That's a big Maypole.

I remember my Maypole dance...11 years old. we were dressed in green, yellow, and pink with daisies and baby's breath in our hair.

Equinox, thats a great love poem!

I love the description.
"A goodly pine tree of 80 foot long, was reared up, with a pair of buckshorns nailed on, somewhat near unto the top of it; where it stood as a fair sea mark for directions, how to find out the way to mine Host of Ma-re Mount.""

I made May poles out of white birch when i lived in Ct and ran a series of strings to it, attached to the top-center. Then I planted pole beans at the base of each string so I could walk underneath the structure and pluck beans.

Songes of the season! That's absolutely fascinating about the roots of the May pole tradition. I grew up about ten minutes from Bryn Mawr College and in the early to mid 60s the area was still quite rural. I remember quite a few May poles with school kids of all ages dancing around them. But it seemed so innocent -- virginal even when you watched the BMC students in their nice spring dresses. My mom, being an English professor, was certainly aware of Morton and Bradford and she would hint at some darker aspects with a kind of sly grin. But I had no idea how out of step it was for those Puritanical times.

Gotta watch out for that frisking!

THE MAYPOLE
by Robert Herrick

The May-pole is up,
Now give me the cup;
I'll drink to the garlands around it;
But first unto those
Whose hands did compose
The glory of flowers that crown'd it.

A health to my girls,
Whose husbands may earls
Or lords be, granting my wishes,
And when that ye wed
To the bridal bed,
Then multiply all, like to fishes.

A Maypole
by Johnathan Swift

Deprived of root, and branch and rind,
Yet flowers I bear of every kind:
And such is my prolific power,
They bloom in less than half an hour;
Yet standers-by may plainly see
They get no nourishment from me.
My head with giddiness goes round,
And yet I firmly stand my ground:
All over naked I am seen,
And painted like an Indian queen.
No couple-beggar in the land
E'er joined such numbers hand in hand.
I joined them fairly with a ring;
Nor can our parson blame the thing.
And though no marriage words are spoke,
They part not till the ring is broke;
Yet hypocrite fanatics cry,
I'm but an idol raised on high;
And once a weaver in our town,
A damned Cromwellian, knocked me down.
I lay a prisoner twenty years,
And then the jovial cavaliers
To their old post restored all three -
I mean the church, the king, and me.

here's to keeping with the maypole theme...kind of

UNTITLED

I lost my right to play today—
To sing and dance and be free
The king decided it was so—
And so it was to be

The people still all went to work—
And really nothing changed
They ate their lunch and then returned
To where from which they came

The bars were open giving drinks—
And the streets were still all filled
Everyone still went to bed—
When the night air chilled

Everything just kept on going—
Just kept on happening
But I lost my right to play today—
To sing and dance and be free

While at Hospice, a very kind elderly gentleman shared a very short poem with my mother and I. It demonstrates how just a few words can hold such weight, and it was the last poem written by this particular poet. My mom is in her last couple of days of life now, so as you can imagine, it made an impact.


Did you get what you wanted

from this life,

even so?

I did.

To be beloved.

Laura,

Thank you for sharing during this time.
May they be painfree golden days.

My first year as a nurse, I was a travelling Hospice nurse.

Much Love,
Paige

(((Heaven's Love for Laura and Mom)))

Holy Sonnet X: Death Be Not Proud
by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which yet thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men
And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Thanks for the kind words and poem, Paige. Hospice nurses are a very special, superhuman breed. We absolutely could not have done the past few months without them.

Beautiful poetry thread.

Shall I compare thee to a summers day?
by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day ?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st;
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Equinox, Morton upped the ante during the celebration by inviting the Native Americans to drink and dance. The Puritans did not like that.

Moondancer, Thanks muchl for the May Pole follow up poetry, very nice indeed. Love the Shakespeare!

odea, great stuff. I relly like your poetry.Thanks for sharing!

LB, that poem is short but so mighty. Just stunning. Thanks for sharing and peace and light to you and Mom. I agree that hospice nurses are absolute saints with uncanny superhuman strength and focus.

Highway Terror, I read the Bobby Peterson again..thanks..I met him at a JGB show at the Stone in the early 80's just hanging out in the crowd. Very interesting guy to talk to, deep and funny.