A Blackened Room

I have written a few poems and posted them since I wrote last. I just haven't had much time for poetry or more personal things as work is keeping me hopping with several new and returning clients. I wrote a new one this morning called "A Blackened Room," which you can read on the website.

I have a new laptop that is really just fine...optimized for HD TV, with 3G...am really enjoying it. All the better to work with, my dear.

It appears that my trip to Scotland will have to be postponed now due to the expense of the air ticket and the nasty weather over there and up north. No way am I going to get stranded in the Newark Airport for 2 days again...nope. Instead I am planning a trip down to Key West, complete with a ghost tour and a visit to the Key West Cemetery, the southernmost point of the US, the Ernest Hemingway Home, the Robert Frost cottage, and certainly more. I considered going to Mardi Gras in New Orleans but think I'd prefer a quieter break, lol. Hopefully I will come back with a few new poetic works to share. So here's one I enjoy by Robert Frost:

Ghost House

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me--
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.

Robert Frost