Rich Roach
Rich Roach
Poet, Writer, Musician, Educator 

The last part of my triptych of poetry has for its theme “Children.” As a father and an elementary teacher, 
        children are of paramount concern, and each day I am thankful for my glimpse into the future.

The Seasons
Poet, Writer, Musician, Educator 
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Copyright © 2012 
Rich Roach
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I've never felt the urge to sing...

...more than now!

Now, while the blooms
rise high and proud
above the garden's girth;

now while cicadas strike their bows,
and maples soak 
beneath the sun;

now while the farmer
lifts his eye and feels
his fields stretch forth
across his land;

now while proud morning
tills the air, and in our streams
proves alchemist;

now while my child
takes my hand
as we simply sit
upon the sunset,
breathing in 
the warmer warmth of love.

Shadow's Light

I see the sun glint sideways, 
sending streaks of shadow 
to gild the hidden splendour 
of maple-tipped hills; 

or the stars, whose silver locks 
race forth upon a sweep of waves, 
kissing distant shores of night 
beyond my ken - 

within light's interplay, 
I see you play as well, dear child, 
joys strewn, like marigolds, 
before an arc of forest. 

Deep-set among the clouds 
that dip and sing 
among the contours 
of your face, 

I glimpse your glory, 
and wonder on it - 

and wonder too, how you,
of all this earth's sweet miracles,
should have come to be mine.

With little arms in air they search the skies 
for things beyond what we may think as wise, 
discovering the spark of all there is, 
making it glow, resplendent - like a song, 

their voices rise above the doom and gloom, 
as though not meant for such a tiny room, 
urged by fierce hearts that strive to see what's right 
in what the world around them says is wrong. 

Hope's Exquisite Children

I've seen the wind that sweeps 
across the face of youth 
exposing every shade 
upon the brow of truth. 

Hope's children are but blossoms 
ever on the bloom, 
beyond the reach of those 
who prophesy their doom. 

O rise above the flood 
aboard their tiny ark, 
and feel the weight of all the world 
dissolve into the dark; 

for time's unwritten music 
lies in the budding eye 
of hope's exquisite children, 
whose souls compose the sky. 


You are a dirigible,
floating silently through my world;
your voice softer than air
but filled with a music
reserved for me alone.

Speak, sing, scream out...
time waves goodbye
as you scud across its sky,
hoping you will sing,
for your song
is one
to be

Brave, Little Heart (for Kelsey)

I've watched the wheel of time revolve
about a child's brave heart
until her heart could beat no more -
then time withdrew its dart.

And now she dances on a stage
beyond time's cold confines,
except for all the rhythmic leaps
she makes within these lines.

Golden Lads and Girls

Why do we write at all? I ask myself, 
as tireless snowflakes tease the window pane, 
and day yawns forth before me, like a song, 
remembered moments singing its refrain. 

Again I ask, What friend is poetry? 
but all I hear are distant churchyard chimes, 
that, lifting, rise above the mortal world, 
indifferent, though encapsuled in my rhymes. 

Should I in measured verse secure my trust? 
As golden lads and girls, dear friend - I must. 

"as golden lads and girls I must" - 
Shakespeare,  Cymbeline 
"golden lads and girls" - kinds of yellow flowers
                                             in Shakespeare's time 

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