tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51285487051769662452024-03-07T21:51:28.718-08:00Poem LibraryPoem LibraryPoems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.comBlogger411125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-60406614109585727732011-08-16T01:36:00.001-07:002011-08-16T01:36:57.822-07:00I GO INSIDE THE TREE<div class="poem_title"><br />
</div><div class="poem_body"> Indoors for this ash<br />
is through the bark:<br />
notice its colour – asphalt<br />
or slate in the rain<br />
<br />
then go inside, tasting<br />
weather in the tree rings,<br />
scoffing years of drought and storm,<br />
moving as fast as a woodworm<br />
<br />
who finds a kick of speed<br />
for burrowing into the core,<br />
for mouthing pith and sap,<br />
until the o my god at the heart. </div><div class="poem_body"> </div><div class="poem_body">By: Jo Shapcott </div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-9734343967918321892011-08-16T01:19:00.000-07:002011-08-16T01:19:16.281-07:00My Mother's Perfume<div class="poem_title"><br />
</div><div class="poem_body"> Strange how her perfume used to arrive long before she did, <br />
a jade cloud that sent me hurrying <br />
first to the loo, then to an upstairs window to watch for her taxi. <br />
I’d prepare myself <br />
by trying to remember her face, without feeling afraid. As she drew <br />
nearer I’d get braver <br />
until her scent got so strong I could taste the coins in the bottom <br />
of her handbag.<br />
And here I am forty years on, still half-expecting her. Though now <br />
I just have to open <br />
the stopper of an expensive French bottle, daring only a whiff of <br />
Shalimar<br />
which Jacques Guerlain created from the vanilla orchid vine.<br />
Her ghostly face <br />
might shiver like Christ’s on Veronica's veil – a green-gold blossom <br />
that sends me back<br />
to the first day of the school holidays, the way I used to practise<br />
kissing her cheek<br />
by kissing the glass. My eyes scanned the long road for a speck<br />
while the air turned amber.<br />
Even now, the scent of vanilla stings like a cane. But I can also smell <br />
roses and jasmine <br />
in the bottle’s top notes, my legs wading through the fragrant path,<br />
to the gloved hand emerging<br />
from a black taxi at the gate of Grandmother’s garden. And for a <br />
moment I think I am safe. <br />
Then Maman turns to me with a smile like a dropped <br />
perfume bottle, her essence spilt. </div><div class="poem_body"> </div><div class="poem_body">By: Pascale Petit </div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-15102879606542488422011-08-16T01:17:00.001-07:002011-08-16T01:17:49.271-07:00Without Me<div class="poem_title"><br />
</div><div class="poem_body"> <pre>Once, in the hiatus of a difficult July,
down Eskra’s lorryless roads from sweet fuck all,
we were flinging – such young sophisticates – like a giant frisbee
this plastic lid of an old rat poison bin.
We were flinging it from you to me, me to you, you to me;
me-you, you-me, me-you, you back again.
And you would have sworn that its flat arc was a pendulum,
compassing Tyrone’s prosey horizon.
And I would have sworn that our throw and catch had such momentum
that its rhythm might survive, somehow, without me.</pre><pre> </pre><pre>By: Leontia Flynn </pre></div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-44544840934536424702011-08-16T01:15:00.001-07:002011-08-16T01:15:44.560-07:00DARK LOOKS<div class="poem_title"><br />
</div><div class="poem_body"> Who anyone is or I am is nothing to the work. The writer<br />
properly should be the last person that the reader or the listener need think about<br />
yet the poet with her signature stands up trembling, grateful, mortally embarrassed<br />
and especially embarrassing to herself, patting her hair and twittering If, if only<br />
I need not have a physical appearance! To be sheer air, and mousseline!<br />
and as she frets the minute wars scorch on through paranoias of the unreviewed<br />
herded against a cold that drives us in together – then pat me more, Coventry<br />
to fall from Anglo-Catholic clouds of drifting <i>we</i>’s high tones of feeling down<br />
to microscopic horror scans of tiny shiny surfaces rammed up against the nose<br />
cascading on Niagara, bobbed and jostled, racing rusted cans of Joseph Cotten reels<br />
charmed with his decent gleam: once we as incense-shrouded ectoplasm gets blown<br />
fresh drenched and scattered units pull on gloss coats to preen in their own polymer:<br />
still it’s not right to flare and quiver at some fictive ‘worldly boredom of the young’<br />
through middle-aged hormonal pride of <i>Madame, one must bleed; it’s necessary . . . </i><br />
Mop mop georgette. The only point of holding up my blood is if you’d think So what?<br />
We’ve all got some of that: since then you’d each feel better; less apart. – Hardly:<br />
it’s more for me to know that I have got some, like a textbook sexual anxiety<br />
while the social-worker poet in me would like her revenge for having been born and left.<br />
What forces the lyric person to put itself on trial though it must stay rigorously uninteresting?<br />
Does it count on its dullness to seem human and strongly lovable; a veil for the monomania<br />
which likes to feel itself helpless and touching at times? Or else it backs off to get sassy<br />
since arch isn’t far from desperate: So take me or leave me. No, wait, I didn’t mean leave<br />
me, wait, just <i>don’t</i> – or don’t flick and skim to the foot of a page and then get up to go – </div><div class="poem_body"> </div><div class="poem_body">By: Denise Riley </div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-53200125624572443292011-08-16T01:12:00.001-07:002011-08-16T01:12:10.856-07:00RAINIt started unremarkably,<br />
like many regimes. We sat like children<br />
making quiet things indoors. The rivers <br />
<br />
burst their staves and soaked the folds mid-<br />
country; they were schlepping people out in pedalos,<br />
and punting through cathedrals saving cats. One lad<br />
<br />
clearing out his granddad’s drain was still caught<br />
when the waters lapped the record set in <em>1692</em>.<br />
Imagine. News-teams donned their somberer cagoules.<br />
<br />
The house had more floors than we knew. In twenty years<br />
we’d never spent so much time in one room. I’d no idea <br />
you had a morbid fear of orange pips, or found French novelists <br />
<br />
oppressive. On the seventh day, completely hoarse, <br />
we took to drawing on the walls and staging tableaux. <br />
In delirium all actions feel like role-play –<br />
<br />
protein-strands against the ooze, the animals we made –<br />
and rain, a steady broadcast on all wavelengths, <br />
taught us everything we know about the tango. Only<br />
<br />
when we grew too thin for metaphors was rain just rain. <br />
We thought about the drowned boy, how he watched <br />
the lid of water seal him in, for all his bright modernity. <br />
<br />
Was it a Monday morning when the garden was returned, <br />
tender with slugs, astonished at itself? Our joined hands <br />
were the last toads in the ark. We walked, we needed news.<br />
<br />
<br />
By: Tiffany Atkinson Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-77576923172079384152011-08-05T06:33:00.001-07:002011-08-05T06:33:34.715-07:00TIME AND MATERIALS<div class="poem_title"><br />
</div><div class="poem_motto"> Gerhard Richter: Abstrakte Bilder <br />
<span class="poem_motto_author"></span> </div><div class="poem_body"> 1 <br />
To make layers, <br />
As if they were a steadiness of days: <br />
<br />
It snowed; I did errands at a desk; <br />
A white flurry out the window thickening; my tongue <br />
Tasted of the glue on envelopes. <br />
<br />
On this day sunlight on red brick, bare trees, <br />
Nothing stirring in the icy air. <br />
<br />
On this day a blur of color moving at the gym <br />
Where the heat from bodies <br />
Meets the watery, cold surface of the glass. <br />
<br />
Made love, made curry, talked on the phone <br />
To friends, the one whose brother died <br />
Was crying and thinking alternately, <br />
Like someone falling down and getting up <br />
And running and falling and getting up. <br />
<br />
2 <br />
The object of this poem is not to annihila <br />
<br />
To not annih <br />
<br />
The object of this poem is to report a theft, <br />
In progress, of everything <br />
That is not these words <br />
And their disposition on the page. <br />
<br />
The object o f this poem is to report a theft, <br />
In progre ss of everything that exists <br />
That is not th ese words <br />
And their d isposition on the page. <br />
<br />
The object of his poe is t repor a theft <br />
In rogres f ever hing at xists <br />
Th is no ese w rds <br />
And their disp sit on o the pag <br />
<br />
3<br />
To score, to scar, to smear, to streak, <br />
To smudge, to blur, to gouge, to scrape. <br />
<br />
“Action painting,” i.e., <br />
The painter gets to behave like time. <br />
<br />
4<br />
The typo would be “paining.” <br />
<br />
(To abrade.) <br />
<br />
5<br />
Or to render time and stand outside <br />
The horizontal rush of it, for a moment <br />
To have the sensation of standing outside <br />
The greenish rush of it. <br />
<br />
6 <br />
Some vertical gesture then, the way that anger <br />
Or desire can rip a life apart, <br />
<br />
Some wound of color. </div><div class="poem_body"> </div><div class="poem_body"> </div><div class="poem_body">By: Robert Hass</div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-29675061882306192622011-08-05T06:30:00.002-07:002011-08-05T06:30:47.741-07:00Sales<div class="poem_body"> Miguel might, if he speaks English, call the colors<br />
of ukuleles stretching their necks from yards<br />
of canvas duffel yoked across his shoulders,<br />
auroral azul, cherry pop, or mojito green,<br />
under this Pac Heights sky where the awful rich<br />
snap their heels past shop windows, past goatskin bags<br />
and spiked heels that bring them closer to heaven,<br />
fibristic sheets of celadon paper from Zhejiang,<br />
FIAT cremini, and Cinco de Mayo gelato.<br />
Smiling past them, he passes with his happy load,<br />
a display model whole and nude in his hand,<br />
on sale to no one, uplifted like a Stratocaster<br />
sacramental from mahogany forests in Paraguay. </div><br />
By: W.S. Di PieroPoems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-1466101809646996122011-08-05T06:30:00.000-07:002011-08-05T06:30:17.539-07:00What To Do<div class="poem_title"><br />
</div><div class="poem_body"> Places we leave<br />
slick our bodies<br />
with silky air<br />
or foam we feel<br />
faithful and tickly<br />
(even somehow taste)<br />
but can't clearly see.<br />
We wear its weight<br />
like atmosphere—<br />
runs, blots<br />
of what we’ve done<br />
in and with<br />
each place<br />
—what to do<br />
with it now?—<br />
and what it does<br />
to us still. </div><div class="poem_body"> </div><div class="poem_body">By: W.S. Di Piero </div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-27951679692911798572011-08-05T06:29:00.001-07:002011-08-05T06:29:36.228-07:00Two Girls<div class="poem_title"><br />
</div><div class="poem_body"> Eighteen-sixty eighteen sixty-four,<br />
six hundred ten thousand men<br />
gaseous gray, blackened body parts<br />
like chopped wood in Virginia sunshine.<br />
Or nineteen-fourteen nineteen-eighteen,<br />
trench rats, thousands, big as badgers,<br />
rip chines from horse and human flesh.<br />
IED’s, cluster bombs, punji sticks,<br />
primed to shred feet, thighs, spine, sack,<br />
yesterday, when we were countless.<br />
Conscience says Count them up and be good,<br />
suck on me like red candy stick<br />
in casual lookaway moments.<br />
Protected by neighbors, two girls<br />
villagers know to be deficient<br />
doll themselves up as bombs<br />
for market day’s chickens and yams,<br />
and like a world-body neural surge,<br />
their protectors fly into fatty parts. </div><div class="poem_body"> </div><div class="poem_body">By: W.S. Di Piero </div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-28259419619396598882011-08-05T06:28:00.001-07:002011-08-05T06:28:33.269-07:00I HATE<div class="poem_title"><br />
</div><div class="poem_body"> I hate how this unsummoned sigh-sound, sob-sound,<br />
not sound really, feeling, sigh-feeling, sob-feeling,<br />
keeps rasping in me, not in its old guise as nostalgia, <br />
sweet crazed call of blackbird in spring;<br />
<br />
not as remembrance, grief for so many gone;<br />
nor either that other tangle of recall: regret <br />
for unredeemed wrongs, errors, omissions,<br />
petrified root too deeply hooked to ever excise;<br />
<br />
a mingling rather, a melding, inextricable mesh <br />
of delight in astonishing being, of being in being,<br />
with a fear of and fear for I can barely think what,<br />
not non-existence, of self, loved ones, love;<br />
<br />
not even war, fuck war, sighing for war,<br />
sobbing for war, for no war, peace, surcease;<br />
more than all that, some ground-sound, ground-note, <br />
sown in us now, that swells in us, all of us, <br />
<br />
echo of love we had, have, for world, our world,<br />
on which we seem finally mere swarm, mere deluge,<br />
mere matter self-altered to tumult, to noise,<br />
cacophonous blitz of destruction, despoilment,<br />
<br />
din from which every emotion henceforth emerges,<br />
and into which falters, slides, sinks, and subsides:<br />
sigh-sound of lament, of remorse; sob-sound of rue, <br />
of, still, always, ever sadder and sadder sad joy. </div><div class="poem_body"> </div><div class="poem_body">By: C.K. Williams </div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-56117413578381361632011-08-05T06:26:00.001-07:002011-08-05T06:26:25.596-07:00FEAR OF HAPPINESS<div class="poem_title"><br />
</div><div class="poem_body"> Looking back, it’s something I’ve always had:<br />
As a kid, it was a glass-floored elevator<br />
I crouched at the bottom of, my eyes squinched tight,<br />
Or staircase whose gaps I was afraid I’d slip through,<br />
Though someone always said I’d be all right—<br />
<em>Just don’t look down</em> or <em>See, it’s not so bad</em><br />
(The nothing rising underfoot). Then later<br />
The high-dive at the pool, the tree-house perch,<br />
Ferris wheels, balconies, cliffs, a penthouse view,<br />
The merest thought of airplanes. You can call<br />
It a fear of heights, a horror of the deep;<br />
But it isn’t the unfathomable fall<br />
That makes me giddy, makes my stomach lurch,<br />
It’s that the ledge itself invents the leap. </div><div class="poem_body"> </div><div class="poem_body">By: A.E. Stallings </div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-10499828558815759892011-08-05T06:25:00.000-07:002011-08-05T06:25:32.008-07:00FISHINGThe two of them stood in the middle water,<br />
The current slipping away, quick and cold,<br />
The sun slow at his zenith, sweating gold,<br />
Once, in some sullen summer of father and daughter.<br />
Maybe he regretted he had brought her—<br />
She'd rather have been elsewhere, her look told—<br />
Perhaps a year ago, but now too old.<br />
Still, she remembered lessons he had taught her:<br />
To cast towards shadows, where the sunlight fails<br />
And fishes shelter in the undergrowth.<br />
And when the unseen strikes, how all else pales<br />
Beside the bright-dark struggle, the rainbow wroth,<br />
Life and death weighed in the shining scales,<br />
The invisible line pulled taut that links them both.<br />
<br />
By: A.E. StallingsPoems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-31543984574435669422011-08-05T06:23:00.000-07:002011-08-05T06:23:01.302-07:00COLD CLEAR NORWEGIAN SEA<div class="poem_title"><br />
</div><div class="poem_body"> the water was clear so clear.<br />
the water was as clear as water that is clear.<br />
as clear as water that to be clear <em>appears</em>.<br />
just as if.<br />
just like water you’d like to hug, pile high,<br />
or mail off as a letter.<br />
as clear as the Pythagorean Theorem.<br />
the first Law of Thermodynamics.<br />
which you wish also applied to water.<br />
as very clear as it is blue, green, fluid, statically dynamic.<br />
as clear as the right side of the universe.<br />
so clear that you seem to be watching it (water) through a pane<br />
of clear to almost clear water.<br />
like as if.<br />
clear as a fish of clear water.<br />
clear as the effect of unreal terror on reality.<br />
clear the way it’s clear that fish are edible<br />
locomotion and ships<br />
inedible journeys.<br />
mostly.<br />
not as clear as H2O.<br />
clear, as if the water (it) doesn’t multiply<br />
with itself.<br />
so clear, it’s as if water weren’t transcendence<br />
but in fact substance.<br />
so clear that the comparative value <em>Jellyfish</em> appears unclear.<br />
and actually even<br />
much clearer than<br />
as if. </div><div class="poem_body"> </div><div class="poem_body">By: Ron Winkler </div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-84862061346071449472011-06-05T03:28:00.002-07:002011-06-05T03:28:49.575-07:00Touched by An Angel<h3 style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Touched by An Angel <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><i></i></span></h3><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">We, unaccustomed to courage</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">exiles from delight</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">live coiled in shells of loneliness</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">until love leaves its high holy temple</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">and comes into our sight</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">to liberate us into life.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Love arrives</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">and in its train come ecstasies</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">old memories of pleasure</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">ancient histories of pain.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Yet if we are bold,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">love strikes away the chains of fear</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">from our souls.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">We are weaned from our timidity</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">In the flush of love’s light</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">we dare be brave</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">And suddenly we see</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">that love costs all we are</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">and will ever be.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Yet it is only love</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">which sets us free.</div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-36108121106361014822011-06-05T03:28:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:28:00.715-07:00Romantic Poems about Life<h2 style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><em>Romantic Poems about Life</em></span></h2><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Singing, serenading,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Mesmerizing, and regaling.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">You draw me into you</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">With those mysterious eyes.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Enchanting, enthralling,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Entangling, and haunting.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">As you whisper a lullaby</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">With that honey-tongued voice.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Submitting, surrendering,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Succumbing, and subsuming.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">So, I fall love-sick, beholden</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">To my one heart’s desire.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Drowning, desiring,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Smoldering, and aspiring.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">And I die one million deaths</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Just from the wanting of you.</div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-23199598610343497622011-06-05T03:27:00.001-07:002011-06-05T03:27:41.868-07:00The journey of life<strong>The journey of life</strong> <br />
<div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Walkin along the street,weary and down.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Unhappy at heart,my face had a frown.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">The path was long,but i had to walk,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Lost in the world and no one to talk.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Suddenly there was a sound,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">That was familiar to my ears</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">With an urge to hear it,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">I had waited for years.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Seated on your bike,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">You passed by my side.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">My heart skipped a beat,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">And I silently cried.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">The time had stopped,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">My eyes were wet.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Flashing came the thoughts,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Which i wanted to forget.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Two long years without your sight,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">I had faced with all my might, </div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Oh God!!So long is this night,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">And a battle so difficult to fight.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">But never lose hopeis my belief,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Your thought is my greatest relief.</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">So true,a double edged knife,</div><div style="margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px;">Oh friend,that is the journey of life…….</div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-48665660714480934002011-06-05T03:26:00.002-07:002011-06-05T03:26:36.751-07:00You brighten all of my days<b>You brighten all of my days </b><br />
<br />
Teddy bears and seas of blue<br />
Smiling in honor of you<br />
An infant, not long ago<br />
Now, one candle is aglow<br />
You are growing up so fast<br />
How quickly a year has passed<br />
You are special, sweet, and wise<br />
A present before our eyes.<br />
<br />
For a year, I have watched you shine<br />
An angel I can call mine<br />
Sent from Heaven, just for me<br />
Filled with hope and dignity<br />
A blessing, now and always<br />
You brighten all of my days <br />
Precious child, I love you so<br />
More than anyone could know.<br />
<br />
Baby's breath and sun-filled skies<br />
Ladybugs and lullabies<br />
Starry nights and bright moonbeams<br />
Tender hearts and lasting dreams<br />
Each, a gift within your view<br />
During this time, made for you<br />
May only good things come your way<br />
On this, your very first birthdayPoems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-53050016808954596222011-06-05T03:26:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:26:04.805-07:00I never get to say<b>I never get to say </b><br />
<br />
Happy Birthday” means much more<br />
Than have a happy day.<br />
<br />
Within these words lie lots of things<br />
I never get to say.<br />
<br />
It means I love you first of all,<br />
Then thanks for all you do.<br />
<br />
It means you mean a lot to me,<br />
And that I’m proud of you.<br />
<br />
But most of all, I guess it means<br />
That I am thinking of you<br />
on this very special day,<br />
Happy Birthday.Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-80211408492112815982011-06-05T03:25:00.000-07:002011-06-05T03:25:05.324-07:00Do not feel down at your birthday<b>Do not feel down at your birthday </b><br />
<br />
It is your birthday, so do not feel down;<br />
Do not think bad stuff and frown;<br />
Your life should be filled with mirth;<br />
Just look what you have done since your birth.<br />
<br />
You started out really small,<br />
Now you are really filled out and tall.<br />
In the beginning you would just cry,<br />
Now you can laugh if you try.<br />
<br />
You have done quite well since your start,<br />
So as you grow older take heart;<br />
Keep up the good work and do not be a jerk;Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-81003132093306404042011-06-05T03:24:00.001-07:002011-06-05T03:24:20.166-07:00All these for our who is just year old <b>All these for our who is just year old </b><br />
<br />
One candle for ……..Baby,<br />
On her (his) birthday cake,<br />
One love pat – a soft one,<br />
One hug and one shake;<br />
Then one kiss with love<br />
That can never be told,<br />
All these for our ………Baby<br />
Who’s just ……. year old.Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-83681502373245771122011-06-05T03:23:00.001-07:002011-06-05T03:23:43.951-07:00May the world rise to greet you<table class="contentpaneopen"><tbody>
<tr><td class="contentheading" width="100%"><b>May the world rise to greet you </b></td> <td align="right" class="buttonheading" width="100%"> <a href="http://www.freejokespoetry.com/birthday-poems/178-may-the-world-rise-to-greet-you.pdf" rel="nofollow" title="PDF"><br />
</a> </td> <td align="right" class="buttonheading" width="100%"> <a href="http://www.freejokespoetry.com/birthday-poems/178-may-the-world-rise-to-greet-you.html?tmpl=component&print=1&layout=default&page=" rel="nofollow" title="Print"><br />
</a> </td> <td align="right" class="buttonheading" width="100%"> <br />
</td> </tr>
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<tr> <td colspan="2" valign="top" width="70%"><br />
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<tr> <td colspan="2" valign="top"> Happy Birthday, gentle friend<br />
have a blessed day<br />
May your heart be filled with wonders<br />
as you travel on life’s way<br />
<br />
I pray your day is filled with love<br />
and joy of every kind<br />
May the world rise to greet you<br />
I hope these things you find<br />
<br />
Joy, peace and happiness<br />
contentment in your heart<br />
May u find all these spirit fruits<br />
the ones that you impart</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-18773079518559424982011-06-03T08:00:00.001-07:002011-06-03T08:00:04.147-07:00Poem LibraryPoems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-23943428624433836962011-05-17T02:26:00.001-07:002011-05-17T02:26:32.051-07:00Bluebird<h3 id="poemTitle">Bluebird</h3><h4 id="poet">Charles Bukowski</h4><div id="poem"> there's a bluebird in my heart that<br />
wants to get out<br />
but I'm too tough for him,<br />
I say, stay in there, I'm not going<br />
to let anybody see<br />
you.<br />
there's a bluebird in my heart that<br />
wants to get out<br />
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale<br />
cigarette smoke<br />
and the whores and the bartenders<br />
and the grocery clerks<br />
never know that<br />
he's<br />
in there.<br />
<br />
there's a bluebird in my heart that<br />
wants to get out<br />
but I'm too tough for him,<br />
I say,<br />
stay down, do you want to mess<br />
me up?<br />
you want to screw up the<br />
works?<br />
you want to blow my book sales in<br />
Europe?<br />
there's a bluebird in my heart that<br />
wants to get out<br />
but I'm too clever, I only let him out<br />
at night sometimes<br />
when everybody's asleep.<br />
I say, I know that you're there,<br />
so don't be<br />
sad.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
then I put him back,<br />
but he's singing a little<br />
in there, I haven't quite let him<br />
die<br />
and we sleep together like<br />
that<br />
with our<br />
secret pact<br />
and it's nice enough to<br />
make a man<br />
weep, but I don't<br />
weep, do<br />
you?</div>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-33713022123833650042011-05-17T02:25:00.003-07:002011-05-17T02:25:48.647-07:00Alone With Everybody<h3 id="poemTitle">Alone With Everybody</h3><h4 id="poet">Charles Bukowski</h4><pre>the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills. </pre>Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5128548705176966245.post-22900630601084709872011-05-17T02:25:00.001-07:002011-05-17T02:25:20.894-07:00The Starry Night<h3 id="poemTitle">The Starry Night</h3><h4 id="poet">Anne Sexton</h4><em>That does not keep me from having a terrible need of -- shall I say the word -- religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars</em>.<br />
<br />
--Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother<br />
<br />
The town does not exist<br />
except where one black-haired tree slips<br />
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.<br />
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.<br />
Oh starry starry night! This is how<br />
I want to die.<br />
<br />
It moves. They are all alive.<br />
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons<br />
to push children, like a god, from its eye.<br />
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.<br />
Oh starry starry night! This is how<br />
I want to die:<br />
<br />
into that rushing beast of the night,<br />
sucked up by that great dragon, to split<br />
from my life with no flag,<br />
no belly,<br />
no cry.Poems Libraryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13775275056048248138noreply@blogger.com0