poem

[joannaingram84]

The Edge Of The World by Mary Funny Youngs

From the top of the bluff, where the wind
  blows free.
Clear out ot the edge of the world I see,
And I look and look, till my eyes grow dim,
But I can't wait to see what lies over the rim!

I see the steamers go in towards town;
I watch the schooners sail slowly down -
Down out of sight, and far away -
Oh! I shall sail over the rim, some day.

Over the rim and far beyond,
To Hong Kong and Bagdad and Trebizond,
And Ceylon's Isle, where the breezes blow,
And the Happy Harbor, where good ships go.

And it may be bad, or it may be fair,
And I may come back, or I may stay there,
But one thing is sure - be it gay or grim,
Some day - some day - I must cross that rim!

[joannaingram84]

Fifteen by William Stafford

South of the Bridge on Seventeenth
I found back of the willows one summer
day a motorcycle with engine running
as it lay on its side, ticking over
slowly in the high grass. I was fifteen.

I admired all that pulsing gleam, the
shiny flanks, the demure headlights
fringed where it lay; I led it gently
to the road and stood with that
companion, ready and friendly. I was fifteen.

We could find the end of a road, meet
the sky on out Seventeenth. I thought about
hills, and patting the handle got back a
confident opinion. On the bridge we indulged
a forward feeling, a tremble. I was fifteen.

Thinking, back farther in the grass I found
the owner, just coming to, where he had flipped
over the rail. He had blood on his hand, was pale -
I helped him walk to his machine. He ran his hand
over it, called me good man, roared away.

I stood there, fifteen.

[keissy2000]

i write poems too but they are more personal and more in depth with my past relationships so if i really tried hard enough i can turn them into songs. i wish i could turn them into songs coz then i would really be banking on them. i would write more and more.

[joannaingram84]

First Lesson by Phyllis McGinley

The thing to remember about fathers is, they're men.
A girl has to keep it in mind.
They are dragon-seekers, bent on improbable rescues.
Scratch any father, you find
Someone chock-full of qualms and romantic terrors,
Believing change is a threat -
Like your first shoes with heels on, like your first bicycle
It took such months to get.

Walk in strange woods, they warn you about the snakes there.
Climb, and they fear you'll fall.
Books, angular boys, or swimming in deep water -
Fathers mistrust them all.
Men are the worriers. It is difficult for them
To learn what they must learn:
How you have a journey to take and very likely,
For a while, will not return.

[angsilva2000]

I like poems

[joannaingram84]

The Secret Heart by Robert P. Tristram Coffin

Across the years he could recall
His father one way best of all.

In the silliest hour of night
The boy awakened to a light.

Half in dreams, he saw his sire
With his great hands full of fire.

The man had struck a match to see
If his son slept peacefully.

He held his palms each side the spark
His love had kindled in the dark.

His two hands were curved apart
In the semblance of a heart.

He wore, it seemed to his small son,
A bare heart on his hidden one,

A heart that gave out such a glow
No son awake could bear to know.

It showed a look upon a face
Too tender for the day to trace.

One instant, it lit all about,
And then the secret heart went out.

But it shone long enough for one
To know that hands held up the sun.

[joannaingram84]

Taught Me Purple by Evelyn Tooley Hunt

My mother taught me purple
   Although she never wore it.
Wash-gray was her circle,
   The tenement her orbit.

My mother taught me golden
   And held me up to see it,
Above the broken molding,
   Beyond the filthy street.

My mother reached for beauty
   And for its lack she died,
Who knew so much of duty
   She could not teach me pride.

[tigerscene]

 love to wright poem,or read them earther one

[joannaingram84]

Prelude I by T.S. Eliot

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steak in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

[tjshorty]

love the peoms

[trucktina]

Original thread, Joanna! Do you ever read Octavio Paz or Pablo Neruda? The emotion in their work is incredibly stirring.

No More Clichés   
by Octavio Paz
     


 
       Beautiful face
That like a daisy opens its petals to the sun
So do you
Open your face to me as I turn the page.

Enchanting smile
Any man would be under your spell,
Oh, beauty of a magazine.

How many poems have been written to you?
How many Dantes have written to you, Beatrice?
To your obsessive illusion
To you manufacture fantasy.

But today I won't make one more Cliché
And write this poem to you.
No, no more clichés.

This poem is dedicated to those women
Whose beauty is in their charm,
In their intelligence,
In their character,
Not on their fabricated looks.

This poem is to you women,
That like a Shahrazade wake up
Everyday with a new story to tell,
A story that sings for change
That hopes for battles:
Battles for the love of the united flesh
Battles for passions aroused by a new day
Battle for the neglected rights
Or just battles to survive one more night.

Yes, to you women in a world of pain
To you, bright star in this ever-spending universe
To you, fighter of a thousand-and-one fights
To you, friend of my heart.

From now on, my head won't look down to a magazine
Rather, it will contemplate the night
And its bright stars,
And so, no more clichés.


March Days Return With Their Covert Light
by Pablo Neruda


   March days return with their covert light,
and huge fish swim through the sky,
vague earthly vapours progress in secret,
things slip to silence one by one.
Through fortuity, at this crisis of errant skies,
you reunite the lives of the sea to that of fire,
grey lurchings of the ship of winter
to the form that love carved in the guitar.
O love, O rose soaked by mermaids and spume,
dancing flame that climbs the invisible stairway,
to waken the blood in insomnia’s labyrinth,
so that the waves can complete themselves in the sky,
the sea forget its cargoes and rages,
and the world fall into darkness’s nets.

[joannaingram84]

The Lonely Street by William Carlos Williams

School is over. It is too hot
to walk at ease. At ease
in light frocks they walk the streets
to while the time away.
They have grown tall. They hold
pink flames in their right hands.
In white from head to foot,
with sidelong, idle look -
in yellow, floating stuff,
black sash and stockings -
touching their avid mouths
with pink sugar on a stick -
like a carnation each holds in her hand -
they mount the lonely street.

[vicogden]

"Roses are Red,
     Violets are Blue,
I'm a Lousy Poet,
     And my Rhyming is Too!"

[trucktina]

"Roses are Red,
     Violets are Blue,
I'm a Lousy Poet,
     And my Rhyming is Too!"

[ericamoore58]

These are all great works of art! ITs great to see people are not afraid to express themselves !