Share Your Favorite Poem!
Ok, let's dig those old poems that once made us swoon, cry or just laugh out of the mental closet and post them here! I will start this stroll down memory lane...
A Door Just Opened
by Emily Dickinson
A door just opened on a street--
I, lost, was passing by--
An instant's width of warmth disclosed
And wealth, and company.
The door as sudden shut, and I,
I, lost, was passing by,--
Lost doubly, but by contrast most,
Enlightening misery.- sneakorocksolidposted 14 years ago
0Ichy bitchy little girl,
Loved the crabs hated squirrels,
Teased the boys and kissed the girls,
Ichy bitchy little girl!
Written by His Greatness, Baron Von Sneako.Alone
By Edgar Allan Poe
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
I've mentioned it b4 when someone posted a thread about favourite lines of poetry, but I'll post the whole thing this time. Its 'The Second Coming' by William Butler Yeats:
"Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"- lyricsingrayposted 14 years ago0
No One Should Feel or Be Alone
I pray to find the perfect words so my truth will show
A glimpse into what I so desperately want you to know.
We all share many forms of of misplaced or untrue shame
Yet none of us will ever know another’s depth of pain.
Articulate aloud, a violent rape that offers no coping aid
Or the loss of your only child, and the hole that will never fade.
Question which mistakes drove our actions, which ones were in just
How many secrets we hide for fear of risking trust.
Understand the lifelong battle in the mind of an addict
All is gone, at rock bottom, still feeding their diseased habit.
Convince someone mental illness is a disease, that can’t be wished away
That electric shock therapy was critical, not barbaric as betrayed.
Be open that suicide may not be a selfish behavior
Rather a means of coping to rid deep pain, believing in no savior.
Describe how we amend mistakes to our loved ones thereof
When no ones left, or willing to trust you again, nor able to give love.
So today, let’s take a moment, breathe and do the best we can for ourselves
Then, step back and let others think for themselves.
Today, let’s remember not just our own pain, or inner curse
Rather keep aware whom we meet may suffer too, or much worse.
-Kimberly Gray
- Ken R. Abellposted 14 years ago0
The Cremation Of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee. Haiku:
A bunny's nose goes sniff.
Bunny jumps off a cliff.
Down, down, dead.
Written by a 4th grader.not necessarily my favourite, but still a very good one, and short enough for a forum post is this:
This Is Just To Say
by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so coldI first heard Shakespeare's "sonnet 116" in the 1995 film Sense and Sensibility. It was so beautiful that I fell in love with it and it became my favorite poem.
Sonnet 116 by William Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.Not to type it all, but "Not a Day on Any Calender" by Rumi.
- Poppa Bluesposted 14 years ago0
Dreams!
Her lips were softer than the petals of a rose
Her skin smoother than Egyptian silk
And with her kiss came a curl in my toes
A warm red glow in skin white as milk
Lips caressed like wind around tall erect peaks
The Earth moved below me in a gentle quake
Blood like a river flowed to my cheeks
If this was a dream I wished never to wake! I'm sorry, I do not know the author...
Johnny was a chemist but Johnny is no more,
What he thought was H2O was H2SO4!My parents studied the Bible with me when I was young.
The Apostle Paul's definition of Love
(1 Corinthians 13:4-8) Love is long-suffering and kind. Love is not jealous, it does not brag, does not get puffed up, does not behave indecently, does not look for its own interests, does not become provoked. It does not keep account of the injury. It does not rejoice over unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.
I loved the words, their rhythm and, the sentiment.- Revive@OwnRiskposted 14 years ago0
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on her tuffet
Collecting her shell-shocked wits
When fell from a glider
An H-bomb beside her
Which frightened Miss Muffet to bits.
~Author unknown
I read this in high school over thirty years ago and never forgot it. It made me laugh for days. I have no idea who the original author is. Haikus are easy
but sometimes they don’t make sense
RefrigeratorIf you forget me
by Pablo Neruda
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mineTotally long....(I know..but I love it!!)
The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding- riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching- Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
Trot-trot; trot-trot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Trot-trot, trot-trot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding, riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!
Trot-trot, in the frosty silence! Trot-trot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed,
With her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding- riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Copyright 2009 The Highwayman Motion Picture, LLCLoreena McKennitt put this song to music. It is equally beautiful and haunting.
This is truly a "classic" forum entry! What great voices and prose here! Please share more...
I wish I were a hamster or a hedgehog or a shrew so I could crawl into my hidey hole and cuddle up with you.
Purple RonnieIf of thy mortal goods
thou are bereft
and in thy slender stores
two loaves, to thee are left.
Sell one and with the dole
buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.
Kahil GibranYour attention please
by Peter Porter
The polar dew has just warned that
a nuclear rocket strike of
at lest one thousand megatons
has been lauched by the enemy
direclty at our major cities.'
This announcement will take
two and a quater minutes to make,
you therefore have a further
eight and quarterd minutes
to comply with the shelter
requirements published in the civil
defence code-section atomic attack.
A specially shortened mass
will be bradcast at the end
of this announcement...Awesome. Keep it flowing, let's raise these old bones of poems long dead!
This one makes me laugh every time I read it.
The Crayon Age
There's no difference
Between the white ones
and the black ones
or the red ones
or even the yellow ones
It's all in your mind
They all taste the same
~Patricia Ellen RonkartzMy son was thirteen when he wrote this poem. His father committed suicide when Zachary was nine years old. I had no idea he felt this way.
I, too, feel America
I am the kid who has no dad
I watch my friends
play and laugh with their dads
Some kids picked on me and teased me
Tomorrow
I'll be there still without a father
while yours grow older.
Besides
You'll feel my pain someday
when yours goes too.
I, too, feel America
—Zach Knippelthat is one of the best poems that I have read - powerful Zachary...
IF - Rudyard Kipling
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!Saddest Poem by Pablo Neruda
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.A Shropshire Lad, part XL, by A E Housman
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.- vvanault14posted 14 years ago0
this is one that i recently saw, but will forever stay with me:
A Poison Tree
by William Blake
I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I watered it with fears,
Night and morning with my tears:
And I sunned it smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.
And into my garden stole.
When the night veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
it's kinda harsh i realize this but it's still a good poem Our love
was like a Gold mine
each of us got half
she got the Gold
and I got the shaft
----------------------
I miss her sometimes:
I ran into my ex the other day
then I backed up
and ran into her again...
I miss her sometimes- patriciarose7posted 14 years ago0
Being Here
Hold on to your life as
Being here can’t contrive
That when times are benign
Oh please take it in stride.
Fighting, laughing, crying and more.
Your heart gets to be a little tad sore
So hold your heart as close as you can
As we ride this journey to another land.
Being here can be whatever you want
For a few are ever told, so let’s unfold
This life is forever a mold.
Can being here be underneath us?
Or are we just floating above it all?
One’s mind can only behold that
The truth will always be told! I went to the pictures tomorrow
I got a front seat at the back
A lady gave me some chocolates
I thanked her and gave them all back
I fell from the floor to the gallery
I broke a front bone in my back
She drove me home in a taxi
I thanked her
And drove her right back.His falling asleep was all I could take of goodbye
by merrit malloy
my song for him who never sang to me, 1975
this one sentence had a profound affect on me.He said he would set me free
everything in me cries misery
unforgiveness haunting
dark shadows on the wall
Promises-promises telling me
undaunting
Something surreal
As I confide
A Farris wheel of feelings
like twisted steel
reeling inside
I stare at the ceiling
Imagining the pleasure
that death could bring
If he touches me
Tormenting myself
Defined by this hell
burning in me
Dividing asunder
Marrow and bone
Desperate now I flounder
Driven up and down
Like a ship at sea
The faces turn to powder
Burning Burning Burning
Memories still clinging
Like a white sheet
Around his face
As he prays,
"Father, my soul to keep..."
Chad TaylorNo man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
John DonneMy favorite!
Poem To The Freaks
by Jack Micheline
To live as I have done is surely absurd
In cheap hotels and furnished rooms
To walk up side streets and down back alleys
Talking to oneself
And screaming to the sky obscenities
That the arts is a rotten business indeed
That mediocrity and the rage of fashion rules
My poems and paintings piled on the floor
To be one with himself
A Saint
A Prince
To persevere
Through storms and hardons
Through dusk and dawns
To kick death in the ass
To be passed over like a bad penny
A midget
An Ant
A roach
A freak
A Hot Piece
An Outlaw
Raise your cup and drink my friend
Drink for those who walk alone in the night
To the crippled and the blind
To the lost and the damned
To the lone bird flying in the sky
Drink to wonder
Drink to me
Drink to pussy and dreams
Drink to madness and all the stars
I hear the birds singingTo be of use
by Marge Piercy
The people I love the best
Jump into work head first
Without dallying in the shallows
And swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
The black sleek heads of seals
Bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
Who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
Who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
Who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
In the task, who go into the fields to harvest
And work in a row and pass the bags along,
Who stand in the line and haul in their places,
Who are not parlour generals and field deserters
But move in a common rhythm
When the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
Has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums,
But you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
And a person for work that is real.I enjoy poems that paint pictures. The meter also makes this poem flow sweetly.
Daffodils
by
William Wordsworth
I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.Moving
I wanted to unthread my thoughts
to gently blend the sharpness of my surroundings
into a monet
unafraid to step from lilly pad to lilly pad
because my fear was gone
it faded from the forfront of my mind
chased by the Pinot Noir
and enticed by the garlic
I was on a roll
that afternoon we brought the kids home from school
told them we were moving
another sip
time to cut the carrots
the kitchen is starting to smell nice
the tears have all but gone away another sip
from the window I can see the rope swing
it hangs from an Oak tree
another sip
my sister-in-law and I discussed books earlier
she said I should re-read them
Life of an Ordinary woman
You know, go into labor
send your oldest for the doctor
deliver the baby
by the time they get back you've made dinner
next day you hitch up the wagon
and start out west
all the glorious Reminiscing of the past left
after my first child was born naturally
another sip
as I sliced bread
cut onions
put food onto the table
the back door
opened and closed with the rhythm of children
questions targeted me
from an inexhaustible arsenal
and I became the air in which to absorb
their burst
they left to find a better target
chicken chili bubbled at low boil
garlic bread began to flavor the kitchen air
they say someone's home is where their heart is
I am so glad that the wine I had been drinking
numbed me from feeling where my home is
because if I had to feel anymore of each and everyday
I have loved here
I might just miss my footing on this lilly-pad
and become part of the water.
Mara R Brill '93My All time Favourate poem
A Poison Tree by
William Blake
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe;
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I water'd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with my smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,
And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree
.
Feel the Majic of PoemI have a series of poems and one of them is a response to a poem written by an old girlfriend.
I think the poem she wrote me--while not being a published poem (at the time)was well-written enough to touch me.I wrote this when I was about 12 years old after babysitting a neighbors daughter.
It was the night we were together
Something happened, I wished it never.
He ran away and left me alone,
But left me something of my own.
I love her now more than anything else,
Because she's something of myself.
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