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I do not claim to be a sage
And Nietzsche's far too deep for me;
But in this restless modern age
I'd fain pen this philosophy.
The artist puts his soul in oil,
His brush he wields to catch some scheme,
Some idea makes him want to toil--
To put on canvas some fair dream.
The poet writes with lilting swing
Of this or that with varied zest;
But neither gloats in finishing;
Only in work do they find rest.
The man whose yen is growing flowers
Spends time and effort on his lawn;
He plants and weeds for countless hours,
From early light till light is gone,
Producing blooms that please the eye;
But when his gardening task is o'er,
The net results ne'er satisfy--
His joy is work, not flowers galore.
The millionaire with hoards of gold
Is not content with what he makes;
He'll risk it all with verve untold
To double or increase his stakes.
And thus throughout life's sojourn brief,
While fame and fortune we are wooing,
Our finished tasks oft bring us grief,
But our respite is in the doing.
St. Louis Globe-Democrat, 1935
(First poem I ever had published.)
"Where is the moon a-goin' to ?"
My small son asked today.
"What makes the moo-cow want to moo?"
And "Why do donkeys bray?"
"How does the airplane fly so high?"
Or "What makes ice so cold?"
"What is there up above the sky?"
And "Why is grandpa old?"
With endless questions such as these,
And many more abstruse,
He asks concerning what he sees;
His tongue is ever loose.
If I knew all that Science does,
It still would be a strain
To answer all the things that buzz
And pop out from his brain.
"Popular Poetry," Boston, 1935
So straight and smooth and white and hot
The concrete pavement lies;
To me it grows monotonous--
It's sameness hurts my eyes.
Give my a winding mountain road
With graceful arcs and loops;
That turns and twists and soars aloft,
Then swiftly downward swoops.
The quiet, shady country lane
Holds like appeal for me.
When nerves are taut, I yearn to stop
Beneath some friendly tree.
But when some bourne I strive to reach,
To meet some urgent need,
The kind of road that suits me best
Is one that's built for speed.
"Popular Poetry" Boston, Mass., 1934
When I am old, I do not wish
A life of idle ease,
With nought to do but think of self
And try to shun disease.
I'll want a task that I may do;
(I may not do it well);
But I will feel I'm still alive
And not an empty shell.
A verse to write; a book to read;
Just some small things will be
Enough to keep my mind away
From senile sympathy.
Third place in Poetry contest, 1942
A growing tree--eternity--
Synonymous they seem to me.
The tree some day will meet decay
And all of it will pass away;
But not for long will it remain
A prostrate mass of woody grain.
The rotted wood will furnish good
Rich soil where once the big tre stood.
A tiny sprout will venture out
And soon its leaves will wave about.
Another tree will grow and fall
And nourish other saplings small.
"Ports 'o Poets," Greencastle, Ind. & Arkansas Democrat, May 1, 1938
Dr. A.O. Goldsmith of Kennett is a retired director of the School of Journalism, Louisiana State University.
