Frost-locked all the winter,
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
What shall make their sap ascend
That they may put forth shoots?
Tips of tender green,
Leaf, or blade, or sheath;
Telling of the hidden life
That breaks forth underneath,
Life nursed in its grave by Death.

Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,
Drips the soaking rain,
By fits looks down the waking sun:
Young grass springs on the plain;
Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
Swollen with sap, put forth their shoots;
Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;
Birds sing and pair again.

There is no time like Spring,
When life's alive in everything,
Before new nestlings sing,
Before cleft swallows speed their journey back
Along the trackless track,--
God guides their wing,
He spreads their table that they nothing lack,--
Before the daisy grows a common flower,
Before the sun has power
To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.

There is no time like Spring,
Like Spring that passes by;
There is no life like Spring-life born to die,--
Piercing the sod,
Clothing the uncouth clod,
Hatched in the nest,
Fledged on the windy bough,
Strong on the wing:
There is no time like Spring that passes by,
Now newly born, and now
Hastening to die.
Well I wake up Monday morning
with a poem I need to post that
doesn't work.
I have two cups of coffee
and then one more,
'cuz it hurts.
To see that italics are impossible
without the hanging hashtag
which always lurks.
Oh, there's nothing short of dying
when I spent all this time trying,
And now, sigh I'm late for work.
©2018 Verlie Burroughs

It's a mystery to me why the hanging hash tag haunts some of my attempts to write poems in italics and other times (like now) it works!
Thank you Johnny Cash.
The world of poetry
A vocabulary of authors
Establishing a symmetry
With thoughts of heart and soul
Mysteriously traveling
A future which loses its youth

The old road
Of verse and stroll
From Genesis and world
Universally it draws
What the artist in you

Every day anew
A rhythmic view
Or an unbound harmony
With words about

A poet could never depart or eschew
From the possibilities
His pen could purview

He always returns like the worm
In a book of an apple
Left to the rainy sidewalks
Squishing under our shoes

The world of poetry
Spinning the earth
Faster than the circles
Of time and each line
Forgotten after it was written for you

This is our planet
With metaphors and habits
Constantly performing
An act that rarely pays dues

A poet
An author
  An actor

Or just a man & woman
Pouring out the alphabet
Onto pages and rearranging the blues

I could write forever
But for ever
I write this poem
Esoteric as understood
By the talents of few
Doctor Zhivago, p. 75
#*Doctor Zhivago,* p. 75
I'm longing for my promised land
words fly free like birds
building bridges between cultures
the world is whirling
in the words of Li Bai
peace is a flower
it blossoms gently
in the Chinese garden
opening the sky for everyone
On this dark day, this evil day, this day
In a railway carriage on a branch line
Three hundred years of civilization
And millions of lives, three generations
Were signed away with a few penned words
In a railway carriage on a branch line
On this dark day, this evil day, this day
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