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Best Poems Written by Merwin Rylaarsdam

Below are the all-time best Merwin Rylaarsdam poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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School Closing

It’s true!  I heard it myself! 
No academic learning tomorrow! 
The roads are too icy, 
and travel is dicey
try to contain all your sorrow.

Details | Merwin Rylaarsdam Poem

Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday

Shopping and hawking, 
purchasing and vending their wares; 
the observant noticed; 
the indifferent paid no mind; 
the powerful perturbed by all the noise
make their way to confront
and charge the man
some call anointed. 

Loud and raucous singing
disturbs the quiet of the status quo. 
Those who should be seen and not heard
are making the utmost clamor; 
appreciated by some; 
angering others
insisting they turn the volume down. 

Boulders will sing
while trees will give their branches
to welcome the mighty
if the lowliest of participants
are muzzled by the powerful, 
but they sing in applause; 
an affront to the self-made mighty. 

Shaking off the winter greys and 
waving springtime green, 
a shout welcomes the anointed one. 
Thrown off fashion lines the path
covering eager rocks
postponing the clearing of their throats. 

Join the cavalcade
and raise the benediction; 
awaken the sleeping alleluias
and the slumbering hosannas. 
Join the lowest of the low
and applaud the highest of the high. 
But beware, 
the shoppers are eager to buy, 
even if the cost is high.
And the hawkers are ready
to sell their merchandise.

Details | Merwin Rylaarsdam Poem

Another Birthday

Another Birthday

My age is something a-frightening; 
it came on me faster than lightning! 
	As birthdays come up; 
	they’ll continually sum up, 
but instead of so dark; it’s enlightening!

Details | Merwin Rylaarsdam Poem

Freedom Cry

Colors could not have flown much prouder, 
the voice of freedom not spoken louder,
but pride and joy have always sung
of flowing blood, of purity, and courage flung
both far and wide throughout the world, 
a banner preened with stars unfurled. 

Life veins soak the ground with red
from heroes both alive and dead
and noble thoughts of purest white
lead on with grace throughout the night; 
but true blue courage marks the field
where strength and valor never yield. 

Yet present eyes now see the trampled dues;
three colored speech in red and white and blue
beneath the boots of those who mark
their lives with freedoms stolen in the dark. 
Their freedom earned the right to say
in gathered heat another day. 

But freedom lost, ignored, or gone
cannot regain which deaths have won. 
Faults can be raised, wrongs come up to the fore,
and voices silenced as they even up the score. 
This tattered glory cannot stand by
and leave the single patriot to die.

Details | Merwin Rylaarsdam Poem

On Aging Gracefully

On Aging Gracefully

It seems that while we’re here on earth
we spend our time ‘tween death and birth
in growing older and it shows
how fast my body ebbs and flows. 

Allowing time to contemplate
and reminisce before too late
how far I’ve come to this fair place;
they say I must age sweetly and with grace. 

I know my body’s not the same
as when I started in this game. 
It’s not the same; I know it well
at least as far as I can tell.

I take my glasses off my head
and place them near me by my bed. 
But can I see?  Oh, not a bit, 
my eyes are bad, I must admit. 

My ears have aids which compensate
my lack of hearing to this date.
It stimulates some thoughtful chat
though misheard words account for that!

And then my teeth, I have to tell,
are soaking in a glass as well.
They smile at me with toothy grin
until I put them in again. 

My chest has fallen to the ground; 
the hair I have is grey, not brown. 
My chin has twins, nephews and nieces; 
my face has lines and lots of creases! 

I have no special muscle tone; 
I am no longer “in the zone”! 
I see a mirror and I scare; 
don’t know the guy who’s standing there. 

At five o’clock it’s time to eat, 
sit by the table; off my feet, 
but let not much pass by my lips
or it is forever on my hips.

My body’s cursed with indigestion;
my singing often comes in question; 
my breathing breathes out gasps and wheezes; 
each morning starts with several sneezes.

I yawn with nothing to yawn about; 
I yawn inside; I yawn out! 
And napping’s not a dirty word; 
refusing naps would be absurd! 

My body aches, I feel each pain
and ask when I’ll feel good again. 
What happened since that time long passed
when I thought wrong my youth would last? 

There is much more that I can mention 
of doctors trips and drawing pension. 
But here’s the truth I have to face: 
they say I must approach this age with grace. 

But will I take it lying down
till I am six feet underground? 
Oh, not a bit; there’s not a chance.
I’ll not give age a second glance.

Details | Merwin Rylaarsdam Poem

Wrestling Match

Wrestling Match

I wrestled you again last night,
it seems you like and take delight
	in messing up a good night’s sleep. 
No one knew I wrestled there
laying as if without a care. 
	They’d have thought me counting sheep. 

But sheep were least of my concern.
An empowered soul is where I turn; 
	a far and distant hope. 
I cannot know the hours you stole
from sleep; is this your goal
	to watch me fumble, fall, and grope? 

When will you come and sit with me
and talk like friends like it used to be?
	Is that forever gone? 
I miss those times when I would run
and you would chase; we can’t be done; 
	O, God, I’m barely hanging on! 

I find it hard to talk with you;
I just don’t know what I’m to do. 
	Give me direction, bless me with peace. 
In nakedness I feel my shame
and wanting not to play the game 
	to find your gentle, sweet release. 

I do not hear you call and say, 
“Where are you, son?  You’ve gone away.” 
	The room has fallen quiet. 
So I, with voiceless courage do
call out instead, my God, to you: 
	“Where are you?” and wait in silent riot. 

The door stands shut and locked up tight;
I pull it hard throughout the night
	and stand there at your door with knocks.
I wait and listen for your stride 
to open it; bring me inside;
	unbolting doors and throwing locks. 

I died that night on skull-faced hill
and wait in silence for your will, 
	laid out on rock hard stone. 
Dare I await a resurrection
and taste the joy of your affection? 
	I fear I’m laying here alone. 

And so we wrestled through the night.
I fought hard; you took delight
	in grappling yet another round.
And to the mat we went once more.
You swiftly brought me to the floor,
	with silent force without a sound.

Details | Merwin Rylaarsdam Poem

A Sunday Psalm - Psalm 19

I’m thankful for the sky at night
that fills me up with such delight
like sundaes on a Sunday night. 

The moon and stars come out to play
and need no tongues or words to say
the fun they have to be this way. 

The sun sleeps in a twinkling tent, 
but when it wakes, the moon is sent
to sleep until the day is spent. 

Each day the sun awakes to prance
like men at their own wedding dance
will strut and sway to prove romance. 

It takes the stage; all eyes are turned
toward its effervescent burn
and feel the warmth its dance will earn. 

It has not changed as years go by; 
comforting rhythms in the sky
their radiant lessons to apply. 

Words aren't enough to sing the song; 
all I can do is chant along, 
and seek forgiveness when I’m wrong. 

Then I can join with meditation
the sun and moon in contemplation
in giving thanks for this creation.

Details | Merwin Rylaarsdam Poem

The Cross

Skulled hill
                            supports
                            the lifted
                            standard; 
                            skull bent
                            and dark; 
                            naked for
all who travel the high–way to see those exposed: 
the arrogant, the proud; the humble and forgiven; 
the one who forgives the most needs no forgiving. 
                           Red sealed
                           and stained
                            with filthy
                           lacerations; 
                            suspended
                            with spikes
                            on toothed
                            roughhewn
                           dry kindling
                           envisioning
                           the fires of
                           hades itself
                           trouncing on
                           the carnage. 
                           I accept and
                           make it my
                         own.  The Cross.

Details | Merwin Rylaarsdam Poem

Lollipop Day, July 20, 2015

Lollipop Day (July 20, 2015)
There is a day for everything; 
	there’s little that gets by. 
We keep a month for breakfast prunes; 
	a day for pumpkin pie. 

Homemade soup can have its day
	and pickles get their chance, 
but of the days we mark each year, 
	one makes me sing and dance. 

The lollipop will do that gig
	from small up to grotesque. 
You’ll find them in the circus tents
	and at the banker’s desk. 

This sweet confectionary gem
	will make a child’s eyes gleam; 
the middle aged and old ones will
	enjoy it too, it seems. 

So on this day the lollipop
	will give your mouth a pucker. 
Now, go ahead, yes, do enjoy
	this day we give to suckers!

Details | Merwin Rylaarsdam Poem

Friday Donuts

As I sit upon my seat
and look at all that I will eat
I thank God it’s over the top; 
I made it to the donut shop! 

On Fridays I made a new addition; 
it has become my new tradition: 
I’ll get in my car and get it going
before the roosters start their crowing. 

Then down the street I make my way
to get those pastries to start our day. 
I’ll share them with the one I love
and give our thanks to God above.

The day starts sweet; it will be great
but not because of what we ate. 
It’s great because of what we share
and not because of donuts there!