I lost the poem. Try this

IT’S SEPTEMBER

It’s September, and the orchards are afire with red and gold,
And the nights with dew are heavy, and the mornings sharp with cold;
Now the garden’s at its gayest with the salvia blazing red
And the good old-fashioned asters laughing at us from their bed;
Once again in shoes and stockings are the children’s little feet,
And the dog now does his snoozing on the bright side of the street.

It’s September, and the cornstalks are as high as they will go,
And the red cheeks of the apples everywhere begin to show;
Now the supper’s scarcely over ere the darkness settles down
And the moon looms big and yellow at the edges of the town;
Oh, it’s good to see the children, when their little prayers are said,
Duck beneath the patchwork covers when they tumble into bed.

It’s September, and a calmness and sweetness seem to fall
Over everything that’s living, just as though it hears the call
Of Old Winter, trudging slowly, with his pack of ice and snow,
In the distance over yonder, and it somehow seems as though
Every tiny little blossom wants to look it’s very best
When the frost shall bite it’s petals and it droops away to rest.

It’s September! It’s the fullness and the ripeness of the year;
All the work of earth is finished, or the final tasks are near.
But there is no doleful wailing; every living thing that grows,
For the end that is approaching wears the finest garb it knows.
And I pray that I may proudly hold my head up high and smile
When I come to my September in the golden afterwhile.

It's September 30th. I've been planning to post one of Edgar's poems called "It's September". If I didn't do it today, it will be October. Nothing against October. I'm sure a lot of the poem will relate to October (depending on where you live). But I will feel better if I post it in September.

Here it is:

Cool Guys weekend

I offer this post with some disappointment as I had spent half a day composing it, only to find that I lost it somewhere in the blogisphere. What I lack in writing skills, I make up in technical incompetence. So what you see is what I recall.

BROTHERS ALL

I couldn’t help think of this poem as I reflected back on this year’s “Cool Guys” weekend. The “Cool Guys” weekend is made up of 10 to 15 middle age men who get away to spend a time together in the North woods of Wisconsin each year. We are fortunate to have access to a very comfortable North Woods cottage in a typical North Woods setting – lake and all. Needless to say the men, including three 10-12 year old sons and one 75 year old grandfather (thank you), took over the cottage like it was built for them. What made me think of this is that this collection of men consist of some who started the group 15 years ago and others who were newly invited and there for the first time.

Along with the guitar playing, sunning and swimming in the lake, telling stories around the fire and preparing and sharing fantastic meals at the large table, I marveled at the ongoing process of making friends and getting to know each other.

Here is an Edgar A. Guest poem from a different era:

BROTHERS ALL

Under the toiler’s grimy shirt,
Under the sweat and the grease and dirt,
Under the rough outside you view,
Is a man who thinks and feels as you.

Go talk with him,
Go walk with him,
Sit down with him by a running stream,
Away from the things that are hissing steam,
Away from his bench,
His hammer and wrench,
And the grind of need,
And the sordid deed
And this you’ll find
As he bares his mind:
In the things that count when this life is through
He’s as tender and big and as good as you.


The other poem that came to me, because the weekend included three young boys and their fathers, was: A BOY AND HIS DAD

A good number of fishing trips and fish stories were mixed in with waffle ball games and flying frisbees.

Here it is:

A BOY AND HIS DAD

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip ---
There is a glorious fellowship!
Father and son and the open sky
And the white clouds lazily drifting by,
And the laughing stream as it runs along
With the clicking reel like a martial song,
And the father teaching the youngster gay
How to land a fish in the sportsman’s way.

I fancy I hear them talking there
In an open boat, and the speech is fair;
And the boy is learning the ways of men
From the finest man in his youthful ken.
Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare
With the gentle father who’s with him there.
And the greatest mind of the human race
Not for one minute could take his place.

Which is happier, man or boy?
The soul of the father is steeped in joy,
For he’s finding out, to his heart’s delight,
That his son is fit for the future fight.
He is learning the glorious depths of him,
And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim,
And he shall discover, when night comes on,
How close he has grown to his little son.

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip ---
Oh, I envy them, as I see them there
Under the sky in the open air,
For out of the old, old long-ago
Come the summer day that I used to know,
When I learned life’s truths from my father’s lips
As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips ---
Builders of life’s companionships!

This is another example of Edgar’s sensitivity to the personal things that are important. I’m sure the fathers will enjoy this. I recall when one of my sons were the age of these three boys he pulled in his line and stopped fishing. When I asked him why, he said that he would wait until we got in closer to shore where the fish weren’t so big.

Until next time ----

I recently composed a post and hit PUBLISH POST. Later I came back to view it on the blog and it was not there. Is there some way to retrieve the post and try to "Publish" it again?

It's less than a week before the 4th of July - and I felt moved to post one poem that is appropriate. This poem is longer than most of Edgar's and has a very involved poetic line spacing, which I compromised for simplicity (my apologies to Edgar).

This poem will be more meaningful to those families that actually have soldiers currently overseas in today's conflicts.

Here is "The Things That Make A Soldier Great"


The Things That Make a Soldier Great Edgar A. Guest

The things that make a soldier great
and send him to die,
To face the flaming cannon’s mouth
nor ever question why,
Are lilacs by a little porch,
the row of tulips red,
The peonies and pansies, too,
the old petunia bed,
The grass plot where the children play,
the roses on the wall:
‘Tis these that make a soldier great.
He’s fighting for them all.

Tis’ not the pomp and pride of kings
that make a soldier brave;
‘Tis not allegiance to the flag
that over him may wave;
For soldiers never fight so well
on land or on the foam
As when behind the cause they see
the little place called home.
Endanger but that humble street
whereon his children run,
You make a soldier of the man
who never bore a gun.


What is it through the battle smoke
the valiant soldier sees?
The little garden far away,
the budding apple trees,
The little patch of ground back there,
the children at their play,
Perhaps a tiny mound behind
the simple church of gray.
The golden thread of courage
isn’t linked to castle dome
But to the spot, where’er it be –
the humblest spot called home.

And now the lilacs bud again
and all is lovely there
And homesick soldier far away
know spring is in the air;
The tulips come to bloom again,
the grass once more is green,
And every man can see the spot
where all his joys have been.
He sees his children smile at him,
he hears the bugle call,
And only death can stop him now –
he’s fighting for them all.


I'd like to include here, Wikipedia's introductory piece on Edgar. I promised that I'd include information about Edgar as I came across it. Here it is.....

Edgar Guest

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Edgar Albert Guest
Born -- August 20, 1881, Birmingham England –
Died -- August 5, 1959, Detroit, Michigan)
(aka Eddie Guest) was a prolific American poet who was popular in the first half of the 20th Century and became known as the People’s Poet.

In 1891, Guest came with his family to the United States from England. After he began at the Detroit Free Press as a copy boy and then a reporter, his first poem appeared December 11, 1898. He became a naturalized citizen in 1902. For 40 years, Guest was widely read throughout North America, and his sentimental, optimistic poems were in the same vein as the light verse of Nick Kenny, who wrote syndicated columns during the same decades.

From his first published work in the Detroit Free Press until his death, in 1959, Guest penned some 11,000 poems which were syndicated in some 300 newspapers and collected in more than 20 books, including A Heap o’ Livin’ (1916) and Just Folks (1917). Guest was made Poet Laureate of Michigan, the only poet to have been awarded the title.

Michael: I finally found your post. Thanks. You are the first (and only) person to respond. Now I know that it can be done. Thanks.

Valentines Day and Mother's Day Poems

A couple of things that I skipped over in my last post were Valentines Day and Mother's Day. Of my 14 grandchildren, 7 of them are girls. Their ages range from 5 to 21. This year I enclosed one of Edgar's precious poems in each of their Valentines Day cards. This one is called "Little Girls are Best". Some of his best poems are about boys and girls. It's clear that he has a special place in his heart for children.

Here is "Little Girls are Best":

Little Girls Are Best Edgar A. Guest

Little girls are mighty nice,
Take ‘em any way they come;
They are always worth their price;
Life without ‘em would be glum;
Run earth’s lists of treasures through,
Pile ‘em high until they fall,
Gold an’ costly jewels , too –
Little girls are best of all.

Nothing equals ‘em on earth!
I’m an old man an’ I know
Any little girl is worth
More than all the gold below;
Eyes ‘o blue or brown or gray,
Raven hair or golden curls,
There’s no joy on earth today
Quite so fine as little girls.

Pudgy nose or freckled face,
Fairy-like or plain to see,
God has surely bless the place
Where a little girl may be;
They’re the jewels of His crown
Dropped to earth from heaven above,
Like wee angle souls sent down
To remind us of His love.

God has made some lovely things –
Roses red an’ skies o’ blue,
Trees an’ babbling silver springs,
Gardens glistening with dew –
But take every gift to man,
Big an’ little, great an’ small,
Judge it on its merits, an’
Little girls are best of all.

The intent of my blog is to share my favorites of Edgar's works. Although I will tell you what I can about the man, my intent is to concentrate on his work, his philosophy, his values, and the way he is able to touch your heart. There is a lot of good biographical material out there, and I will share it as I read it.

On Mother's Day, I e-mailed all 6 of my daughter/daughter-in-laws, enclosing a humorous, but insightful poem that mothers would enjoy. Even if you are not a mother, but a father or child, you can relate to Edgar's poem - "Where's Mamma?"


Where's Mamma? Edgar A Guest

Comes in flying from the street:
“Where’s Mamma?”
Friend or stranger thus he’ll greet:
“Where’s Mamma?”
Doesn’t want to say hello,
Home from school or play he’ll go
Straight to what he wants to know:
“Where’s Mamma?”

Many times a day he’ll shout,
“Where’s Mamma?”
Seems afraid that she’s gone out;
“Where’s Mamma?”
Is his first thought at the door –
She’s the one he’s looking for,
And he questions o’er and o’er,
“Where’s Mamma?”

Can’t be happy till he knows:
“Where’s Mamma?”
So he begs us to disclose
“Where’s Mamma?”
And it often seems to me,
As I hear his anxious plea,
That no sweeter phrase can be:
“Where’s Mamma?”

Like to hear it day by day;
“Where’s Mamma?”
Loveliest phrase that lips can say:
”Where’s Mamma?”
And I pray as time will flow,
And the long years come and go,
That he’ll always want to know
“Where’s Mamma?”

This should catch me up on some of the personal ways I've shared some of Edgar's best. I will continue to post poems that are special to me, even if I don't have an occasion in which to celebrate. I hope you will just copy any of these poems that you want to keep or to share.

Time will not allow me to read all of his poetry and I will no doubt miss some gems. But there are lots of the thousands to keep me busy and will, I'm sure, offer many precious posts.

Note: You are reading this because, after posting four times, I am finally directing people to the "Edgar and I" blog. Those of you who like poetry, I hope will keep coming back. To those of you that feel you don't like poetry, just let me say that Edgar offers more that just poetry. At least your intelectual curiosity got you this far. Come on back now, Ya hear!

Well, it's been awhile since I've made an entry. I recently had an occasion to give a close friend a couple appropriate Guest poems. He found himself in a traumatic and life changing situation. I laminated the two poems and gave them to him.

The next day his assistant saw the poems on his desk, read them, and asked if she could get copies. When I brought the copies to her, she told me that when she read one of them, it was so meaningful to her that she cried through the whole poem.

She gave me a hug. This is why I share Edgar's poems.

Following is: No use Sighin' and All for the Best.


No Use Sighin’ Edgar A. Guest

No use frettin’ when the rain comes down,
No use grievin’ when the gray clouds frown,
No use sighin’ when the wind blows strong,
No use wailin’ when the world’s all wrong;
Only thing that a man can do
Is work an’ wait till the sky gets blue.

No use mopin’ when you lose the game,
No use sobbin’ if you’re free from shame,
No use cryin’ when the harm is done,
Just keep on tryin’ an’ workin’ on;
Only thing for a man to do,
Is take the loss an’ begin anew.

No use weepin’ when the milk is spilled,
No use growlin’ when your hopes are killed,
No use kickin’ when the lightnin’ strikes,
Or the floods come along an’ wreck your dykes;
Only thing for a man right then
Is to grit his teeth an’ start again.

For it’s how life is an’ the way things are
That you’ve got to face if you travel far:
An’ the storms will come an’ the failures too,
An’ plans go wrong spite of all you do;
An’ the only thing that will help you win,
Is the grit of a man and a stern set chin.



All for the Best Edgar A. Guest

Things mostly happen for the best.
However hard it seems today,
When some fond plan has gone astray
Or what you’ve wished for most is lost
An’ you sit countin’ up the cost
With eyes half-blind by tears o’ grief
While doubt is chokin’ out belief,
You’ll find when all is understood
That what seemed bad was really good.

Life can’t be counted in a day.
The present rain that will not stop
Next autumn means a bumper crop.
We wonder why some things must be –
Care’s purpose we can seldom see –
An’ yet long afterwards we turn
To view the past, an’ then we learn
That what once filled our minds with doubt
Was good for us as it worked out.

I’ve never known an hour of care
But that I’ve later come to see
That it has brought some joy to me,
Even the sorrows I have borne,
Leavin’ me lonely an’ forlorn
An’ hurt an’ bruised an’ sick at heart,
In life’s great plan have had a part.
An’ though I could not understand
Why I should bow to Death’s command,
As time went on I came to know
That it was really better so.

Things mostly happen for the best.
So narrow is our vision here
That we are blinded by a tear
An’ stunned by every hurt an’ blow
Which comes to-day to strike us low.
An’ yet some day we turn an’ find
That what seemed cruel once was kind.
Most things, I hold, are wisely planned
If we could only understand.


Then a week ago, we celebrated Memorial Day at or church. Every year this is a separate service held in our cemetary beside the church. Usually - a prayer, a hymn, a message from a military guest, taps, and the cannon is fired. This year, between the message and taps, I read Edgar's poem, Memorial Day. A few people thanked me and praised the poem.

One lady gave me a hug. This is why I share Edgar's poems.

Following is Memorial Day.


Memorial Day Edgar A. Guest


These did not pass in selfishness: they died for all mankind;
They died to build a better world for all who stay behind;
And we who hold their memory dear, and bring them flowers today,
Should consecrate ourselves once more to live and die as they.

These were defenders of the faith and guardians of the truth;
That you and I might live and love, they gladly gave their youth;
And we who set this day apart to honor them who sleep
Should pledge ourselves to hold the faith they gave their lives to keep.

If tears are all we shed for them, then they have died in vain;
If flowers are all we bring them now, forgotten they remain;
If by their courage we ourselves to courage are not led,
Then needlessly these graves have closed above our heroes dead.

To symbolize our love with flowers is not enough to do;
We must be brave as they were brave, and true as they were true.
They died to build a better world, and we who mourn to-day
Should consecrate ourselves once more to live and die as they.

Welcome to you and to Edgar A. Guest

It's time to learn how this thing works.

Edgar and I actually means that I welcome Edgar A. Guest and his poetry to the blog. He is my Welcome Guest, who I want to share with you.

His name was familiar from my high school English and Literature class. Frankly, I couldn't tell you much about him (or any of the other authors, for that matter).

A year ago I was fortunate and privileged to come across a book of his works in, of all places, the Northwestern Wisconsin cabin of his great niece. I was there as a new member of 'The Cool Guys' (another topic later).

His story and his poems both were facinating. He wrote what were usually short, 3 to 4 stanza poems about life and his homespun philosophoy of the early 1900's. After reading a few of the poems I thought, here is Will Roger's thoughts put down to a Dr. Seuss rhyme and rhythm. Then I found out that he was born in 1881, Will Rogers in 1879 and Dr. Seuss in 1904. They were contemporaries. It well could be that Will Rogers was influenced by an Edgar A. Guest philosophy and that Dr. Seuss by an Edgar A. Guest poetic beat.

His poems were of a single topic and ended in a way that would bring you to laugh, cry, smile or shake your head. By the time you got to the last stanza, you could feel the last line coming on. It was like making love. You knew that the poem had been building in you and you were about to experience the last - the bottom - line. If you know what I am talking about, I don't have to tell you; if you don't know what I'm talking about, I still don't have to tell you.

So over time I will offer you my best of guest poems as well as more of the intreguing story of this man who for 4 years wrote one poem a day for a Michigan Newspaper.

We'll start with one of his poems called, "What We Need", quoting the thoughts of an old timer.


What We Need – (1921)

We were settin’ there an’ smokin’ of our pipes, discussin’ things,
Like licker, votes for wimmin, an’ the totterin’ thrones o’ kings,
When he ups an’ strokes his whiskers with his hand an’ says t’ me:
“Changin’ laws an’ legislatures ain’t as fur as I can see,
Goin’ to make this world much better, unless somehow we can
Find a way to make a better an’ a finer sort o’ man.

“The trouble ain’t with statutes or with systems – not at all:
It’s with humans jest like we air an’ their petty ways an’ small.
We could stop our writin’ law-books an’ our regulatin’ rules
If a better sort of manhood was the product of our schools.
For the things that we air needin’ ain’t no writin’ from a pen
Or bigger guns to shoot with, but a bigger type of men.

“I reckon all these problems air jest ornery like the weeds.
They grow in soil that oughta nourish only decent deeds,
An’ they waste out time an’ fret us when, if we were thinking straight
An’ livin’ right, they wouldn’t be so terrible an’ great.
A good horse needs no snaffle, an’ a good man, I opine,
Doesn’t need a law to check him or to force him into line.

”If we ever start in teachin’ to our children, year by year,
How to live with one another, there’ll be less o’ trouble here.
If we’d teach em how to neighbor an’ to walk in honor’s ways,
We could settle every problem which the mind o’ man can raise.
What we’re needin’ isn’t systems or some regulatin’ plan,
But a bigger an’ a finer an’ a truer type o’ man.