A poem of thoughtfulness

I was given this poem by a friend.

What have the blue skies looked down on, what have these high hills seen?
 Where has the old wind wandered, before it is reborn young and clean?
The clouds have poured a thousand times, but I wonder whether not each sunset sees,
an evening as young and new as the sky, when it bends low touch the trees. 

A poem for strangers

Due to my somewhat unusual height, I tend to see the underside of desks and tables a lot more than most people do. While it is almost invariably an unpleasant experience to turn one's gaze upwards towards the clammy crowded mass of dried chewing gum, I had the luck today to come across a little bit of poetry somewhat had scribbled on the underside of a study table. Since I was already in the job of prying things off the underside of that particular table, I decided to take this one off too, and transfer it to the big wide world that is our internet.

This one was titled: "A poem for strangers."

I walk as I always have; head down, feet in front,
purposefully examining my shoes as I make my way through strangers.
What a tumult they are making, to their friends, to their phones, to the ones whose names have meaning!
Their faces have no names to me.

I walk as I am accustomed to; hands in my jacket, arms clutching objects, maybe a splay of fingers gripping two,
My focus is on the floor, hoping that I may pass unnoticed in this sea of strangers, knowing that I will and feeling small.
There is no ocean spray that lowers my hood as they do, no cold wind that does not turn my face as words between these nameless faces.

Perhaps that are not all happy, perhaps there are some like me; whose eyes are swimming for a shore of open space in all the comradie.
Perhaps they wonder at my jacket, at my hood and parcels, at my hurried furtive feet,
they wonder what my story is and who I hope to meet.

Maybe they are accustomed to pondering, speculating like me,
if all these bywords will make sense, if these faces can be friends, if names uttered, chattered, whispered, will give meaning and direction to my feet.

More poetry from ancient greece

This is some poetry I found while examining what I first thought to be graffiti on the node of a Grecian urn:

The crowds are dark and silent, like the storm that brews above;
There is no call for brotherhood, no laugh or word of love.
They wait in dreadful silence still, they know they are not wise or brave;
in fear we stand in huddled mass,
each small as a single blade of grass;
but one great wave.

This wave is dark and fearful now, the tide has turned against its strand,
each single drop of water flees,  it does not try to make a stand.
The crowd knows an execution waits, they know that there is death for some;
But we are an obstinate wave indeed; and we won't run.

What plotters scheme in secret talks, what mobsters yell to angered crowds;
What tyrants at frail freedom scoff, when fists are shaken at the clouds,
What rings soundless on our stubborn ears, toiling heat from the burning sun;
Oh we have seen these signs before, but we won't run.

The tide has turned a thousand times, countless grains have been ground to dust,
the heavy sand beneath us heaves, it hears the call and seaward leaves,
But to stand firmly in the draining sand,
to raise our stained and grimy hands, for we must stay and we must stand,
Because we won't run.

Let tyrant trumpets about us blare, let new orders brandish spangled flags,
Let the seamless empty oceans stare, let them call our banner rags;
Let their leaders pose and call themselves The One;
What motley fools we are indeed, for we won't run.