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This is my favorite poem.

Self Pity by D.H. Lawrence

I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.
 

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The cow is of bovine ilk
One end moo
The other milk

Pelican, pelican
His mouth can hold more
Than his belly can

Ogden Nash
 

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The Highwayman


The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding -Riding - riding -
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlords daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And deep in the dark old inn-yard a stable wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlords daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say -
"One kiss, my bonnie sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red coat troop came marching - marching - marching -
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of then knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say -
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I will come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again;
For the road laid bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her lovers refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,Riding, riding!
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her beast in the moonlight and warned him - with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the Westward; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter
The landlords black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winters night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding- Riding - riding -
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlords black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlords daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Alfred Noyes


_________________________________________________________


The Listeners

'Is anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head: -
'Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone
 

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What, did I overwhelm ya'll???

Here's another I like.

Is it too strange to think
That, when all life at last from earth is gone,
And round the sun's pale blink
Our desolate planet wheels its ice and stone,
Housed among storm-proof walls may yet abide
Defying long the venoms of decay,
A still dark throng of books, dumb books of song
And tenderest fancies born of youth and May.
A quiet remembering host,
Outliving the poor dust that gave them birth,
Unvisited by even a wandering ghost,
But treasuring still the music of our earth.
In fading hieroglyphics they shall bear
Through death and night, the legend of our Spring,
And how the lilac scented the bright air
When hearts throbbed warm, and lips could kiss and sing.
And, ere that record fail,
Strange voyagers from a mightier planet come
On winged ships that through the void can sail
And gently light upon our ancient home;
Strange voices echo, and strange flares explore,
Lift the brown volumes to the light once more.
And bear their stranger secrets through the stars.

The Last of the Books, Alfred Noyes (early 20th century poet)

I
 

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If your wounded on the afghan plains,
And the women come out to cut up your remains,
Roll to your rifle and blow out your brains,
And go to your god like a soldier.

Rudyard Kipling
 

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Happy Camper
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Pirate, saw that very poem in a Platoon-style movie my bro got me for Christmas - "The Beast". Was surprisingly a good movie. A simple story of revenge, self importance, and "the beast within", played out during the '80s Russian invasion of Afghanistan.

My poem would be Tennyson's The Lady of Shallot
 

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JABBERWOCKY

Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

[size=+2]`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.






"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"


He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.


And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!


One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.


"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

[/size]
 

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It's always hard for a man to see,
the writing on his soul.
His eyes will only open out, to guide him to his bowl.
He looks with lust at a maidens bust,
and kills a man with a single thrust then he wipes the slate,
thats filled with hate, but he never stops to meditate,
on the writing of his soul.

Late at night, in the torment's height,
when his dreams are moving fast,
His spirit climbs, from the coffin lined
with his lies and his troubled past.
And in free flight his spirit's might is seen in spectral form.
It rides the crest of intellect, for truth at best is all that's left
to measure up his mold.

For if in time he fails to find the peace that dwells within.
His self made gloom will spell the doom and seal the tomb
for the writing on his soul.

For hope springs eternal in the human breast,
or so that's what they say.
And life is easy and lots of fun,
If we can only learn how to play.
 

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More of a song, but it seems poetic.

Down In A Hole by Alice In Chains


Bury me softly in this womb
I give this part of me for you
Sand rains down and here I sit
Holding rare flowers
In a tomb...in bloom

Down in a hole and I don?t know if I can be saved
See my heart I decorate it like a grave
You don?t understand who they
Thought I was supposed to be
Look at me now a man
Who won?t let himself be

Down in a hole, feelin? so small
Down in a hole, losin? my soul
I?d like to fly,
But my wings have been so denied

Down in a hole and they?ve put all
The stones in their place
I?ve eaten the sun so my tongue
Has been burned of the taste
I have been guilty
Of kicking myself in the teeth
I will speak no more
Of my feelings beneath

Down in a hole, feelin? so small
Down in a hole, losin? my soul
I?d like to fly but my
Wings have been so denied

Bury me softly in this womb
Oh I want to be inside of you
I give this part of me for you
Oh I want to be inside of you
Sand rains down and here I sit
Holding rare flowers (oh I want to be inside of you)
In a tomb...in bloom
Oh I want to be inside...

Down in a hole, feelin? so small
Down in a hole, losin? my soul
Down in a hole, feelin? so small
Down in a hole, outta control
I?d like to fly but my
Wings have been so denied
 

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DADDY WARBUCKS
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Always been kind of fond of this Rudyard Kipling poem. Not great by literary standards but timeless:


I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o'beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,'' when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'' when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy how's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints:
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind,"
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country," when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!
 

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Dorothy Parker


"Resume"

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
 

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Henry James

We work in the dark
We do what we can
We give what we have
Our doubt is our passion
And our passion is our task
The rest is the madness of art...............
 

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The Two Trees by William Butler Yeats

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.

There the Loves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways,
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the winged sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care;

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.

Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,

Or only gaze a little while;

For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For all things turn to barenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness
Made when God slept in times of old.

There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings: alas!

Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass

- - -

Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
Remembering all that shaken hair,
And how the winged sandals dart.

Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
 

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http://www.blueshado.com/osamapoem.shtml

Here is to osama Bin Laden.....

That towel head scum.
May the US blast his ass to kingdom come.

He is a bagless wonder that lives in a cave,
My the Marines piss Budweiser on that cock suckers grave.

Osama being a chicken shit *****,
Lives off of camel turrds with a topping of maggots.

osama thinks we don't have the guts
To comes over and blow off his Islamic nuts.

But now America is done with his crap
So lets just nuke those fuckers off the map

So here's to osama that son of a bitch
may his pecker fall off with a seven year itch

May they beat on his balls with a big brass hammer,
Till his asshole whistles the Star Spangled Banner.
 

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The Cremation of Sam McGee

by Robert W. Service





There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ?round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he?d often say in his homely way that ?he?d sooner live in hell.?

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka?s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we?d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn?t see;
It wasn?t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o?erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and ?Cap,? says he, ?I?ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I?m asking that you won?t refuse my last request.?

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn?t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
?It?s the cursed cold, and it?s got right hold till I?m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ?taint being dead--it?s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you?ll cremate my last remains.?

A pal?s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn?t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn?t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: ?You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it?s up to you to cremate those last remains.?

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows?O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I?d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the ?Alice May.?
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then ?Here,? said I, with a sudden cry, ?is my cre-ma-tor-eum.?

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared?such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn?t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don?t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: ?I?ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he?s cooked, and it?s time I looked;? . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: ?Please close that door.
It?s fine in here, but I greatly fear you?ll let in the cold and storm?
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it?s the first time I?ve been warm.?




There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.


[size=-1] [/size]
 

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[font=Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, Arial Narrow] Fog by Carl Sandburg[/font]
[font=Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, Arial Narrow]
[/font]​
[font=Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, Arial Narrow]The fog comes [/font]​
[font=Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, Arial Narrow]on little cat feet. [/font]​
[font=Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, Arial Narrow]
[/font]​
[font=Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, Arial Narrow]It sits looking [/font]​
[font=Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, Arial Narrow]over harbor and city [/font]​
[font=Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, Arial Narrow]on silent haunches [/font]​
[font=Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, Arial Narrow]and then moves on. [/font]​
 

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Mystic Knight of the Sea
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"How much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?"

Ahhhh, I couldn't think of a poem, and I had to add something.
 

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Omnipresence

I can only remember
that I know where I am
when I now know where I am not

by Henry Gibson
 
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