A Poem Thread
- Thread starter Angelus
- Start date
Magical Realist
Valued Senior Member
"Wild Geese"
by Mary Oliver
"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things."
by Mary Oliver
"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things."
Marathon-man
Registered Member
On June 18, 1818, If Bonaparte won at Waterloo
There would have been no need for world war One or World war Two
Had Napoleon Bonaparte got what he desired
A united Europe, under Napoleonic law, would have transpired
A reformist Tsarist Russia would have dispelled of Communist Lenin
and tens of millions would not have expired
From the Holocaust to the Cold war would not have been
(Bernard Wijeyasingha)
There would have been no need for world war One or World war Two
Had Napoleon Bonaparte got what he desired
A united Europe, under Napoleonic law, would have transpired
A reformist Tsarist Russia would have dispelled of Communist Lenin
and tens of millions would not have expired
From the Holocaust to the Cold war would not have been
(Bernard Wijeyasingha)
Magical Realist
Valued Senior Member
After a Rainstorm
By Robert Wrigley
"Because I have come to the fence at night,
the horses arrive also from their ancient stable.
They let me stroke their long faces, and I note
in the light of the now-merging moon
how they, a Morgan and a Quarter, have been
by shake-guttered raindrops
spotted around their rumps and thus made
Appaloosas, the ancestral horses of this place.
Maybe because it is night, they are nervous,
or maybe because they too sense
what they have become, they seem
to be waiting for me to say something
to whatever ancient spirits might still abide here,
that they might awaken from this strange dream,
in which there are fences and stables and a man
who doesn’t know a single word they understand."
By Robert Wrigley
"Because I have come to the fence at night,
the horses arrive also from their ancient stable.
They let me stroke their long faces, and I note
in the light of the now-merging moon
how they, a Morgan and a Quarter, have been
by shake-guttered raindrops
spotted around their rumps and thus made
Appaloosas, the ancestral horses of this place.
Maybe because it is night, they are nervous,
or maybe because they too sense
what they have become, they seem
to be waiting for me to say something
to whatever ancient spirits might still abide here,
that they might awaken from this strange dream,
in which there are fences and stables and a man
who doesn’t know a single word they understand."
Neat
Water
A poem by Michael George Woodhams written over 40 years ago
Placed on website Poem.com which is a Vanity Publishing site and currently up for sale
Why is liquid water wet?
I haven't found the answer yet.
I've looked in oceans, lakes and streams.
No answers there, or so it seems
I've looked in showers, baths tubs too.
Everywhere but still no clue.
I wonder should I look again,
And go out in the pouring rain?
I'm standing here, I'm soaked all through,
From matted hair to soggy shoe.
I think, I think, I think and yet,
I still don't know why waters wet.
The Smoke Off
In the laid back California town of sunny San Rafael
Lived a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob'ly knew her well.
She'd been stoned fifteen of her eighteen years and the story was widely told
That she could smoke 'em faster than anyone could roll.
Her legend finally reached New York, that Grove Street walk-up flat
Where dwelt The Calistoga Kid, a beatnik from the past
With long browned lightnin' fingers he takes a cultured toke
And says, Hell, I can roll em faster, Jim, than any chick can smoke!
So a note gets sent to San Rafael, For the Championship of the World
The Kid demands a smoke off! "Well, bring him on!" says Pearl,
"I'll grind his fingers off his hands, he'll roll until he drops!"
Says Calistog, "I'll smoke that twist till she blows up and pops!
So they rent out Yankee Stadium and the word is quickly spread
"Come one, come all, who walk or crawl, price just two lids a head
And from every town and hamlet, over land and sea they speed
The world's greatest dopers, with the Worlds greatest weed
Hashishers from Morocco, hemp smokers from Peru
And the Shamnicks from Bagun who puff the deadly Pugaroo
And those who call it Light of Life and those that call it boo.
See the dealers and their ladies wearing turquoise, lace, and leather
See the narcos and the closet smokers puffin' all together
From the teenies who smoke legal to the ones who've done some time
To the old man who smoked reefer back before it was a crime
And the grand old house that Ruth built is filled with the smoke and cries
Of fifty thousand screaming heads all stoned out of their minds.
And they play the national anthem and the crowd lets out a roar
As the spotlight hits The Kid and Pearl, ready for their smokin' war
At a table piled up high with grass, as high as a mountain peak
Just tops and buds of the rarest flowers, not one stem, branch or seed.
Maui Wowie, Panama Red and Acapulco Gold.
Kif from East Afghanistan and rare Alaskan Cold.
Sticks from Thailand, Ganja from the Islands, and Bangkok's Bloomin' Best.
And some of that wet imported shit that capsized off Key West.
Oaxacan tops and Kenya Bhang and Riviera Fleurs.
And that rare Manhatten Silver that grows down in the New York sewers.
And there's bubblin' ice cold lemonade and sweet grapes by the bunches.
And there's Hershey's bars, and Oreos, case anybody gets the munchies.
And the Calistoga Kid, he sneers, and Pearly, she just grins.
And the drums roll low and the crowd yells GO! and the world's first Smoke Off begins.
Kid flicks his magic fingers once and ZAP! that first joint's rolled.
Pearl takes one drag with her mighty lungs and WOOSH! that roach is cold.
Then The Kid he rolls his Super Bomb that'd paralyze a moose.
And Pearley takes one super hit and SLURP! that bomb' defused.
Then he rolls three in just ten seconds and she smokes 'em up in nine,
And everybody sits back and says, "This just might take some time."
See the blur of flyin' fingers, see the red coal burnin' bright
As the night turns into mornin' and the mornin' fades to night
And the autumn turns to summer and a whole damn year is gone
But the two still sit on that roach-filled stage, smokin' and rollin' on
With tremblin' hands he rolls his jays with fingers blue and stiff
She coughs and stares with bloodshot gaze, and puffs through blistered lips.
And as she reaches out her hand for another stick of gold
The Kid he gasps, "Goddamn it, bitch, there's nothin' left to roll!"
"Nothin' left to roll?", screams Pearl, "Is this some twisted joke?
I didn't come here to fuck around, man, I come here to SMOKE!"
And she reaches 'cross the table And grabs his bony sleeves
And she crumbles his body between her hands like dried and brittle leaves
Flickin' out his teeth and bones like useless stems and seeds
And then she rolls him in a Zig Zag and lights him like a roach.
And the fastest man with the fastest hands goes up in a puff of smoke.
In the laid-back California town of sunny San Rafael
Lives a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob'ly know her well.
She's been stoned twenty-one of her twenty-four years, and the story's widely told.
How she still can smoke them faster than anyone can roll
While off in New York City on a street that has no name.
There's the hands of the Calistoga Kid in the Viper Hall of Fame
And underneath his fingers there's a little golden scroll
That says, Beware of Bein' the Roller When There's Nothin' Left to Roll.
by Shel Silverstein
Sheldon Allan "Shel" Silverstein - gone for 20 years now - one of the great American Poets of the Twentieth Century.
In the laid back California town of sunny San Rafael
Lived a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob'ly knew her well.
She'd been stoned fifteen of her eighteen years and the story was widely told
That she could smoke 'em faster than anyone could roll.
Her legend finally reached New York, that Grove Street walk-up flat
Where dwelt The Calistoga Kid, a beatnik from the past
With long browned lightnin' fingers he takes a cultured toke
And says, Hell, I can roll em faster, Jim, than any chick can smoke!
So a note gets sent to San Rafael, For the Championship of the World
The Kid demands a smoke off! "Well, bring him on!" says Pearl,
"I'll grind his fingers off his hands, he'll roll until he drops!"
Says Calistog, "I'll smoke that twist till she blows up and pops!
So they rent out Yankee Stadium and the word is quickly spread
"Come one, come all, who walk or crawl, price just two lids a head
And from every town and hamlet, over land and sea they speed
The world's greatest dopers, with the Worlds greatest weed
Hashishers from Morocco, hemp smokers from Peru
And the Shamnicks from Bagun who puff the deadly Pugaroo
And those who call it Light of Life and those that call it boo.
See the dealers and their ladies wearing turquoise, lace, and leather
See the narcos and the closet smokers puffin' all together
From the teenies who smoke legal to the ones who've done some time
To the old man who smoked reefer back before it was a crime
And the grand old house that Ruth built is filled with the smoke and cries
Of fifty thousand screaming heads all stoned out of their minds.
And they play the national anthem and the crowd lets out a roar
As the spotlight hits The Kid and Pearl, ready for their smokin' war
At a table piled up high with grass, as high as a mountain peak
Just tops and buds of the rarest flowers, not one stem, branch or seed.
Maui Wowie, Panama Red and Acapulco Gold.
Kif from East Afghanistan and rare Alaskan Cold.
Sticks from Thailand, Ganja from the Islands, and Bangkok's Bloomin' Best.
And some of that wet imported shit that capsized off Key West.
Oaxacan tops and Kenya Bhang and Riviera Fleurs.
And that rare Manhatten Silver that grows down in the New York sewers.
And there's bubblin' ice cold lemonade and sweet grapes by the bunches.
And there's Hershey's bars, and Oreos, case anybody gets the munchies.
And the Calistoga Kid, he sneers, and Pearly, she just grins.
And the drums roll low and the crowd yells GO! and the world's first Smoke Off begins.
Kid flicks his magic fingers once and ZAP! that first joint's rolled.
Pearl takes one drag with her mighty lungs and WOOSH! that roach is cold.
Then The Kid he rolls his Super Bomb that'd paralyze a moose.
And Pearley takes one super hit and SLURP! that bomb' defused.
Then he rolls three in just ten seconds and she smokes 'em up in nine,
And everybody sits back and says, "This just might take some time."
See the blur of flyin' fingers, see the red coal burnin' bright
As the night turns into mornin' and the mornin' fades to night
And the autumn turns to summer and a whole damn year is gone
But the two still sit on that roach-filled stage, smokin' and rollin' on
With tremblin' hands he rolls his jays with fingers blue and stiff
She coughs and stares with bloodshot gaze, and puffs through blistered lips.
And as she reaches out her hand for another stick of gold
The Kid he gasps, "Goddamn it, bitch, there's nothin' left to roll!"
"Nothin' left to roll?", screams Pearl, "Is this some twisted joke?
I didn't come here to fuck around, man, I come here to SMOKE!"
And she reaches 'cross the table And grabs his bony sleeves
And she crumbles his body between her hands like dried and brittle leaves
Flickin' out his teeth and bones like useless stems and seeds
And then she rolls him in a Zig Zag and lights him like a roach.
And the fastest man with the fastest hands goes up in a puff of smoke.
In the laid-back California town of sunny San Rafael
Lives a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob'ly know her well.
She's been stoned twenty-one of her twenty-four years, and the story's widely told.
How she still can smoke them faster than anyone can roll
While off in New York City on a street that has no name.
There's the hands of the Calistoga Kid in the Viper Hall of Fame
And underneath his fingers there's a little golden scroll
That says, Beware of Bein' the Roller When There's Nothin' Left to Roll.
by Shel Silverstein
Sheldon Allan "Shel" Silverstein - gone for 20 years now - one of the great American Poets of the Twentieth Century.
Last edited:
Brenda
Beneath the weeping willow tree
Runs a river, deep and wide
Ever flowing to the sea
Never stopping, till its tide
Dances on some distant shore
And the sun sets by its side
Those with a keen eye will note the first letter each line spells Brenda
She was a friend of a girlfriend
I did others but lost from memory
Beneath the weeping willow tree
Runs a river, deep and wide
Ever flowing to the sea
Never stopping, till its tide
Dances on some distant shore
And the sun sets by its side
Those with a keen eye will note the first letter each line spells Brenda
She was a friend of a girlfriend
I did others but lost from memory
Bob-a-builder
Registered Senior Member
"Roses are brown, violets are green. I'm a terrible poet... and I'm colorblind" - Some radio disc jockey. Still my favorite poem.
also
"Haikus are easy
but sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator".
also
"Haikus are easy
but sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator".
Neddy Bate
Valued Senior Member
Sometimes it's nice to hear a poem recited out loud. Especially if it's by the author, and they have a nice voice
Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Gawdzilla Sama
Valued Senior Member
As I was going through a stair,
I met a me who wasn't there.
I wasn't there again today!
But did I ever pass this way?
(With apologies to Ogden Nash.)
I met a me who wasn't there.
I wasn't there again today!
But did I ever pass this way?
(With apologies to Ogden Nash.)
DaveC426913
Valued Senior Member
I wrote a poem once.
It was for my Betta fish, Spike.
It was called Ode to Spike, and it went like this:
.
I like Spike.
.
.
wtf do you want? Homer's Iliad? Jesus, it was just a fish.
.
It was for my Betta fish, Spike.
It was called Ode to Spike, and it went like this:
.
I like Spike.
.
.
wtf do you want? Homer's Iliad? Jesus, it was just a fish.
.
I did not know poems could be a single line of text
I wonder what I will learn next