After finishing your post on the author of your choice, you may have time to find some poems by your author. You can post any cool poems you find and would like to share here!
This is one of my favorite poems of all time. It is called Fire and Ice and it was written by Robert Frost.
Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
My favorite poet is Edgar Allan Poe. my favorite poem is "The Raven." Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' -Edgar Allan Poe
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
One of Emily's poems that I found that I like is "My hair is bold like the chestnut burr; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves."
I'll sing you a poem of a silly young king Who played with the world at the end of a string, But he only loved one single thing— And that was just a peanut-butter sandwich.
Iris By Night One misty evening, one another's guide, We two were groping down a Malvern side The last wet fields and dripping hedges home. There came a moment of confusing lights, Such as according to belief in Rome Were seen of old at Memphis on the heights Before the fragments of a former sun Could concentrate anew and rise as one. Light was a paste of pigment in our eyes. And then there was a moon and then a scene So watery as to seem submarine; In which we two stood saturated, drowned. The clover-mingled rowan on the ground Had taken all the water it could as dew, And still the air was saturated too, Its airy pressure turned to water weight. Then a small rainbow like a trellis gate, A very small moon-made prismatic bow, Stood closely over us through which to go. And then we were vouchsafed a miracle That never yet to other two befell And I alone of us have lived to tell. A wonder! Bow and rainbow as it bent, Instead of moving with us as we went (To keep the pots of gold from being found), It lifted from its dewy pediment Its two mote-swimming many-colored ends And gathered them together in a ring. And we stood in it softly circled round From all division time or foe can bring In a relation of elected friends.
A Little Road Not Made. A little road not made of man enable of the eye assesible to thrill of bee or cart of butterfly. If town it have byond itself T is what I can not say I only sigh--no veicole bears me along the way.
Ghost House I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls, And a cellar in which the daylight falls, And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field; The orchard tree has grown one copse Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart On that disused and forgotten road That has no dust-bath now for the toad. Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout And hush and cluck and flutter about: I hear him begin far enough away Full many a time to say his say Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star. I know not who these mute folk are Who share the unlit place with me-- Those stones out under the low-limbed tree Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad, Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,-- With none among them that ever sings, And yet, in view of how many things, As sweet companions as might be had.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. This is from the raven by edger allen poe.
" We Don't Have Many Jokes Tho' Now It's Pretty Much All Sobriety, And We Do Not Have Much Poetry, Father Having Made Up His Mind. That, Is Pretty Much All Real Life. Fathers Real Life And Mine, Sometimes Come Into Collision, But As Yet, Escape Unhurt. " Emlily Dickinson
She Wrote This Poem To Her Brother, Austin Dickinson, In December 15, 1851, 4 Years Before She Died.
In Her Case "Real Life" Contained 'Much' Poetry She Wrote About 1800 Poems But Only Fewer Than A Dozen Were Published In A Lifetime.
There's a Polar Bear In our Frigidair-- He likeses it 'cause it's cold in there. With his seat in the meat And his face in the fish And his big hairy paws In the buttery dish, He's nibbling the noodles, He's munching the rice, He's slurping the soda, He's licking the ice. And he lets out a roar If you open the door. And he gives me a scare To know he's in there-- That Polary Bear Is in our Frigitydair.
1."And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted- nevermore!"
Oh Sahra Cynthia Sylvia Stout would not take the garbage out She'd wash the dishes and scrub the pans cook the yams and spice the hams And though her parents would scream and shout She simply would not take the garbage out And so it piled up to the ceilings coffee grounds potato peelings Brown bananas and rotten peas chunks of sour cottage cheese It filled the can it covered the floor it cracked the windows and blocked the door With bacon rinds and chicken bones drippy ends of icecream cones Prone pits peach pits orange peel gloppy glumps of cold oat meal Pizza crust and withered greens soggy beans and tangerines Crust of black burned buttered toast gristly bits of beefy roast The garbage rolled on down the hall it raised the roof it broke the walls I mean greesy napkins cookie crumbs blobs of gooey bubble gum Cellophane from old baloney rubber blubbry macaroni Peanut butter caced and dry curdled off milk and crusts of pie Ridy melons dried up mustard eggs shells mixed with lemon custard Cold french fries and rancid meat yellow lumps of cream of wheat Uuh at last the garbage reached so high that finally it touched the sky And none of her friends would come to play and all the neighbors moved away And finally Sahra Cynthia Sylvia Stout said okay I'll take the garbage out But then of course it was too late the garbage reached across the state From New York to the Golden Gate and there in the garbage she did hate Poor Sahra met an awful fate then I cannot right now relate Because the hour is much too late But children remember Sylvia Stout and always take the garbage out
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings The free bird leaps on the back of the win and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wings in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with fearful trill of the things unknown but longed for still and is tune is heard on the distant hillfor the caged bird sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
A Soldier He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled, That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust, But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust. If we who sight along it round the world, See nothing worthy to have been its mark, It is because like men we look too near, Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere, Our missiles always make too short an arc. They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect The curve of earth, and striking, break their own; They make us cringe for metal-point on stone. But this we know, the obstacle that checked And tripped the body, shot the spirit on Further than target ever showed or shone.
I went to heaven,-- 'T was a small town, Lit with a ruby, Lathed with down. Stiller than the fields At the full dew, Beautiful as pictures No man drew. People like the moth, Of mechlin, frames, Duties of gossamer, And eider names. Almost contented I could be 'Mong such unique Society.
The free bird leaps on the back of the win and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wings in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with fearful trill of the things unknown but longed for still and is tune is heard on the distant hillfor the caged bird sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.
Alone Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone I came up with one thing And I don't believe I'm wrong That nobody, But nobody Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires With money they can't use Their wives run round like banshees Their children sing the blues They've got expensive doctors To cure their hearts of stone. But nobody No, nobody Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely I'll tell you what I know Storm clouds are gathering The wind is gonna blow The race of man is suffering And I can hear the moan, 'Cause nobody, But nobody Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone.
Maya Angelou
I like this poem because it talks about how no one can live alone. Even if you are rich and have fancy doctors to fix you heart of stone.
Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.
Whatif I'm dumb in school? Whatif they've closed the swimming pool? Whatif I get beat up? Whatif there's poison in my cup? Whatif I start to cry? Whatif I get sick and die? Whatif I flunk that test? Whatif green hair grows on my chest? Whatif nobody likes me? Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me? Whatif I don't grow talle? Whatif my head starts getting smaller? Whatif the fish won't bite? Whatif the wind tears up my kite? Whatif they start a war? Whatif my parents get divorced? Whatif the bus is late? Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight? Whatif I tear my pants? Whatif I never learn to dance? Everything seems well, and then the nighttime Whatifs strike again!
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore.
This is one of my favorite poems of all time. It is called Fire and Ice and it was written by Robert Frost.
ReplyDeleteFire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost
The Tell-Tale Heart
DeleteThe poem is about a little child who has gone crazy over a volter eye so he kills the man that has the volter eye.
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! - tear up the planks! here, here! - It is the beating of his hideous heart!"
Delete-Edgar Allen Poe
A Patch of Old Snow
ReplyDeleteThere's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I've forgotten --
If I ever read it.
Robert Frost
My favorite poet is Edgar Allan Poe. my favorite poem is "The Raven."
ReplyDeleteOnce upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
-Edgar Allan Poe
This is my personal favorite poem by Robert Frost
ReplyDeleteThe Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
One of Emily's poems that I found that I like is
ReplyDelete"My hair is bold like the chestnut burr; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves."
the coolest pome i found is the raven and the best part in it is the mid night rear.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite poem is "I know why the caged bird sings." By Maya Angelou.
ReplyDelete"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! --here, here! --it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
ReplyDelete-Edgar Allan Poe
The Tell-Tale heart
Peanut-Butter Sandwich
ReplyDeleteWhere The Sidewalk Ends
I'll sing you a poem of a silly young king
Who played with the world at the end of a string,
But he only loved one single thing—
And that was just a peanut-butter sandwich.
-Shel Silverstein
Iris By Night
ReplyDeleteOne misty evening, one another's guide,
We two were groping down a Malvern side
The last wet fields and dripping hedges home.
There came a moment of confusing lights,
Such as according to belief in Rome
Were seen of old at Memphis on the heights
Before the fragments of a former sun
Could concentrate anew and rise as one.
Light was a paste of pigment in our eyes.
And then there was a moon and then a scene
So watery as to seem submarine;
In which we two stood saturated, drowned.
The clover-mingled rowan on the ground
Had taken all the water it could as dew,
And still the air was saturated too,
Its airy pressure turned to water weight.
Then a small rainbow like a trellis gate,
A very small moon-made prismatic bow,
Stood closely over us through which to go.
And then we were vouchsafed a miracle
That never yet to other two befell
And I alone of us have lived to tell.
A wonder! Bow and rainbow as it bent,
Instead of moving with us as we went
(To keep the pots of gold from being found),
It lifted from its dewy pediment
Its two mote-swimming many-colored ends
And gathered them together in a ring.
And we stood in it softly circled round
From all division time or foe can bring
In a relation of elected friends.
Robert Frost
A Little Road Not Made.
ReplyDeleteA little road not made of man enable of the eye
assesible to thrill of bee or cart of butterfly.
If town it have byond itself T is what I can not say I only sigh--no veicole bears me along the way.
Villians, I sheriked dissmibled no more I admit the deed- tear up the planks, here ,here its the beating of the hideous heart
ReplyDeleteThe tell tale heart.
ReplyDeleteis abourt a man and a old man with a wrid eye and the young man killes the old man
Robert Frost
ReplyDeleteI end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.
Ghost House
ReplyDeleteI dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me--
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
Some poems by robert frost are a question, after apple picking, a late walk, a minor bird, a soldier, a brook in the city, and a boundless moment
ReplyDeleteI found the poem "A boy named Sue" By, Shel Silverstein. The poem interesting to me because its a jonny cash song
ReplyDelete"Heaven" has different Signs—to me
ReplyDeleteSometimes, I think that Noon
Is but a symbol of the Place
And when again, at Dawn,
A mighty look runs round the World
And settles in the Hills
An Awe if it should be like that
Upon the Ignorance steals
The Orchard, when the Sun is on
The Triumph of the Birds
When they together Victory make
Some Carnivals of Clouds
The Rapture of a finished Day
Returning to the West
All these—remind us of the place
That Men call "paradise"
Itself be fairer—we suppose
But how Ourself, shall be
Adorned, for a Superior Grace
Not yet, our eyes can see
Eldorado: by Edgar Allan Poe
ReplyDeleteGaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Elderado.
But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
and o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Elderado.
And as his strengh,
Failed him at lenght,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Elderado?"
"Over the mountains
Of the moon,
Down the valley of shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek Elderado!"
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
ReplyDeleteOver many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
This is from the raven by edger allen poe.
" We Don't Have Many Jokes Tho' Now
ReplyDeleteIt's Pretty Much All Sobriety,
And We Do Not Have Much Poetry,
Father Having Made Up His Mind.
That, Is Pretty Much All Real Life.
Fathers Real Life And Mine,
Sometimes Come Into Collision,
But As Yet, Escape Unhurt. "
Emlily Dickinson
She Wrote This Poem To Her Brother, Austin Dickinson, In December 15, 1851, 4 Years Before She Died.
In Her Case "Real Life" Contained 'Much' Poetry
She Wrote About 1800 Poems But Only Fewer Than A Dozen Were Published In A Lifetime.
Bear in There
ReplyDeleteBy: Shel Silverstein
There's a Polar Bear
In our Frigidair--
He likeses it 'cause it's cold in there.
With his seat in the meat
And his face in the fish
And his big hairy paws
In the buttery dish,
He's nibbling the noodles,
He's munching the rice,
He's slurping the soda,
He's licking the ice.
And he lets out a roar
If you open the door.
And he gives me a scare
To know he's in there--
That Polary Bear
Is in our Frigitydair.
1."And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
ReplyDeleteOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!"
Shel Silverstein:
ReplyDeleteOh Sahra Cynthia Sylvia Stout would not take the garbage out
She'd wash the dishes and scrub the pans cook the yams and spice the hams
And though her parents would scream and shout
She simply would not take the garbage out
And so it piled up to the ceilings coffee grounds potato peelings
Brown bananas and rotten peas chunks of sour cottage cheese
It filled the can it covered the floor it cracked the windows and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones drippy ends of icecream cones
Prone pits peach pits orange peel gloppy glumps of cold oat meal
Pizza crust and withered greens soggy beans and tangerines
Crust of black burned buttered toast gristly bits of beefy roast
The garbage rolled on down the hall it raised the roof it broke the walls
I mean greesy napkins cookie crumbs blobs of gooey bubble gum
Cellophane from old baloney rubber blubbry macaroni
Peanut butter caced and dry curdled off milk and crusts of pie
Ridy melons dried up mustard eggs shells mixed with lemon custard
Cold french fries and rancid meat yellow lumps of cream of wheat
Uuh at last the garbage reached so high that finally it touched the sky
And none of her friends would come to play and all the neighbors moved away
And finally Sahra Cynthia Sylvia Stout said okay I'll take the garbage out
But then of course it was too late the garbage reached across the state
From New York to the Golden Gate and there in the garbage she did hate
Poor Sahra met an awful fate then I cannot right now relate
Because the hour is much too late
But children remember Sylvia Stout and always take the garbage out
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
ReplyDeleteThe free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Maya Angelou
One of the best poems I've read from Edgar Allen Poe is "The Raven".
ReplyDeleteThe Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
ReplyDeleteTwo roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
A Soldier
ReplyDeleteHe is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone.
Robert Frost
i like this poem
ReplyDeletei tthink this poem is very pationat and a very good poem
ReplyDeleteGaily bedight,
ReplyDeleteA gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"
"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"
Edgar Allan Poe
To My Small Hearth His fire came -
ReplyDeleteAnd all My House a'glow
Did fan and rock, with sudden light -
'Twas Sunrise - 'twas the Sky -
Impanelled from no Summer brief -
With limit of Decay -
'Twas Noon - without the News of Night -
Nay, Nature, it was Day -
I went to heaven,--
ReplyDelete'T was a small town,
Lit with a ruby,
Lathed with down.
Stiller than the fields
At the full dew,
Beautiful as pictures
No man drew.
People like the moth,
Of mechlin, frames,
Duties of gossamer,
And eider names.
Almost contented
I could be
'Mong such unique
Society.
Poems I Have Found:
ReplyDelete-Bear in There
-Where the Sidewalk Ends
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
ReplyDeleteThe free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and is tune is heard
on the distant hillfor the caged bird
sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
Maya Angelou
Alone
ReplyDeleteLying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Maya Angelou
I like this poem because it talks about how no one can live alone. Even if you are rich and have fancy doctors to fix you heart of stone.
pantoum: landing, 1976
ReplyDeleteby Evie Shockley
dreaming the lives of the ancestors,
you awake, justly terrified of this world:
you could dance underwater and not get wet, . .
Does my haughtiness offend you?
ReplyDeleteDon't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Maya Angelou:
ReplyDeleteYou may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise
Whatif
ReplyDeleteWhatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow talle?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems well, and then
the nighttime Whatifs strike again!
Shel Silverstein
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
ReplyDeleteOver many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
The Raven.