Poems by The Olde Forester


I think that you will never see,

A person unpoetic as me.

I sit all eve with pen in hand

And never write a single strand.

On margin I just print and draw,

Sketch and scribble all night long.

'Till lines are formed -- no -- not at all

And nerves are frazzled -- nearly raw.

Some folks are poets naturally;

While some, they say, just learn to be;

But I'm convinced -- no never me.

Inarticulate -- that's me!

Freshman English assignment. Published in 1933-34 Yearbook for Youngstown College. (True story)

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You've seen me stare

With my mouth agape

At a fetching doll

In a flimsy drape;

But who, my dear

Says, "It's a date."

Just you, my dear--

And I'm never late.

Emmett to Myrt Lundgren, 1/22/1940 who was then at Miami Univ, Oxford. OH

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I sometimes count the hours

I count the minutes, too.

I count the very seconds

Until I can be with you.

I'm a very skillful counter,

Your must admit it's true.

But I hardly ever notice

When the last darn bus is due!

Emmett to Myrt. He would miss the last bus home and have to walk. Jan22,1940.

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I felt your hand;

I touched your hair;

I kissed your lips devine--

What a thing of magic

Is this fireplace of mine.

Conjured up at Les Vogageur cabin, Ann Arbor, MI, while writing a letter to Myrt at Miami U. 1938-39

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When redwings sing their watery notes,

And meadowlarks call through yellow throats,

And kingfishers rattle their wild, clear cry,

I long for the river, the mountains, the sky.

To pull on the paddle in pools running deep.

To startle the bluebills who float half asleep.

To fight with the rapids and sing our way through.

Les Voyageur brothers, I'm coming with you.

Dedicated to the Les Voyageur Society, University of Michigan. 4/14/72

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The golden rod, the stacks of hay,

The stands of fruit along the way;

The closer cropped grass, the asters blue,

The misty rains, the morning dew;

Red and gold upon the trees,

The feel of winter in the breeze;

Pleids early in the sky,

Vega shining bright on high;

Smokey days upon the heather,

Gossamers and get-to-gethers;

Purple sunset, roughish eyes

All of these in with autumn skies.

Written while returning on a bus from Youngstown to Ann Arbor, MI, for last year.

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This is the month when winds blow chill,

And clouds sweep low as snow clouds will.

When leaves are piled in smoking gutters,

And north winds bring us shivering shudders.

When Christmas seems so far away,

And tomorrow, but another day;

But thoughts of you and a glowing ember,

Melt away this bleak November.

Emmett to Myrt Lundgren from Ann Arbor. Circa 1938.

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Did you ever see the earth caressed

By the Might Hand on a windy day?

Well, watch the wheat fields as they sway

To and fro like waves in a bay.

The sensitive reeds so green and lush

Bend and sway in a wave-like rush,

Whenever the Hand sweeps overhead

To cool the kind earths feverish head.

The waves wash up to where you stand,

Stirred to action by His hand;

Passing gently back and forth

Across the fragrant mellow earth.

Written after observing field of ripened wheat near Poland, Ohio.

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A dogwood clad in Autumn's red

Mirrored by the shore.

A hazy glowing spark of beauty

Thrills me to the core.

All so even, burning smoothly

With a glowing fierce desire;

Like a beacon in the woodland

Like a glowing altar-fire.

Year by year you light our woodland

White in May and red in Fall

Beacon of the hand that leadeth

And bring love to each and all.

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"He should have done!"

"If only you -- "

If I were he --

What I would do -- "

Of't heard remarks,

But who can state

If right or wrong

The twists of fate?

Written after twin brother Errett wrecked sister Evelyn's Pontiac on wet road.

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