locks, then

suddenly I am in a beautiful room where I wear a

crown and the velvety sleeves of my gown almost

sweep the ground. I look down my finely chiseled

patrician nose and see........ that I am dumpy,

frumpy, and wearing a frazzled gray bun!     

NO FUN!