Monthly Archives: November 2013

The Merchant Poet of New England

James Russell Lowell


In the year 1639 Percival Lowle, or Lowell, a merchant of Bristol, England, landed at the little seaport town of Newbury, Mass.   

We generally speak of a man’s descent.  In the case of James Russell Lowell’s ancestry it was rather an ascent through eight generations.

Percival Lowle’s son, John Lowell, was a worthy cooper in old Newbury; his great-grandson was a shoe-maker, his great-great-grandson was

the Rev. John Lowell of Newburyport, the father of the Hon. John Lowell, who is regarded s the author of the clause in the Massachusetts Constitution abolishing slavery.


The Poet

He who hath felt life’s mystery

Press on him like thick night,

Whose soul hath known no history

But struggling after light;–

He who hath seen dim shapes arise

In the soundless depths of soul,

Which gaze on him with meaning eyes

Full of the mighty whole,

Yet will no word of healing speak,

Although he pray night-long,

“O, help me, save me! I am weak,

And ye are wondrous strong!”–

Who, in the midnight dark and deep,

Hath felt a voice of might

Come echoing through the halls of sleep

From the lone heart of Night,

And, starting from his restless bed,

Hath watched and wept to know

What meant that oracle of dread

That stirred his being so;

He who hath felt how strong and great

This Godlike soul of man,

And looked full in the eyes of Fate,

Since Life and Thought began;

The armor of whose moveless trust

Knoweth no spot of weakness,

Who hath trod fear into the dust

Beneath the feet of meakness;–

He who hath calmly borne his cross,

Knowing himself the king

Of time, nor counted it a loss

To learn by suffering;–

And who hath worshipped woman still

With a pure soul and lowly,

Nor ever hath in deed or will

Profaned her temple holy–

He is the Poet, him unto

The gift of song is given,

Whose life is lofty, strong, and true,

Who never fell from Heaven;

He is the Poet, from his lips

To live forevermore,

Majestical as full-sailed ships,

The words of Wisdom pour.

From Lowell’s Poetical Works Copyright 1892





Rain- a refreshing sound,

as the dewdrops hit the asphalt ground.

A  soft and subtle start,

like the gentle beat of a heart.

Slowly it’s pace increasing,

louder and louder the tune.

Nature singing a melodious song,

happy are we to sing along.

Rain-a meditating voice,

whispering in the air.

If you listen and let yourself hear,

you will be in sync with the universal flow.

Rain- now a thundering roar,

no fear- quiet your mind,

release your tears,

for they are just dew drops

on the asphalt ground.

When the rain’s tune has ended,

and the sun  decides to shine,

the dew drops that once were there,

soon will disappear.

If you close your eyes,

you may still hear

the rain’s echo in your ears.


Poetry by Tammy More @ 2013


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I dream of a place far away,

No one and nothing to disturb me.

An island of peace and harmony,

surrounded with nature’s  raw  beauty.

My body wrapped in bliss

by the sun’s radiant arms.

No one and nothing to bring me harm.

A natural pool to swim and bathe in.

A place away from the hustle of life,

A chance to breathe, relax and live

a simple life.


Poetry by Tammy More @ 2013

The give…

Pay it forward Thursday. Sharing this poem from blacktopprophet’s blog. Enjoy!

The Blacktop Prophet

I wrote poems for prisoners
that were much freer than I
considered it my business
to question freedoms ire
left open interpretation
sought a song to bye and bye
gave an old bum knowledge
he’d much rather have my time

and I’ve thrown away poems
that should have met your ear
instead I hid them safely
beneath a whispers drear
should have spoke in turn
gave aloud the thoughts I had
but an old bums’ wisdom
turned my happy sad


©2013 Cornelious “See” Flowers

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In the Words of Rumi


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All day I think about it, then at night I say it.

Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?

I have no idea.

My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,

and I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.

When I get back around to that place,

I’ll be completely sober.  Meanwhile,

I’m like a bird from another continent,

sitting in this aviary.

The day is coming when I fly off,

but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?

Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?

I cannot stop asking.

If I could taste one sip of an answer,

I could break out of this prison for drunks.

I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.

Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry, I never know what I’m going to say.

I don’t plan it.

When I’m outside the saying of it,

I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.

That’s fine with us.  Every morning

we glow and in the evening we glow again.

They say there’s no future for us.  They’re right.

Which is fine with us.


Poem from The Essential Rumi

Take Time to See

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Take time to see….

The sun in the sky,

as it’s warmth and beauty

shines on you and me.

Take time to see….

The birds in the trees

singing nature’s song.

Take time to see….

The family who loves you


Take time to see….

The ones you pass by

without a home or a family.

Take time to see….

All the people

who have come into your life

past and present.

Take time to see….

How blessed your life is

just with what you have.

Take time to see….

What’s right before your eyes,

but also what’s not.

Take time to see….

You and how great you are,

just as you are.

Take time to see….

All the treasures in the world

and how grateful we should be.


Poetry by Tammy More @2013


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Three frogs hang out on my porch,

What is their purpose,

Who is the source?

Looking at me with those bug eyes,

wondering if there is a prince inside.

Why are they here?

I’m no one special,

my porch is not gold.

Will they stay until I’m old and gray,

or  someday hop away.

These frogs are a mystery,

hope they don’t decide to talk

because that would be freaky.

Maybe they are here to send a message,

or show me a sign.

Whatever the deal,

it’s only a matter a time before it’s revealed,

until then-

here they will stay,

these three frogs of mine.


Poetry by Tammy More @ 2013

Sunday is for the Frost, Robert Frost that is



Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.


From Complete Poems of Robert Frost.  Copyright 1916,1921,1923,1930,1934, 1939.