What is your favorite poem? Here is mine (page 2)

Sad emo

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Open mind

Here's the rest of "Wall of Love" for LucyA.

The author's pretty special to me.

*************

I laid the bricks of love in place from the opposite side of the wall.
A few days after the tie-and-book men left our wall was complete.

Seven years ago we laid the last stone.
I wrestled it into place from my side of the wall, the rest of the family helping me from theirs.
The men with the lips were not there to watch, but they would be pleased.
The will of the books and ties had been fulfilled.

Seven years ago my family said good-bye.
They hid safely inside their fortress, as the men with the gold edges and silk ribbons busied themselves with other chores.
I was also safe, safe and alone on the outside of the wall.
All by myself outside the wall of love that divides our family.

Seven years ago I began to stare at the wall.
I was on the outside, free to roam where I wanted, not cooped up behind the wall of love.
But I was also alone, with nowhere to go.
So I began to peer at the stones of love in the wall given to us by the men with the three ties, the three little books, and the six lips.

Seven years ago I found a new family.
Life outside the wall has grown better than I imagined it could.
But sometimes I still look over my shoulder at the wall and wonder about my parents and brothers.
I wonder how their lives have changed now that we are separated by love.

Seven years ago I cheated.
I held back some of my love and did not cement it into our family fortress.
Now I think of my mother, of my dad and my brothers, and wonder if they also cheated on the men with the gold-edged lips and books.
Maybe some of their love is still free, not locked up in the wall.

Seven years ago I helped to build a wall of love.
Since then I have begun removing a few stones from my side of the wall.
Perhaps one day someone inside the wall will defy the men with the silky, gold-edged tongues and pull out a small brick.
When they peer through the hole they create, they will see me, unfettered by men or books, waiting to love them in return.

**********************************

13 years after this poem was written I pulled out a brick from my side and my large-hearted, forgiving, gay, DFed brother was there for me.

Thanks for not giving up on me bro.

om

John Doe

Edwin Arlington Robinson. 1869–

45. Richard Corey

W HENEVER Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,	5
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:	10
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,	15
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

HappyGuy

oh my (I cant bring myself to say anything else)

carpediem

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!

VoidEater

Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing, there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.

Ideas, language, even the phrase 'each other' doesn't make any sense.

-Rumi

poopsiecakes

Oh, I have another one!

Drink wine....this is life eternal;
this is all that youth will give you.
It is the season for wine, roses and drunken friends.
Be happy for this moment; this moment is your life...

Omar Khayyam

LucyA

sorry Open-Mind i thought i'd copied it all! and to whoever wrote it

peacedog

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone.
Let others follow, if they can!
Let them a journey new begin.
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

Still 'round the corner there may wait
A new road or secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

White Dove

Mama's Mama on a Winter's Day

Mamma’s Mamma

by: Anna Rees Henton

Mama’s Mama, on a winter’s day,
Milked the cows and fed them hay,
Slopped the hogs, saddled the mule,
And got the children off to school.

Did a washing, mopped the floors,
Washed the windows and did some chores.
Cooked a dish of home-dried fruit,
Pressed her husband’s Sunday suit,
Swept the parlor, made the bed,
Baked a dozen loaves of bread.

Split some wood and lugged it in,
Enough to fill the kitchen bin,
Cleaned the lamps and put in oil,
Stewed some apples she thought might spoil,
Churned the butter, baked a cake,
Then exclaimed: “For Mercy’s sake,
The calves have got out of the pen!”
Went out and chased them in again.

Gathered the eggs and locked the stable,
Returned to the house and set the table,
Cooked a supper that was delicious,
And afterwards washed all the dishes,
Fed the cat, sprinkled the clothes,
Mended a basket full of hose,
Then opened the organ and began to play,
“When You Come to the End of a Perfect Day.”

What is your favorite poem? Here is mine

Mamma’s Mamma

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