Happy the man, and happy he alone,
he who can call today his own:
he who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine
the joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself, upon the past has power,
but what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

(Abend) - Evening -- by Ranier Maria Rilke
translated by C F MacIntyre

Slowly now the evening changes his garments
held for him by a rim of ancient trees:
you gaze: and the landscape divides and leaves you,
one sinking and one rising toward the sky.

And you are left, to none belonging wholly,
not so dark as a silent house, nor quite
so surely pledged unto eternity
as that which grows to star and climbs the night.

To you is left (unspeakably confused)
your life, gigantic, ripening, full of fears,
so that it, now hemmed in, now grasping all,
is changed in you by turns to stone and stars.

Nice poems, both of them. I have read quite a few poems in my life, although I have managed to miss these two, so thanks for bringing them to my attention.

A question: Can we post our own poetry, or does it have to be something that has been published?

I think we'd all love to read your poetry, Exorsis C....and that goes for any of our poetic souls.

Here's one that I wrote a long time ago. I posted it at another forum about a year ago, so some of you may have read it already.

NOT ALONE

People around me,
laughing and talking,
having fun.
I hardly notice
that they�re here.
Not alone,
but feeling lonely,
missing him.
I�ve missed him for years now.
I�ll never stop missing him,
for as long as I live.
Not alone,
but feeling lonely,
and in pain.
I�ve felt the pain for so long now
and it will never go away.
I�m in pain,
missing him,
wishing he was here.
Wishing he was still alive.
Wishing he could hold me
and stop me from feeling lonely.
No,
I�m not alone,
but I�m feeling lonely...

(copyright CS 1987)

I hope you like it... If not, don't be afraid to say so, but please say it in a nice way, perhaps with some constructive critisism.

Thanks Exorsis C

I hope that you are not still lonely.  If you are - come visit us here at AE.

Most of my stuff tends to be a bit freeform as well.

Thanks Vagabond.

No, I'm not still lonely. I am now in a very good relationship and have very good friends, so my life is much better now. But I'll still visit AE, lonely or not...

Many of my poems are pretty sad or depressing, since I mostly write when I'm feeling down. It's a kind of therapy for me and it helps me get through bad times.

Perhaps my favorite poet is Robert Frost. 

http://www.bartleby.com/people/Frost-Ro.html - http://www.bartleby.com/people/Frost-Ro.html

He's usually thought of a pretty country images - but there's a depth and a very dark side to a great deal of his poetry.  Two (out of a long list) of my favorites of his:

For Once, Then Something

ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT

This stanza is most inspiring. (can we walk freely in and out of the night? if the time is like the rain, can we walk at our own will in and out of it?.....)

Imagine that one walked in a lonely lane in the night, 'unwillikng to explain', ---that feels terrific. 

u mean the Raven by Allan Poe? I have read that long ago ... it was pretty good i liked it... it gives you that creepy feeling... anyway here is one of my favorite poems

Rupert Brooke

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
    That there's some corner of a foreign field
The is for ever England. There shall be
    In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
    Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
    Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
    A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
        Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
    And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
        In hearts at peace, under and English heaven.

I love that poem.

" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."  "

Well, I'm new here so why not start off with a couple of poems? 

Don't mind if I do.

*scratches head* Maybe I should find one first....

In the meantime, I'd like to say that I love every one of the poems that have been posted.  I especially like "For Once, Then Something".

AH!  Here we go!  (All were copyrighted in 2004.)

If you like these few, I will post more:

Holy Days of Past

Remember Monday?
How it wept with sorrow,
for the Holy Days of Past?
How,
whenever we would meditate,
the skies always seemed to darken?
I still haven't figured out
if it darkened in rage, or love, or just
-simply-
understanding.
I'm sure you don't know either.
It's just one of those things . . .
you know?
But now I see that,
when the storm moves in,
it welcomes me.
In an odd sort of way,
that no one else can understand,
I welcome it, too.
It has become a part of me.
Fresh air.
Clean earth.
I'm sure you understand,
because I understand, as well,
and we always understand each other.
Monday....
monday......
Forever has the Monday come and gone,
leaving us only the remains of ourselves,
for the Holy Days of Past,
are trapped behind what is already gone.
New shall be our souls,
and new shall be the days in which they are revived.

La supersticion del lobo

El lobo de noche
Corre en el bosque
Canta por miedo
Y se come a los muertos

Tu chillido
Por la luna llena
Yo te digo
Es solo supersticion

Yo tomo la sidra
Como el lobo de noche
Regresa del bosque
Y se sienta a mi lado

The Little Lady In Red

The little lady in red
Whose heart was already dead
Spoke of her life
And all of it's strife
And of why she hadn't been wed.

The little lady had been
Waiting on her choice of all men
In her best red dress
Not a hair a mess
Until the hour of ten.

Standing on the wet city street
Over-hearing the chorus' beat
Her heart sunk low
As she realized, now
That her and her man wouldn't meet.

Slowly she started to weep
Yet made not even a peep
Alone in the chill
Lip quivering, not still
And heart beginning to seep.

"Believe it or not," she did say
"Since withstanding the rain on that day,
I knew what what was wrong
So simple the song
No heart could love me, that way."

So, indeed, she did feel
Until she ate her last meal
That unloveable was she
And her heart would never see
To her, a man who would kneel.

the whole of the raven:

[First published in 1845]

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. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' 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!

Here is my best. I wrote that around the spring of 2001. Sorry if it carried too much feelings, but at that time, the emphasis was on that issue . I copied it back from Poetry.com (some of you know this website).

Let the Rocks Say, O'Jerusalem

Let the rocks speak and talk,Listen to them whimpering and walk,
Let them tell you the story of Jerusalem's folk,
And they will speak, O'Jerusalem.
The appeal letters they send, The bloodshed that shall end,
The injustice and malice cannot bend,
And they will whisper, O'Jerusalem.
See those young boys at the gates,
Fighting tanks, and rocks are their mates,
Death is watching, and their fates,
And they will yell, O'Jerusalem.
In day, lachrymose bombs are smelled,
In night, gunshots are heard,
Death became my friend,
And they will call, O'Jerusalem.
Children asking for peace,War that will not cease,
All had to beg on knees,
And you will still hear them, O'Jerusalem.
By the sunset, I had to go,Leaving them as you know,
Ask the rocks what they saw,
And they will answer you, O'Jerusalem.

Wael Mansour Qassim

Copyright �2005 Wael Mansour Qassim

Originally posted by ArmenianSurvival �ok ge�, nice work

Thank you Armenian Survival. Im glad you liked it too.

"And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour---well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the Goods they sell."

Omar Khayyam

Hafez wrote:
"In a garden renew your Zoroastrian faith
In the monastery of the Magi, why they honor us,
The fire that never dies, burns in our hearts. "

i've always liked this one, and it is short enough for those not wanting to read books  short but incredibly touching (i think so anyway)

Elegy by WS Merwin

Who would i show it to?

and this one, but off the top of my head i can't rememebr the author, and i think my version of it is a bit wrong, but none the less i think i like my version better lol

Their Love Life

One failure

on top of another

Darvish

O Lord! devise a means, whereby in safety my beloved 
May come back and release me from the claw of reproach 
Bring me the dust of the path of that traveled beloved 
That I may make my world-seeing eye her sojourn place 
Justice! For, they have barred my path on six sides. 

Today, when I am in your hand, show a little mercy 
tomorrow, when I become clay, what profit are tears of repentance? 
O thou that of love expressest breath in relating and explaining, 
With thee no word have we save this "prosperity and safety by thine!" 
Darvish! lament not of the sword of friends, 
For this band takenth the blood-price for the slain 
Set fire to the religious garment, for the curve of the Saki's eye-brow 
Shattereth the corner of the prayer-arch of the service of the imam 
God forbid that of your violence and thranny I should bewail 
The injustice of dainty ones is all daintiness and goodness. 
The argument of your tress-tip, Hafiz shorteneth not: 
This chain is joined to the day of resurrection. 

By Hafez, one of my favs

by me

Herez one of my favourite poems.

Another poem that I've liked since my school days.

Another one.I love the last stanza.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy

Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

                                                            {Robert Frost}

http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/robertfrost/stoppingby.shtml - http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/robertfrost/stoppingby.sh tml

Really nice poems, all of them.

So true...that's most women's dream man.

Here's one that I've liked since the first time I read it:

If I Could�

My friend,

if I could give you

one thing,

I would give you

the ability to see

yourself

as others see you�

then you would realize

what a truly special

person

you are.

(Barbara A. Billings)

I've sent it to a couple of my best friends, since it so perfectly describes how I feel about them.

She Walks In Beauty

She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

                                                                     LORD BYRON

http://quotations.about.com/cs/poemlyrics/a/She_Walks_In.htm - http://quotations.about.com/cs/poemlyrics/a/She_Walks_In.htm

"Sonnets Of The Portuguese"

Elizabeth Browning

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only.  Do not say
"I love her for her smile--her look--her way
Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" -
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so.  Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, -
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity

"Invicitus"

William Earnst Henley

Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole. I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms but the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.

Both quite well known, but nice nevertheless.

Peace, Goodwill, and Seasonal Greetings to Everyone

THE CITY AND THE COUNTRY  GIRL

Moorish Literature

(Anon)

Is true. The women, like unto the stars,
  Are jealous also. Two young virgins met
  The day I saw them, a sad day for them,
  For one was jealous of the other one.
  The citizeness said to the Bedouine:
  "Look at thy similars and thou shalt see
  In them but rustics, true dogs of the camp.
  Now what art thou beside a city girl?
  Thou art a Bedouine. Dost thou not dream
  Of goat-skin bottles to be filled at dawn?
  And loads of wood that thou must daily cut?
  And how thou'rt doomed to turn the mill all night,
  Fatigued, harassed? Thy feet, unshod, are chapped
  And full of cracks. Thy head can never feel
  The solace of uncovering, and thou,
  All broken with fatigue, must go to sleep
  Upon the ground, in soot and dust to lie,
  Just like a serpent coiled upon himself.
  Thy covering is the tatters of old tents,
  Thy pillow is the stones upon the hearth.
  All clad in rags thou hast a heavy sleep
  Awaking to another stupid day.
  Such is the life of all you country folk.
  What art thou then compared to those who live
  In shade of walls, who have their mosques for prayer
  Where questions are discussed and deeds are drawn?"
  The Arab woman to the city girl
  Replied: "Get out! Thou'rt like a caverned owl.
  And who art thou beside the Arab girls,
  The daughters of those tribes whose standards wave
  Above brave bands of horsemen as they speed?
  Look at thy similars. The doctor ne'er
  Can leave their side. Without an illness known
  They're faded, pale, and sallow. The harsh lime
  Hath filled thy blood with poison. Thou art dead,
  Although thou seem'st alive. Thou ne'er hast seen
  Our noble Arabs and their feats of strength,
  Who to the deserts bring prosperity
  By their sharp swords! If thou could'st see our tribe
  When all the horsemen charge a hostile band,
  Armed with bright lances and with shields to break
  The enemy's strong blow! Those who are like
  To them are famed afar and glorified.
  They're generous hosts and men of nature free.
  Within the mosques they've built and lodgings made
  For tolba and for guests. All those who come
  To visit them, bear gifts away, and give
  Them praises. Why should they reside in town
  Where everything's with price of silver bought?"
  The city girl replied: "Oh, Bedouine,
  Thou dost forget all that thou hast to do.
  Thou go'st from house to house, with artichokes
  And mallows, oyster-plants, and such,
  Thy garments soaked all through and through with grease.
  This is thy daily life. I do not speak
  Of what is hid from view. Thy slanders cease!
  What canst thou say of me? Better than thee
  I follow all the precepts of the Sonna
  And note more faithfully the sacred hours.
  Hid by my veil no eye hath seen my face:
  I'm not like thee, forever in the field.
  I've streets to go on when I walk abroad.
  What art thou, then, beside me? I heard not
  The cows and follow them about all day.
  Thou eatest sorrel wild and heart of dwarf
  Palm-tree. Thy feet are tired with walking far,
  And thy rough hands with digging in the earth."
  "Now what impels you, and what leads you on,"
  The country girl of city girl inquired,
  "To outrage us like this and say such words
  Against us, you who are the very worst
  Of creatures, in whom all the vices are
  Assembled? You are wicked sinners all,
  And Satan would not dare to tell your deeds.
  You are all witches. And you would betray
  Your brother, not to speak of husbands. You
  Walk all unguarded in the street alone,
  Against your husband's will. And you deny
  Your holy faith. The curse of heav'n will weigh
  Upon you when you go to meet your God.
  Not one of you is honest. O ye blind
  Who do not wish to see, whence comes your blindness?
  You violate the law divine, and few
  Among you fear the Lord. 'Tis in the country,
  Amid the fields, that women worship God.
  Why say'st thou that the city women sole
  Are pious? Canst thou say my prayers for me?"
  "What pleasure have the country girls?" replied
  The city girl. "They've no amusements there.
  There's nothing to divert the eyes. Their hands
  They do not stain with henna, setting off
  A rounded arm. Rich costumes they wear not,
  Which cost some hundred silver pieces each,
  Nor numerous garments decked with precious stones.
  They are not coifed with kerchiefs of foulard
  With flowers brocaded. Neither have they veils
  Nor handkerchiefs of silk and broidered gold.
  They never have a negress nurse to bring
  Their children up and run on services
  Throughout the house. And yet they boast as loud
  As any braggart. Why bring'st thou the charge
  That I a blameful life do lead, whilst thine
  Deserves reproof? Dirt in the country holds
  Supreme control. The water's scarce enough
  To drink, with none left for the bath. The ground
  Serves you as bed, and millet is your food,
  Or rotten wheat and barley."
                                Then took up
  The word, and spoke the Arab woman dark:
  "Who are thy ancestors? Which is thy tribe
  Among all those that fill the mighty world?
  You're only Beny Leqyt, and the scum
  Of people of all sorts. Thou call'st thyself
  A city woman. What are city men?
  Thy lords don't slander folk. 'Tis only those
  Who come whence no one knows who have so rude
  A tongue. Thou wouldst insult me, thou, of stock
  Like thine, with such a name abroad! And thou
  Wouldst taunt a Qorechyte, a Hachemite
  Of glorious ancestors who earned their fame.
  Tis proper for a woman born of such
  A stock illustrious to vaunt herself
  Upon her origin. But thou, a vile
  Descendant of a conquered race!
                                "Thou call'st
  Thyself a Sunnite, yet thou knowest not
  The three great things their Author gave to us:
  (He knows all secrets.) First is Paradise,
  Then the Koran, and then our Prophet great,
  Destroyer of false faiths and for all men
  The interceder. Whosoe'er loves him
  Doth love the Arabs, too, and cleaves to them.
  And whosoe'er hates them hates, too, in truth,
  The chosen one of God. Thou hatest him,
  For thou revil'st my ancestors, and seek'st
  To lower their rank and vilify their fame.
  Think on thine evil deeds, against the day
  When in thy grave thou'lt lie, and that one, too,
  When thou shalt rise again, insulter of
  The Arabs, king of peoples on the earth."
  "The Arabs I do not at all despise,"
  The city woman said, "nor yet decry
  Their honor, and 'tis only on account
  Of thee I spoke against them. But 'tis thou
  Who hast insulted all my family, and placed
  Thy race above. He who begins is e'er
  At fault, and not the one who follows. Thou
  The quarrel didst commence. Pray God, our Lord,
  To pardon me, as I will pray him, too,
  And I the Arabs will no more attack.
  If they offend me I will pardon them
  And like them for our holy prophet's sake.
  I shall awake in Paradise some day.
  From them 'tis given, far beyond all price.
  Frankly, I love them more than I do love
  Myself. I love them from my very heart.
  He who a people loveth shall arise
  With them. And here's an end to all our words
  Of bickering and mutual abuse."
  I told them that it was my duty plain
  To reconcile them. I accorded both
  Of them most pure intentions. Then I sent
  Them home, and made agreeable the way.
  Their cares I drove away with honeyed words.
  I have composed the verses of this piece,
  With sense more delicate than rare perfume
  Of orange-flower or than sugar sweet,
  For those kind hearts who know how to forgive.
  As for the evil-minded, they should feel
  The zeqqoum. With the flowers of rhetoric
  My song is ornamented: like the breast
  Of some fair virgin all bedecked with stones
  Which shine like bright stars in the firmament.
  Some of its words will seem severe to those
  Who criticise. I culled them like unto
  A nosegay in the garden of allusions.
  May men of lion hearts and spirit keen--
  Beloved by God and objects of his care--
  Receive my salutations while they live,
  My countless salutations.
                                I should let
  My name be known to him who's subject to
  The Cherfa and obeys their mighty power.
  The mym precedes, then comes the written ha.
  The mym and dal complete the round and make
  It comprehensible to him who reads
  Mahomet. May God pardon me this work
  So frivolous, and also all my faults
  And errors. I place confidence in him,
  Creator of all men, with pardon free
  For all our sins, and in his mercy trust,
  Because he giveth it to him who seeks.
  The country girl and city girl appeared
  Before the judge, demanding sentence just.
  In fierce invectives for a while they joined,
  But after all I left them reconciled.

(Apologies for its length)

The Vagabond

Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river
There's the life for a man like me;
There's the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above
And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field -
Warm the fireside haven -
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even!

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I ask the heaven above,
And the road below me.

                                                         Robert Louis Stevenson

                                                       "Songs of Travel"

http://www.rampantscotland.com/poetry/blpoems_vagabond.htm - http://www.rampantscotland.com/poetry/blpoems_vagabond.htm

  Forgive this wild and wandering cries

  confusions of a wasted youth

 help them where they failed in truth

 and in thy wisdom make me wise...

     A.Tennyson

Oh. Tennyson at last. The Charge of the Light Brigade is my Favourite, and Raven seconds it.

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
   Someone had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
   Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
   Volleyed and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
   Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
   All the world wondered:
Plunging in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
   Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not--
   Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
   Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well,
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
   Left of the six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
   All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
   Noble Six Hundred!

The Newsboy's Dream of the New Year

Under the bare brown rafters,
In his garret bed he lay,
And dreamed of the bright hereafters.
And the merry morns of May.

The snowflakes slowly sifted
In through each cranny and seam,
But only the sunshine drifted
Into the newsboy's dream.

For he dreamed of the brave tomorrows,
His eager eyes should scan,
When battling with wants and sorrows,
He felt himself a Man.

He felt his heart grow bolder
For the struggle and the strife,
When shoulder joined to shoulder,
In the battlefield of life.

And instead of the bare brown rafters,
And the snowflakes sifting in,
He saw in the glad hereafters,
The home his hands should win.

The flowers that grew in its shadow,
And the trees that drooped above;
The low of the kine in the meadow,
And the coo of the morning dove.

And dearer and more tender,
He saw his mother there,
As she knelt in the sunset splendour,
To say the evening prayer.

His face--the sun had burned it,
And his hands were rough and hard,
But home, he had fairly earned it,
And this was his reward!

The morning star's faint glimmer
Stole into the garret forlorn,
And touched the face of the dreamer
With the light of a hope newborn.

Oh, ring harmonious voices
Of New Year's welcoming bells!
For the very air rejoices.
Through all its sounding cells!

I greet ye! oh friends and neighbours
The smith and the artizan;
I share in your honest labours,
A Canadian working-man.

To wield the axe or the hammer,
To till the yielding soil,
Enroll me under your banner,
Oh Brotherhood of Toil!

Ring, bells of the brave tomorrows!
And bring the time more near:
Ring out the wants and the sorrows,
Ring in the glad New Year!

                                       Kate Seymour Maclean

                    My Native Land

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

                                                      Sir Walter Scott

http://quotations.about.com/cs/poemlyrics/a/My_Native_Land.htm - http://quotations.about.com/cs/poemlyrics/a/My_Native_Land.h tm

Life has loveliness to sell,

All beautiful and splendid things,

Blue waves whitened on a cliff,

Soaring fire that sways and sings,

And children's faces looking up,

Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,

Music like a curve of gold,

Scent of pine trees in the rain,

Eyes that love you, arms that hold,

And for your spirit's still delight,

Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,

Buy it and never count the cost;

For one white singing hour of peace

Count many a year of strife well lost,

And for a breath of ecstacy

Give all you have been, or could be.

Sara Teasdale

http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/teasd01.html - http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/teasd01.html

I really like William Blake...

Some is born to the sweetest light,

Some is born to the endless night...

William Blake

2.
Greetings to the host,
The guest has arrived,
In which seat shall he sit?
Rash is he who at unknown doors
Relies on his good luck.

3.
Fire is needed by the newcomer
Whose knees are frozen numb;
Meat and clean linen a man needs
Who has fared across the fells.

4.
Water, too, that he may wash before eating,
Handcloth's and a hearty welcome,
Courteous words, then courteous silence
That he may tell his tale.

5.
Who travels widely needs his wits about him,
The stupid should stay at home:
The ignorant man is often laughed at
When he sits at meat with the sage.

6.
Of his knowledge a man should never boast,
Rather be sparing of speech
When to his house a wiser comes:
Seldom do those who are silent
Make mistakes; mother wit
Is ever a faithful friend.

7.
A guest should be courteous
When he comes to the table
And sit in wary silence,
His ears attentive, his eyes alert:
So he protects himself.

8.
Fortunate is he who is favoured in his lifetime
With praise and words of wisdom:
Evil counsel is often given
By those of evil heart.

9.
Blessed is he who in his own lifetime
Is awarded praise and wit,
For ill counsel is often given
By mortal men to each other.

10.
Better gear than good sense
A traveller cannot carry,
Better than riches for a wretched man,
Far from his own home.

11.
Better gear than good sense
A traveller cannot carry,
A more tedious burden than too much drink
A traveller cannot carry.

12.
Less good than belief would have it
Is mead for the sons of men:
A man knows less the more he drinks,
Becomes a befuddled fool.

13.
I-forget is the name men give the heron
Who hovers over the fast:
Fettered I was in his feathers that night,
When a guest in Gunnlod's court.

14.
Drunk I got, dead drunk,
When Fjalar the wise was with me:
Best is the banquet one looks back on after,
And remembers all that happened.

15.
Silence becomes the Son of a prince,
To be silent but brave in battle:
It befits a man to be merry and glad
Until the day of his death.

16.
The coward believes he will live forever
If he holds back in the battle,
But in old age he shall have no peace
Though spears have spared his limbs.

17.
When he meets friends, the fool gapes,
Is shy and sheepish at first,
Then he sips his mead and immediately
All know what an oaf he is.

18.
He who has seen and suffered much,
And knows the ways of the world,
Who has travelled, can tell what spirit
Governs the men he meets.

19.
Drink your mead, but in moderation,
Talk sense or be silent:
No man is called discourteous who goes
To bed at an early hour.

20.
A gluttonous man who guzzles away
Brings sorrow on himself:
At the table of the wise he is taunted often,
Mocked for his bloated belly.

21.
The herd knows its homing time,
And leaves the grazing ground:
But the glutton never knows how much
His belly is able to hold.

22.
An ill tempered, unhappy man
Ridicules all he hears,
Makes fun of others, refusing always
To see the faults in himself.

23.
Foolish is he who frets at night,
And lies awake to worry'
A weary man when morning comes,
He finds all as bad as before.

24.
The fool thinks that those who laugh
At him are all his friends,
Unaware when he sits with wiser men
How ill they speak of him.

25.
The fool thinks that those who laugh
At him are all his friends:
When he comes to the Thing and calls for support,
Few spokesmen he finds.

26.
The fool who fancies he is full of wisdom
While he sits by his hearth at home.
Quickly finds when questioned by others.
That he knows nothing at all.

27.
The ignorant booby had best be silent
When he moves among other men,
No one will know what a nit-wit he is
Until he begins to talk;
No one knows less what a nit-wit he is
Than the man who talks too much.

28.
To ask well, to answer rightly,
Are the marks of a wise man:
Men must speak of men's deeds,
What happens may not be hidden.

29.
Wise is he not who is never silent,
Mouthing meaningless words:
A glib tongue that goes on chattering
Sings to its own harm.

30.
A man among friends should not mock another:
Many believe the man
Who is not questioned to know much
And so he escapes their scorn.

31.
The wise guest has his way of dealing
With those who taunt him at table:
He smiles through the meal,
Not seeming to hear
The twaddle talked by his foes.

32.
The fastest friends may fall out
When they sit at the banquet-board:
It is, and shall be, a shameful thing
When guest quarrels with guest.

33.
An early meal a man should take
Before he visits friends,
Lest, when he gets there, he go hungry,
Afraid to ask for food.

34.
To a false friend the footpath winds
Though his house be on the highway.
To a sure friend there is a short cut,
Though he live a long way off.

35.
The tactful guest will take his leave
Early, not linger long:
He starts to stink who outstays his welcome
In a hall that is not his own.

36.
A small hut of one's own is better,
A man is his master at home:
A couple of goats and a corded roof
Still are better than begging.

37.
A small hut of one's own is better,
A man is his master at home:
His heart bleeds in the beggar who must
Ask at each meal for meat.

38.
A wayfarer should not walk unarmed,
But have his weapons to hand:
He knows not when he may need a spear,
Or what menace meet on the road.

39.
No man is so generous he will jib at accepting
A gift in return for a gift,
No man so rich that it really gives him
Pain to be repaid.

40.
Once he has won wealth enough,
A man should not crave for more:
What he saves for friends, foes may take;
Hopes are often liars.

41.
With presents friends should please each other,
With a shield or a costly coat:
Mutual giving makes for friendship,
So long as life goes well.

42.
A man should be loyal through life to friends,
To them and to friends of theirs,
But never shall a man make offer
Of friendship to his foes.

43.
A man should be loyal through life to friends,
And return gift for gift,
Laugh when they laugh, but with lies repay
A false foe who lies.

44.
If you find a friend you fully trust
And wish for his good-will,
exchange thoughts, exchange gifts,
Go often to his house.

45.
If you deal with another you don't trust
But wish for his good-will,
Be fair in speech but false in thought
And give him lie for lie.

46.
Even with one you ill-trust
And doubt what he means to do,
False words with fair smiles
May get you the gift you desire.

47.
Young and alone on a long road,
Once I lost my way:
Rich I felt when I found another;
Man rejoices in man.

48.
The generous and bold have the best lives,
Are seldom beset by cares,
But the base man sees bogies everywhere
And the miser pines for presents.

49.
Two wooden stakes stood on the plain,
On them I hung my clothes:
Draped in linen, they looked well born,
But, naked, I was a nobody.

50.
The young fir that falls and rots
Having neither needles nor bark,
So is the fate of the friendless man:
Why should he live long?

51.
Hotter than fire among false hearts burns
Friendship for five days,
But suddenly slackens when the sixth dawns:
Feeble their friendship then.

52.
A kind word need not cost much,
The price of praise can be cheap:
With half a loaf and an empty cup
I found myself a friend.

53.
Little a sand-grain, little a dew drop,
Little the minds of men
All men are not equal in wisdom,
The half-wise are everywhere.

54.
It is best for man to be middle-wise,
Not over cunning and clever:
The fairest life is led by those
Who are deft at all they do.

55.
It is best for man to be middle-wise,
Not over cunning and clever:
No man is able to know his future,
So let him sleep in peace.

56.
It is best for man to be middle-wise,
Not over cunning and clever:
The learned man whose lore is deep
Is seldom happy at heart.

57.
Brand kindles brand till they burn out,
Flame is quickened by flame:
One man from another is known by his speech
The simpleton by his silence.

58.
Early shall he rise who has designs
On anothers land or life:
His prey escapes the prone wolf,
The sleeper is seldom victorious.

59.
Early shall he rise who rules few servants,
And set to work at once:
Much is lost by the late sleeper,
Wealth is won by the swift.

60.
A man should know how many logs
And strips of bark from the birch
To stock in autumn, that he may have enough
Wood for his winter fires.

61.
Washed and fed, one may fare to the Thing:
Though one's clothes be the worse for Wear,
None need be ashamed of his shoes or hose,
Nor of the horse he owns,
Although no thoroughbred.

62.
As the eagle who comes to the ocean shore,
Sniffs and hangs her head,
Dumfounded is he who finds at the Thing
No supporters to plead his case.

63.
It is safe to tell a secret to one,
Risky to tell it to two,
To tell it to three is thoughtless folly,
Everyone else will know.

64.
Moderate at council should a man be,
Not brutal and over bearing:
Among the bold the bully will find
Others as bold as he.

66.
Too early to many homes I came,
Too late, it seemed, to some:
The ale was finished or else un-brewed,
The unpopular cannot please.

67.
Some would invite me to visit their homes,
But none thought I needed a meal,
As though I had eaten a whole joint,
Just before with a friend who had two.

68.
These things are thought the best:
Fire, the sight of the sun,
Good health with the gift to keep it,
And a life that avoids vice.

69.
Not all sick men are utterly wretched:
Some are blessed with sons,
Some with friends, some with riches,
Some with worthy works.

70.
It is always better to be alive,
The living can keep a cow.
Fire, I saw, warming a wealthy man,
With a cold corpse at his door.

71.
The halt can manage a horse,
the handless a flock,
The deaf be a doughty fighter,
To be blind is better than to burn on a pyre:
There is nothing the dead can do.

72.
A son is a blessing, though born late
To a father no longer alive:
Stones would seldom stand by the highway
If sons did not set them there.

73.
Often words uttered to another
Have reaped an ill harvest:
Two beat one, the tongue is head's bane,
Pockets of fur hide fists.

74.
He welcomes the night who has enough provisions
Short are the sails of a ship,
Dangerous the dark in autumn,
The wind may veer within five days,
And many times in a month.

75.
The half wit does not know that gold
Makes apes of many men:
One is rich, one is poor,
There is no blame in that.

76.
Cattle die, kindred die,
Every man is mortal:
But the good name never dies
Of one who has done well.

77.
Cattle die, kindred die,
Every man is mortal:
But I know one thing that never dies,
The glory of the great dead.

 W.H.Auden & P.B.Taylor translation. Believed to be public domain. Source Rob Goodson.

                   Fart Poem

A fart can be quiet,
A fart can be loud,
Some leave a powerful,
Poisonous cloud.

A fart can be short,
Or a fart can be long,
Some farts have been known,
To sound just like a song.

Some farts do not smell,
While others are vile,
A fart may pass quickly,
Or linger awhile.

A fart can create
A most-curious medley,
A fart can be harmless,
Or silent, but deadly.

A fart can occur
In a number of places,
And leave everyone
With strange looks on their faces.

From wide-open prairies,
To small elevators,
A fart will find all of us
Sooner or later.

So be not afraid
Of the invisible gas,
For always remember,
That farts, too, shall pass.

http://bathroomjokes.com/fart/poem.htm - http://bathroomjokes.com/fart/poem.htm

I found a Tomato Poem......

Introduction

(To the tune of 'Guantanamera' gone wrong)

A Seedy Love Story

I'm going to tell you a story
That's neither gruesome nor gory
About a boy in the farmland
He was but a simple farmhand
He gazed into the sky blue above
And dreamed of meeting his true love

Chorus:
He wanted to meet her
Oh how he wanted to meet her
Wanted to meet her
Oh how he wanted to meet her

He'd seen her only from behind
While standing in the check-out line
Her hair was long fine and golden
Her beauty had him beholden
She smelt of oils exotic
It made her seem so erotic

Chorus:
He wanted to meet her
Oh how he wanted to meet her
Wanted to meet her
Oh how he wanted to meet her

He knew if he could impress her
Then may he could undress her
Because he was a great farmer
He knew just how to charm her
He'd grow a special surprise for her
Then she'd know that he adored her

Chorus:
He grew a one tonne tomato
He grew a one tonne tomato
One tonne tomato
He grew a one tonne tomato

Then he bribed the local mailman
Who went and showed him her mailcan
He waited till the dead of night
Then drove to her house on his plight
He put the tomato on her porch above
The note attached told of his true love

Chorus:
He left his one tonne tomato
He left his one tonne tomato
One tonne tomato
He left his one tonne tomato

Well it's been over a year now
And still the laugher you hear now
As folks recall all the drama
Of the young girl and the farmer
And of what happened the next week
When the tomato began to leak

Chorus:
It was a one tonne tomato
It was a one tonne tomato
One tonne tomato
It was a one tonne tomato

She'd been away on holiday
And come back home on that Sunday
To find her home grown all over
The farmer's note said he loved her
She was amazed how he'd figured it
That big tomatoes were her favourite

Chorus:
Of course she wanted to meet him
Oh yes she wanted to meet him
Wanted to meet him
Oh yes she wanted to meet him

They fell in love, then they married
A tomato bouquet she carried
Tomatoes cooked to perfection
Were served up at the reception
As they drove off they were showered
...Not with tomatoes but flowers!

Chorus:
Oh how they loved their tomatoes
They fell in love with tomatoes
They loved their tomatoes
And their love grows like tomatoes

And again:
One tonne tomato
He grew a one tonne tomato
One tonne tomato
He grew a one tonne tomato

Copyright; Arcadia Flynn
Email: funnypoets@yahoo.com
Web Site: http://www.funnypoets.com/" target=_new>http://www.funnypoets.com

A Fat Man Poem.....

When the prophet, a complacent fat man,

When the prophet, a complacent fat man,
Arrived at the mountain-top,
He cried: "Woe to my knowledge!
I intended to see good white lands
And bad black lands,
But the scene is grey."

Stephen Crane

http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/stephencrane/11799 - http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/stephencrane/11799

A comment.....

As I progress through my life, it is harder and harder to see too much in very stark, black & white terms, on most crucial matters the truth lies in the gray

Verna OBrien from United States
http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/stephencrane/11799/comments - http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/stephencrane/11799/commen ts

and a Jew Poem.....

First They Came for the Jews

First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.

Pastor Martin Niem�ller

http://www.telisphere.com/~cearley/sean/camps/first.html - http://www.telisphere.com/~cearley/sean/camps/first.html

    Survivor

I've been through the storm

looked the hurricane in the eye

I've felt the bitter sting of driven rain

been buffeted mercilessly by the wind

I've stood alone against the elements

hoping against hope that tomorrow the weather would clear

       DCM

While watching all these early buds and swallows,
I can feel tonight
that my heart's slowly growing over sorrows
as someone's horizon on smiley days might;

that it's getting bigger like all plants around
and light as a feather,
and that all happiness that's above the ground
and a Hell of pain wouldn't really matter:

It's longing for all things that a life as such
could give nice to thy,
and completely nothing wouldn't be too much--
its eager desire and hopes are so high.

Everything that's happened has been just a play
of my heart on fire;
my true love has never been given away
as much as I could and as I desire;

There are, in my deeps, gentle tides of words
never let outside;
I could give my heart to everyone on worlds,
yet, it would remain a lot of it inside.

Desanka Maksimovi
Translation: Dragana Konstantinovi

My Soccer Shoes

My Soccer Shoes As I walk on the field,
Ready to play,
I think myself,
Will I play hard today?
Will I be fierce, pumped, passion
Filled,
Or will I stand there and just get killed?

Then I think to myself,
What would my shoes say?
I think they would say I would play
Hard today!
They would say would say I would
Be hungry to fight for the ball, I
Would go through my opponent like they aren't there at all.
Whistle blows, muscles tighten,
My body surges,
The goal is in sight.

Ally Dutton

http://www.fundamentalsoccer.com/members/PlacerPoem2.html - http://www.fundamentalsoccer.com/members/PlacerPoem2.html

April Fool's Day

Mackenzie put a whoopie cushion
on the teacher's chair.
Makayla told the teacher
that a bug was in her hair.

Alyssa brought an apple
with a purple gummy worm
and gave it to the teacher
just to see if she would squirm.

Elijah left a piece of plastic
dog doo on the floor,
and Vincent put some plastic vomit
in the teacher's drawer.

Amanda put a goldfish
in the teacher's drinking glass.
These April Fool's Day pranks
are ones that you could use in class.

Before you go and try them, though,
there's something I should mention:
The teacher wasn't fooling
when she put us in detention.

--Kenn Nesbitt

      Home From The War

They were days of terror, of boredom and brotherhood

Of not knowing if the next moment would be the last

Seeing lives end every day and feeling the emotional arteries harden

I remember my true love from those times

She was long and lean with such a smooth action

The wild abandon I felt with her pressed tightly to my shoulder

High powered sensations running up my arms

And filling my existance

There was no time to feel shame at the destruction we caused

Just the joy of being the ones to live through the day

Those days are gone now and I have another love

One it hurts no one to hold

She wears a puzzled frown

At the wetness that sometimes comes to my eyes

But how do I tell her about that part of me

That will never come home from the war

      DCM

nice...

Here's a Poem I wrote for english class about half a year ago. My teacher asked the class to base their poem on the style of Dillon Thomas. This is a new stlye for me, so please tell me what you think.

 

Clonmactose: Narrative Poem

Let us go back to the beginning, where not only the beginning began� On a winter�s morning dew, Listen, listen to the owls hooting under the woodllike sky, its sharpened voice echoes, hitting of the trees like needle on stalk. As the leaves hustle in the breeze. The night is still, with where one might hear the rare sound of an animal scurrying, as it rustles through the leaf stained floor. Be wary, a perched spectre lye�s sited on its woody vine. Its prey a victim to its desire. A spotted mouse below scurries under the brush like a Fugitive on the run. Swoosh. The large wings of the owl go. The mouse has been strangled by its demons claws.

Below is a Green sea.

Up up any mountain, down the rushy glen. Parsley.sage, rosemay and thyme

Down down into that hollow hole which is Clomactose, no one ever leaves, nor no one ever acknowledged existed.

Oh not again. The presidented politician mayor of all Clonmactose slumbers sureingly enough upon his pillow, pilling dash upon dash of endless complaints, constantly continuing through his mind. In one ear out the other, they go. His currency is overrated.

Shh, one must keep quiet in Clomactose, so not to awaken those asleep. Lawyers, doctors, politicians, schoolgirls, schoolboys, teachers, hairdresser, police, woodcutters, coalminers.

Each a sleap, all awake.

Schoolboys dream of wondrous adventures where ye must fight hand on weapon with a band of companions, against the forces of evil.

Schoolgirls of adventures too, but these of horses, and how they will have to attain that wonderful prize be it golden egg or crystal cup.

But now morning is coming, and one can hear that cunning cock while it plans its crow, while crouped upon its coup.

 Morning has come and the sun is peeping its head above the horizon, and slowly seeping through the forest, bark after bark.

The silence breaks as the continuing thud of the woodsman�s axe, hears its way throughout the forest as it carves its way into a tree.

A statue UN built. It may be

I share creation, kings can do no more.

The silence is slowly dispersed, into that which is nothingness, as the chirping of birds can be heard, which is the recognition by all that morning has come.

The chirp of the birds start as flame but soon flame turns to fire, as noise erupts throughout the green woody like wood, as its inhabitants leave their homage.

As there is a lot to be done.

So that eternal wheel, which is Clomactose, slides down its infinite hill and the woodman cuts as in every morning.

Clang, Clang, Clang goes Clomactose.

Bits written in red not my�n.

This Narrative Poem attempts to copy the style of Dillon Tomas.

2005. Age 15

Seems like a nice book.

If you don't like them: read some less:
There will be no bore if after the first
All the rest you suppress!

-Poésie, VLII

Thou rob it from me!
Thou showed in all of thy beauty!
O fair maid, I could not resist…
It is my heart you took away,

O white-bosomed maid,
The heart you are keeping
It’s flaring much…
Enhanced by the look of thee,

I know this isn’t good,
May you so keep it,
I can live without it
If I know you have it…

-Poésie, LVII

I dreamed a perfect world
Where the hen uses wings to fly
And nobody desires to know why.
They flew like a bird…

Where all weapons melted down
To forge; and help those who really need it.
Here it’s at last, accomplished a myth:
A world that’s united under one crown.

A world where hate is known,
But still, love holds us tight;
Where the skies are clear and bright.
A dream that won’t be renown…

 -Poésie, LXVIII

How I was waved aside
Should I dare?
Tell me that old lies are alive:
And just be there.

The more thou take,
The more I blame
For how I was fake…
But everything still feels the same.

I do take too much of a strain,
But I forgot to forget.
If I forget, what wilt I gain?
Nothing…

-Poésie, CXIII

Seldom thy quaff the bitterness of life,
Whence there hast be no strife?
Haring in a hazard chase:
In the den, what wilt thou have to face?

Hark! In this chapter thou art amid,
A life done’t, everyone needs to feed,
Hide, rather then living as a slave
Rather then dying as a brave…

Hare here and there
For someone should always care,
Rise high a home
Or at least, alone out, do not roam…

-Poésie, CXVII

In this marvelous land I was born:
The sun rises from the foam of the deep,
And sets, where the snow heap,
All of its beauty I love, even its thorn.

During spring, there’s woods where to be,
During winter, there’s snow where to play,
During autumn, there are parks where to stay,
During summer, there’s water where to flee.

You can always hear the whispers of the winds,
The trees are above us, making shadows for us, 
The woods, the fields, little river, made me free.
It’s the place where I dwell…

Poésie, CVLI

Always the same! So we march,
Going here and there, take a drink
Or a drunk that drunk more then his share
And carry him somewhere…

Then back, and once again:
All the way from the start,
Come boys, drink and get drunk,
And high till thou in the bottle sunk!

And thence confusion pursue me,
So confusing:
One disappears, hundred joins!
Or am I just drunk – the plausible solution!

By Stefano Segnan

I will not post other poems, because I'm afraid someone will just copy-paste (even if those are not good, I don't care: What you read in a brief time I took several months to write).

p.s I have a problem in changing the fonts and the size of the letters - that's why it is a wee bit of all

Vladimir Khlebnikov:
Invocation of Laughter

O, laugh, laughers!
O, laugh out, laughers!
You who laugh with laughs, you who laugh it up laughishly
O, laugh out laugheringly
O, belaughable laughterhood - the laughter of laughering laughers!
O, unlaugh it outlaughingly, belaughering laughists!
Laughily, laughily,
Uplaugh, enlaugh, laughlings, laughlings
Laughlets, laughlets.
O, laugh, laughers!
O, laugh out, laughers!

1908-09
               

The Weeping Garden

It’s terrible! – all drip and listening.

  Gaily bedight,
                   A 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!"

If you were coming in the fall,
I'd brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spum,
As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,
I'd count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen's land.

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time's uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.

The drowsy carrier sways
  To the drowsy horses' tramp.
His axles winnow the sprays
Of the hedge where the rabbit plays
  In the light of his single lamp.

He hears a roar behind,
  A howl, a hoot, and a yell,
A headlight strikes him blind
And a stench o'erpowers the wind 
  Like a blast from the mouth of Hell.

He mends his swingle-bar,
  And loud his curses ring;
But a mother watching afar
Hears the hum of the doctor's car
  Like the beat of an angel's wing!

So, to the poet's mood,
  Motor or carrier's van,
Properly understood,
Are neither evil nor good --
  Ormuzd not Ahriman!

And you as well must die, beloved dust,

And all your beauty stand you in no stead;

This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,

This body of flame and steel, before the gust

Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,

Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead

Than the first leaf that fell,—this wonder fled.

Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost.

Nor shall my love avail you in your hour.

In spite of all my love, you will arise

Upon that day and wander down the air

Obscurely as the unattended flower,

It mattering not how beautiful you were,

Or how beloved above all else that dies.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,

Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.

Think rather,—call to thought, if now you grieve a little,

The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry

I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;

Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:

Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,

I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.

Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:

Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;

All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:

Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation—

Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?
 

A.E. Housman

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles.  From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips.  "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

Emma Lazarus

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls

The tide rises, the tide falls,

The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;

Along the sea-sands damp and brown

The traveller hastens toward the town,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,

But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;

The little waves, with their soft, white hands,

Efface the footprints in the sands,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;

The day returns, but nevermore

Returns the traveller to the shore,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

               Henry Wadsworth Longfellow