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#1 sullysue

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Posted 03 April 2008 - 09:19 AM

I couldn't find a general poetry thread to post this in, so I started this. I hope there isn't another one somewhere.

Anyway, my 9-year-old daughter, Savannah, gave this to me last night. I wanted to share it, because it made me smile.  biggrin.gif

It's Pokey in Here!

I am writing this poem from high in a tree,
And it is rather pokey in here.
I got in this tree way up high
By a gust of wind, and I flew
Into that tree like a bird flying by.
I hope that gust of wind comes right back
And blows me out of this tree.
And I'll fall down with a "Smack"
And break a bone or three.
But, it's rather pokey in here.
(Help Me!)


laugh.gif  

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#2 Jack Aubrey

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Posted 03 April 2008 - 10:52 AM

QUOTE (sullysue @ Apr 3 2008, 10:19 AM)
I couldn't find a general poetry thread to post this in, so I started this. I hope there isn't another one somewhere.

Anyway, my 9-year-old daughter, Savannah, gave this to me last night. I wanted to share it, because it made me smile.  biggrin.gif

It's Pokey in Here!

I am writing this poem from high in a tree,
And it is rather pokey in here.
I got in this tree way up high
By a gust of wind, and I flew
Into that tree like a bird flying by.
I hope that gust of wind comes right back
And blows me out of this tree.
And I'll fall down with a "Smack"
And break a bone or three.
But, it's rather pokey in here.
(Help Me!)


laugh.gif

  laugh.gif Your kid's a riot!  yes.gif  

#3 Verena

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Posted 12 April 2008 - 05:47 PM

QUOTE (sullysue @ Apr 3 2008, 11:19 AM)
I couldn't find a general poetry thread to post this in, so I started this. I hope there isn't another one somewhere.

Anyway, my 9-year-old daughter, Savannah, gave this to me last night. I wanted to share it, because it made me smile.  biggrin.gif

It's Pokey in Here!

I am writing this poem from high in a tree,
And it is rather pokey in here.
I got in this tree way up high
By a gust of wind, and I flew
Into that tree like a bird flying by.
I hope that gust of wind comes right back
And blows me out of this tree.
And I'll fall down with a "Smack"
And break a bone or three.
But, it's rather pokey in here.
(Help Me!)


laugh.gif

Cute ^_^

#4 Inthend

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Posted 12 July 2008 - 10:18 PM

QUOTE (sullysue @ Apr 3 2008, 09:19 AM)
I couldn't find a general poetry thread to post this in, so I started this. I hope there isn't another one somewhere.

Anyway, my 9-year-old daughter, Savannah, gave this to me last night. I wanted to share it, because it made me smile.  biggrin.gif

It's Pokey in Here!

I am writing this poem from high in a tree,
And it is rather pokey in here.
I got in this tree way up high
By a gust of wind, and I flew
Into that tree like a bird flying by.
I hope that gust of wind comes right back
And blows me out of this tree.
And I'll fall down with a "Smack"
And break a bone or three.
But, it's rather pokey in here.
(Help Me!)


laugh.gif

That's a trip! laugh.gif

Ok SullySue,
Now what we want
Is one from you.

#5 Mara

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Posted 13 July 2008 - 05:35 PM

  biggrin.gif That's cute!  Kid poetry is the best.  They haven't reached the age where they get all self-critical about what they've written.
But did you tell her you'd rather she NOT fall out of a tree and break any bones? wink.gif  

#6 GhostGirl

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Posted 20 October 2008 - 09:31 AM

George Gray
by Edgar Lee Masters  

I have studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me--
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire--
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.


I found this and loved it so much I had to put part of it in my sig.  It's from Masters' Spoon River Anthology, which I believe I'm going to check out from the library now.


#7 Fridge

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Posted 20 October 2008 - 10:52 AM

QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 03:31 PM)
George Gray
by Edgar Lee Masters  

I have studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me--
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire--
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.


I found this and loved it so much I had to put part of it in my sig.  It's from Masters' Spoon River Anthology, which I believe I'm going to check out from the library now.

Not only is it extremely well written, it is uncomfortably accurate yes.gif  

#8 GhostGirl

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Posted 20 October 2008 - 12:46 PM

QUOTE (Fridge @ Oct 20 2008, 10:52 AM)
QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 03:31 PM)
George Gray
by Edgar Lee Masters 

I have studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me--
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire--
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.


I found this and loved it so much I had to put part of it in my sig.  It's from Masters' Spoon River Anthology, which I believe I'm going to check out from the library now.

Not only is it extremely well written, it is uncomfortably accurate yes.gif

So it is, P.  So right now I'm battling between feeling hopelessly without meaning, and the optimism the poem also inspired.

#9 Fridge

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Posted 20 October 2008 - 12:50 PM

QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 06:46 PM)
QUOTE (Fridge @ Oct 20 2008, 10:52 AM)
QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 03:31 PM)
George Gray
by Edgar Lee Masters 

I have studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me--
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire--
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.


I found this and loved it so much I had to put part of it in my sig.  It's from Masters' Spoon River Anthology, which I believe I'm going to check out from the library now.

Not only is it extremely well written, it is uncomfortably accurate yes.gif

So it is, P.  So right now I'm battling between feeling hopelessly without meaning, and the optimism the poem also inspired.

You and me both, M

#10 GhostGirl

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Posted 20 October 2008 - 01:09 PM

Okay, I promise not to post hundreds of E. L. Masters poems.  I did go and check out his Spoon River Anthology and am already in love with this book.  If you don't know the concept behind it, here's a brief explanation from poets.org:

QUOTE
...Masters considered writing a novel about the relationships of people in a small Illinois town. This idea was transformed through a chance acquaintance. Masters had been submitting poems to Marion Reedy, the editor of Reedy's Mirror in St. Louis. While Reedy didn't publish these poems, he kept up the correspondence and gave Masters a copy of J. W. Mackail's Selected Epigrams from the Greek Anthology. After reading these, Masters felt the challenge to adopt the idea for his novel into this form, combining free verse, epitaph, realism, and cynicism to write Spoon River Anthology, a collection of monologues from the dead in an Illinois graveyard.


This one is so simple and sweet.  It has a dignity that is both homespun and regal, IMO.

Lucinda Matlock
by Edgar Lee Masters  

I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed--
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you--
It takes life to love Life.


It takes life to love Life...

#11 Fridge

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Posted 20 October 2008 - 01:13 PM

QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 07:09 PM)
Lucinda Matlock
by Edgar Lee Masters  

I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed--
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you--
It takes life to love Life.



Wow. ohmy.gif

I'll really need to check this book out at some point.

#12 Verena

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Posted 27 December 2008 - 11:14 AM

QUOTE (GhostGirl @ Oct 20 2008, 04:09 PM)
This one is so simple and sweet.  It has a dignity that is both homespun and regal, IMO.

Lucinda Matlock
by Edgar Lee Masters 

I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the moonlight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed--
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you--
It takes life to love Life.


It takes life to love Life...

Surely it has a beautiful message. I never heard aboutthat author before. Thanks for posting.

Edited by rhyv, 27 December 2008 - 11:15 AM.


#13 Hatchetaxe&saw

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Posted 10 October 2012 - 01:51 PM

  bumper.gif

Remorse For Intemperate Speech

I ranted to the knave and fool,
But outgrew that school,
Would transform the part,
Fit audience found, but cannot rule
My fanatic heart.
I sought my betters: though in each
Fine manners, liberal speech,
Turn hatred into sport,
Nothing said or done can reach
My fanatic heart,
Out of Ireland have we come.
Great hatred, little room,
Maimed us at the start.
I carry from my mother's womb
A fanatic heart.


William Butler Yeats

#14 Nate2112

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Posted 17 November 2012 - 06:33 PM

Ok those who I PM'd a week ago knew of my dilemma. Hehe. I am known to overreact over EVERYTHING.

I'll vaguely talk about my dilemma. hehe

So, I met this girl(online) and I totally fell in Love with her. i couldn't control my emotions. Then when she told me she had a drinking problem and she smoked weed, well, I lost it, I bawled for days. So I PM'd a couple folks and they have dramatically changed my life henceforth.

But then last night my ex told me she wanted to get back together with me and of course I said yes. Here is a poem about her that I wrote

I see what has been lost
Though we may have tossed
And turned all throughout the night
The silence is over, we rejoice in the light

Oh, do you see it...the thin line
Oh, do you want it...the beauty sign
Oh...do you wish it...your hand in mine

The snow, it's radiance in the cloudy day
It seems as if it makes the world so much brighter OK?
Who said you had to agree?
I'm just saying what's true see?

Nobody said you were theirs
So I took hold in the shelter in air
The times I yearned to spend with you
The times I awoke to my life brand new

I still remember your name
Though our lives weren't ever the same
I wished we could fall in love
What do you know, my wish has took flight...like a dove


#15 Maverick

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Posted 15 January 2013 - 06:19 AM

Song of Nature

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gulf of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.

I hid in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.

No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life,
And pour the deluge still;

And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.

And many a thousand summers
My apples ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.

I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.

And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;


What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.

Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and baked the layers
Or granite, marl, and shell.

But he, the man-child glorious,--
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.

My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,
And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.

Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?

Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;

I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer's pomp,
Or winter's frozen shade?

I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.

Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day, and one of night,
And one of the salt sea-sand.

One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.

I moulded kings and saviours,
And bards o'er kings to rule;--
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.

Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.

Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones, and countless days.

No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.

#16 kkdalloway

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Posted 16 January 2013 - 12:09 AM

Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley


I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Those last three lines get me every time. Killer!!

#17 Maverick

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Posted 16 January 2013 - 04:51 PM

e. e. cummings

beautiful

is the
unmea
ning
of (sil

ently) fal

ling (e
ver
yw
here) s

now


#18 rushgoober

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Posted 16 January 2013 - 05:05 PM

View PostSheldon Cooper, on 16 January 2013 - 04:51 PM, said:

e. e. cummings

beautiful

is the
unmea
ning
of (sil

ently) fal

ling (e
ver
yw
here) s

now


ee cummings did often verge on style over substance.  here the substance is good, if slight, but the style just feels gimmicky and distracting IMHO.

#19 barney_rebel

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Posted 16 January 2013 - 05:32 PM

Each life converges to some centre
Expressed or still;
Exists in every human nature
A goal,

Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,
Too fair
For credibility's temerity
To dare.

Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,
To reach
Were hopeless as the rainbow's raiment
To touch,

Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;
How high
Unto the saints' slow diligence
The sky!

Ungained, it may be, by a life's low venture,
But then,
Eternity enables the endeavoring
Again.

-Emily Dickinson

Edited by barney_rebel, 16 January 2013 - 05:32 PM.


#20 kkdalloway

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Posted 16 January 2013 - 08:00 PM

View PostSheldon Cooper, on 16 January 2013 - 04:51 PM, said:

e. e. cummings

beautiful

is the
unmea
ning
of (sil

ently) fal

ling (e
ver
yw
here) s

now


:goodone:

I think about this one from time to time when I'm I standing outside while snow is falling. Love how the form replicates the random patterns of softly falling snow.




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