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On What is your favorite poem?


Leslie Swearingen 5 years, 1 month ago

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved heaven and earth; that which we are, we are
; One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Leslie Swearingen 5 years, 1 month ago

Sorry, autie, I think this is what you are referring to, but both names are used.

jhawkinsf 5 years, 1 month ago

I don't know, but I've been told, you can't run too fast with the weight of gold.

On the other hand, I've had it said, it's just as hard with the weight of lead.

Paul R Getto 5 years, 1 month ago

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas Originally published in the journal Botteghe Oscure in 1951


Leslie Swearingen 5 years, 1 month ago

I have loved that poem for some time, since I was in college as a matter of fact. Now I am sixty-seven and know the full meaning of it and I promise you I am not going gently into that good night.

Leslie Swearingen 5 years, 1 month ago

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet, my love,
But, not as sweet as you.

Bobby Vinton

Leslie Swearingen 5 years, 1 month ago


I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield (1878-1967).
(English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)

This poem is quoted in part by Captain James T. Kirk.

Thinking_Out_Loud 5 years, 1 month ago

But Captain Spock doesn't even know "Row, Row, Row Your Boat."

local_support 5 years, 1 month ago

Rosalie's Good Eats Cafe, by Shel Silverstein

Wally 5 years, 1 month ago

Three monkeys sat in a coconut tree Discussing things that were said to be. Said one to the others, “Now listen you two, There's a certain rumor that can't be true. That man descended from our noble race. Why, the very idea is a disgrace! No monkey ever deserted his wife, Starved her babies and ruined her live. You'll never see a mother monk Leave her babies with others to bunk, Or pass them around from one to the other, 'Til they scarcely know who is their mother. And another thing you'll never see Is a monkey build a fence around a coconut tree, And let the coconuts go to waste, Forbidding all other monkeys a taste. Why, if I built a fence around this coconut tree, Starvation would force you to steal from me. Another thing a monkey won't do Is go out at night and get on a stew and use a gun, a club, or a knife To take some other monkey's life. Yes, man descended, the ornery cuss! But brothers, he didn't descend from us!”

  • variously attributed

Kate Rogge 5 years, 1 month ago

We Who Are Your Closest Friends by Phillip Lopate

we who are / your closest friends / feel the time / has come to tell you / that every Thursday / we have been meeting / as a group / to devise ways / to keep you / in perpetual uncertainty / frustration / discontent and / torture / by neither loving you / as much as you want / nor cutting you adrift

your analyst is / in on it / plus your boyfriend / and your ex-husband / and we have pledged / to disappoint you / as long as you need us

in announcing our / association / we realize we have / placed in your hands / a possible antidote / against uncertainty / indeed against ourselves / but since our Thursday nights / have brought us / to a community of purpose / rare in itself / with you as / the natural center / we feel hopeful you / will continue to make / unreasonable / demands for affection / if not as a consequence / of your / disastrous personality

then for the good of the collective

Kate Rogge 5 years, 1 month ago


I Chop Some Parsley While Listening To Art Blakey's Version Of "Three Blind Mice"

And I start wondering how they came to be blind. / If it was congenital, they could be brothers and sister, / and I think of the poor mother / brooding over her sightless young triplets.

Or was it a common accident, all three caught / in a searing explosion, a firework perhaps? / If not, / if each came to his or her blindness separately,

how did they ever manage to find one another? / Would it not be difficult for a blind mouse / to locate even one fellow mouse with vision / let alone two other blind ones?

And how, in their tiny darkness, / could they possibly have run after a farmer's wife / or anyone else's wife for that matter? / Not to mention why.

Just so she could cut off their tails / with a carving knife, is the cynic's answer, / but the thought of them without eyes / and now without tails to trail through the moist grass

or slip around the corner of a baseboard / has the cynic who always lounges within me / up off his couch and at the window / trying to hide the rising softness that he feels.

By now I am on to dicing an onion / which might account for the wet stinging / in my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard's / mournful trumpet on "Blue Moon,"

which happens to be the next cut, / cannot be said to be making matters any better.

                                            -Billy Collins

Kate Rogge 5 years, 1 month ago

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why (Sonnet XLIII) by Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, / I have forgotten, and what arms have lain / Under my head till morning; but the rain / Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh / Upon the glass and listen for reply, / And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain / For unremembered lads that not again /
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. / Thus in winter stands the lonely tree, / Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, / Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: / I cannot say what loves have come and gone, / I only know that summer sang in me / A little while, that in me sings no more.

Terry Sexton 5 years, 1 month ago

There is a marvelous collection of poetry edited by Caryn Miirriam-Goldberg entitled: "Begin Again - 150 Kansas Poems" Here are two samplings of this wonderful anthology:

We Read - by Kevin Rabas

At the Olpe Chicken House behind the glass there's a copy

of Ken Ohm's new book Ducks Across the Moon.

An old woman and her husband cane their way

to the counter, pay with cash, the bills

old and crumbled and green, and ask about the book.

The kid behind the counter, who looks like the town

quarterback, says, I didn't write it," annoyed,

"Heck, I don't know." And the old couple walks on,

go home, along the way mentioning books they do

know, and love, and read, and then slump in peace, sleep

on their La-Z-Boys, the tv snow, the books

held in their laps, the reading lamps still on.

You Look Beautiful - by William J. Harris

The husband says, You look beautiful."

Not hearing, the wife says,

"Have you seen my glasses?"

"I said, you look beautiful."

"Well, let's find my glasses

And we'll see."

Thanks, Ronda, for introducing me to this fine volume of Kansas poetry.

FlintlockRifle 5 years, 1 month ago

This little ditty is from my second grade class more than 60 years ago, no laughing please this was serious work ""I have a little mill that goes round and round and collects me water from the under ground""" My teacher loved it,

hedshrinker 5 years, 1 month ago

i thank you God for most this amazing day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes e.e. cummings

Jennifer Klopp 5 years, 1 month ago

Nothing Gold can stay

Nature's first green is gold Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. -Robert Frost

Marc Mondi 5 years, 1 month ago

“My beard grows down to my toes, I never wears no clothes, I wraps my hair Around my bare, And down the road I goes.”

-Shel Silverstein

Ronda Miller 5 years, 1 month ago

Wings of a Redbird Ronda Miller In loving memory of my niece who would have turned 32 today.

Out of the corner of my eye Your bright red wings spread Catching me by surprise Take my breath and use it To lift yourself away You fly on some higher plane Encircling all you've loved In one uplifting swoop And now you're gone I continue to hold my breath Until I find One lone feather left behind To hold against my chest

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