Favourite Poem? Post it here ...

by talesin 32 Replies latest jw friends

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  talesin

  I love, love, love, this poem!!!

  Please Hear What I'm Not Saying Don't be fooled by me. Don't be fooled by the face I wear for I wear a mask, a thousand masks, masks that I'm afraid to take off, and none of them is me. Pretending is an art that's second nature with me, but don't be fooled, for God's sake don't be fooled. I give you the impression that I'm secure, that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well as without, that confidence is my name and coolness my game, that the water's calm and I'm in command and that I need no one, but don't believe me. My surface may seem smooth but my surface is my mask, ever-varying and ever-concealing. Beneath lies no complacence. Beneath lies confusion, and fear, and aloneness. But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know it. I panic at the thought of my weakness exposed. That's why I frantically create a mask to hide behind, a nonchalant sophisticated facade, to help me pretend, to shield me from the glance that knows. But such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only hope, and I know it. That is, if it's followed by acceptance, if it's followed by love. It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself, from my own self-built prison walls, from the barriers I so painstakingly erect. It's the only thing that will assure me of what I can't assure myself, that I'm really worth something. But I don't tell you this. I don't dare to, I'm afraid to. I'm afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance, will not be followed by love. I'm afraid you'll think less of me, that you'll laugh, and your laugh would kill me. I'm afraid that deep-down I'm nothing and that you will see this and reject me. So I play my game, my desperate pretending game, with a facade of assurance without and a trembling child within. So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks, and my life becomes a front. I tell you everything that's really nothing, and nothing of what's everything, of what's crying within me. So when I'm going through my routine do not be fooled by what I'm saying. Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying, what I'd like to be able to say, what for survival I need to say, but what I can't say. I don't like hiding. I don't like playing superficial phony games. I want to stop playing them. I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me but you've got to help me. You've got to hold out your hand even when that's the last thing I seem to want. Only you can wipe away from my eyes the blank stare of the breathing dead. Only you can call me into aliveness. Each time you're kind, and gentle, and encouraging, each time you try to understand because you really care, my heart begins to grow wings-- very small wings, very feeble wings, but wings! With your power to touch me into feeling you can breathe life into me. I want you to know that. I want you to know how important you are to me, how you can be a creator--an honest-to-God creator-- of the person that is me if you choose to. You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble, you alone can remove my mask, you alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic, from my lonely prison, if you choose to. Please choose to. Do not pass me by. It will not be easy for you. A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls. The nearer you approach to me the blinder I may strike back. It's irrational, but despite what the books say about man often I am irrational. I fight against the very thing I cry out for. But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls and in this lies my hope. Please try to beat down those walls with firm hands but with gentle hands for a child is very sensitive. Who am I, you may wonder? I am someone you know very well. For I am every man you meet and I am every woman you meet. Charles C. Finn

  t
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  talesin

  And another by Dr. Angelou ...

  Phenomenal Woman

  # 1 on top 500 Poems User Rating: 8.5 /10 (1943 votes) </form> Print friendly version E-mail this poem to e friend Send this poem as eCard Add this poem to MyPoemList

  Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need of my care, 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. t
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  littlerockguy

  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.

  Robert Frost
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  Violia

  I felt this way most of the time while I was in org.

  Not Waving but Drowning
  by Stevie Smith
  Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning .Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said.Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning)I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.
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  sizemik

  It's certainly not a literary masterpiece . . . but this peom, and how it came to be is very touching . . .

  When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in North Platte , Nebraska , it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.
  
  Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet.
  
  Crabby Old Man
  
  What do you see nurses? . . . . . What do you see?
  What are you thinking . . . . . when you're looking at me?
  A crabby old man . . . . . not very wise,
  Uncertain of habit . . . . . with faraway eyes?
  
  Who dribbles his food . . . . . and makes no reply.
  When you say in a loud voice . . . . . 'I do wish you'd try!'
  Who seems not to notice . . . . .. the things that you do.
  And forever is losing . . . . . A sock or shoe?
  
  Who, resisting or not . . . . . lets you do as you will,
  With bathing and feeding . . . . . The long day to fill?
  Is that what you're thinking? . .. . . . Is that what you see?
  Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . you're not looking at me.
  
  I'll tell you who I am. . . . .. . As I sit here so still,
  As I do at your bidding, . . . . . as I eat at your will.
  I'm a small child of Ten . . . . . with a father and mother,
  Brothers and sisters . . . . .. who love one another.
  
  A young boy of Sixteen . . . . with wings on his feet.
  Dreaming that soon now . . . . . a lover he'll meet.
  A groom soon at Twenty . . . . . my heart gives a leap.
  Remembering, the vows . . . . . that I promised to keep.
  
  At Twenty-Five, now . . . . . I have young of my own.
  Who need me to guide . . . . . And a secure happy home.
  A man of Thirty . . . . . My young now grown fast,
  Bound to each other . . . . . With ties that should last.
  
  At Forty, my young sons . . . . . have grown and are gone,
  But my woman's beside me . . . . . to see I don't mourn.
  At Fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee,
  Again, we know children . . . . . My loved one and me.
  
  Dark days are upon me . . . . . my wife is now dead.
  I look at the future . . . . . shudder with dread.
  For my young are all rearing . .. . . . young of their own.
  And I think of the years . . . . . and the love that I've known.
  
  I'm now an old man . . . . .. and nature is cruel.
  Tis jest to make old age . . . . . look like a fool.
  The body, it crumbles . . . . . grace and vigor, depart.
  There is now a stone . . . . where I once had a heart.
  
  But inside this old carcass . . . . . a young guy still dwells,
  And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells.
  I remember the joys . . . . . I remember the pain.
  And I'm loving and living . . . .. . life over again.
  
  I think of the years, all too few . . . . . gone too fast.
  And accept the stark fact . . . . that nothing can last.
  So open your eyes, people . . . .. . open and see.
  Not a crabby old man . .. . Look closer . . . see ME!!
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  Violia

  SM, that is so beautiful. it is how you feel as life goes by, no time to think, so much to do. Until it is near the end and you wonder where it went. You just sit and remember the years that are gone.
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  still thinking

  thats lovely sizemik....its so true that many people become invisible when they get older.

  We forget dont we, that the person inside doesn't age. Just the vessel that contains us.
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  jam

  People die from time too time and worms eat

  them, but not for love.
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  poopsiecakes

  This is my personal favorite and full circle to my first post here.

  How Did You Die?
  by Edmund Vance Cooke

  Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
  With a resolute heart and cheerful?
  Or hide your face from the light of day
  With a craven soul and fearful?
  Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
  Or a trouble is what you make it,
  And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
  But only how did you take it?
  
  You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that!
  Come up with a smiling face.
  It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
  But to lie there--that's disgrace.
  The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce
  Be proud of your blackened eye!
  It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;
  It's how did you fight--and why?
  
  And though you be done to the death, what then?
  If you battled the best you could,
  If you played your part in the world of men,
  Why, the Critic will call it good.
  Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
  And whether he's slow or spry,
  It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
  But only how did you die?
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  exwhyzee

  Hope is the thing with feathers
  That perches in the soul,
  And sings the tune without the words,
  And never stops at all,
  
  And sweetest in the gale is heard;
  And sore must be the storm
  That could abash the little bird
  That kept so many warm.
  
  I've heard it in the chilliest land
  And on the strangest sea;
  Yet, never, in extremity,
  It asked a crumb of me.

  E. Dickenson