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  • Jonathan Fox (3/19/2013 1:14:00 PM) Post reply

    There was a poem I read in high school and for the last couple days I've been trying to find it on the net to no avail. I only remember some of it and I'd like to know the title, author. What I can remember is as follows:

    a belief in the actual and factual

    does not mean a lack of

    belief in the spiritual and ethereal

    but rather

    a hope

    that one day my feet will become rockets

    and my eyes never ending paths

    to things I could not ever find here on Earth

  • Ang Lifsey (3/18/2013 5:16:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    My mom (who passed away) made me memorize this poem in the third grade I would like to find the complete poem and who wrote it. I wish that she was here to tell me because it always stayed with me. Any help would be greatly appreciated.

    Think, it's a little thing to do jus to think.
    Anyone no matter who ought to think

    Take a little time each day
    spare it from your work or play...
    stop and think.

    you will find that men who fail do not think,
    men who find themselves in jail, do not think.

    half the problems that we see, problems made by you and me
    probably it would never be if we think.

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    • Laura Burns (3/19/2013 10:45:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      This anonymous poem is variously titled " Stop and Think" or Why Not Think?" It's a little thing to do, Just to think. Anyone, no matter who, Ought to think. Take a little tim ... more

  • Barbara Wetteland (3/18/2013 4:14:00 PM) Post reply

    My mom used to recite a poem to me and I can't find it. What I can remember is as follows:
    " On the edge of a dark and gloomy wood, a wee little house with a garden stood and a big old clock with a noisy chime kept ringing and chiming suppertime. Then gretel climed upon the shelf to see what lay upon the pantry shelf for tea."

    Any help will be appreciated. thanks! !

  • Kimberly Griffith (3/18/2013 1:22:00 AM) Post reply

    I am trying to find a poem about a person (I think they are dreaming) ...they enter a room and take a book down from a shelf to seems familiar but they can't remember reading it before...they find some sheet music at a piano and start to play, it seems familiar but again they can't remember hearing it before...the poem continues along and then they are told that was the book you might have written, that was the song you might have wrote etc...This may not be exact but it is the idea of the poem. I would really like to find the title and the author so that I might read some of their other writings.

  • Sandra Needham (3/16/2013 4:02:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    My 92 year old mother in law has been looking for an Irish poem about a miser who took gold from the end of the rainbow, but the fairies watched him and as money fell out of a hole in his sack they turned the golden coins into buttercups. The poem begins something like:

    just where the rainbow touches earth
    there stands a pot of gold,
    and long ago a man passed by
    and found it we are told...

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    • Laura Burns (3/17/2013 4:15:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

      THE BUTTERCUPS Just where the rainbow touches earth, There stands a pot of gold; And, long ago, a man passed by And found it, we are told. He took the little golden coins And put them in a ... more

  • Jeremy W (3/14/2013 10:05:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I'm trying to find a poem that my grandfather used to recite, I only remember one part, and vaguely at that, about catching a fairy and picking him up by the wings, or maybe plucking its wings off (weird I know) . Anyways, I know its not much to go off of. He did say it was something he had to memorize in school, so it would have been written before 1930 at the latest.

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    • Sandy Player (3/14/2013 6:31:00 PM) Post reply

      Was your grandad irish?Or is W B Yeats popular in America?The first big name I think of when faeries are mentioned is Yeats so you might want to look around there...

  • Sandy Player (3/13/2013 5:41:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I would like to remind people please that this is not the forum for posting your poems. There are plenty of other sections where you can do that so please use logic and leave this one for queries into identifying poems.

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    • Brigit Murray (3/16/2013 5:32:00 PM) Post reply

      Hi Sandra, It's probably not my place as I am a newby here, but perhaps you could try posting your poems in the correct forum (Critiques and Revision) . This one is for people who 'can't find a p ... more

  • Aneesha Roy (3/13/2013 1:20:00 AM) Post reply

    Only if it were a trifle

    She was begging by the roadside....
    .......begging for alms....for small change,
    If you had some to spare.
    A torn, ragged sari draped around her feeble,
    Emaciated body.
    She had worn those six yards for eternity,
    It was the only piece of clothing she owned,
    Faded and patched in several places.

    She resembled a crushed fruit, her swollen,
    Diseased feet playing a mirthless peek-a-boo
    With the clear arias of sunlight glinting
    Glorious allegro in the distance.
    Her sunken eyes, stony, black, bottomless
    Pools of nothing.
    They had long given up hope for a saviour or
    A loved one to establish the long-lost bonds
    Of kinship.

    Her puckered hands, tired from begging and
    Pleading...her sparse, white hair sticking
    To her scalp, making her look like
    A hideous, wanton porcupine.
    The pavement was her only abode,
    She slept there at night, with the
    Mice and fleas for company.
    They don't bother her anymore.
    This had been her reality
    For seventeen years.

    She rattled her bowl against the hard
    Gravel of the sidewalk.
    She sits patiently, while faces
    Behind numberless tinted windows
    Peer and glare.
    While some blankly stare,
    Some with bewilderment,
    Some with mild indifference,
    While others with utter disdain.

    She mumbled to herself sometimes
    When the cold December air
    Became too much to bear.
    She couldn't tell a daze from reality
    Anymore....she had been by herself
    For too long,
    Out on the dark, deserted streets.
    She was somewhat immune to the
    Frosty chill of the winter mornings,
    But couldn't help her teeth from
    Rattling in the cold.

    Her visage reminds one of...
    .....perhaps an empty wineskin....
    Or an extinguished candle.
    The seedy-looking cobbler, the sole
    Occupant of the pavement besides her,
    At this hour;
    Looks through her as though
    She were an unwanted

    The merry crowds from the rowdy
    Corner cafe look at her as
    Though she were dust beneath their
    Her wrinkled face resembled that
    Of an old, hungry pike,
    But unlike the fish, she could not
    Close in for a kill anytime she wanted.
    Her nocturnal companions were
    Somewhat lucky.
    The mice never went hungry like her.
    She bore an uncanny resemblance to...
    .......who?you might ask...
    She is no stranger.
    For she is the woman, you and I cast
    Out of our homes to fend for herself.
    She is every woman that has been
    Spurned by her loved ones, that has
    Been at the receiving end of a
    Barrage of expletives,
    She is every woman that is driven out
    To live off the scraps of society.
    She is every woman that has been
    Mistreated, tortured, wronged and betrayed.

    She is but you and me,
    A faint phantasmagoria beckoning
    Us to an unwanted future of privation
    And neglect and endless deprivation.
    For the many slots on that pavement
    Are ours for the taking.
    And in five and twenty years perhaps,
    The world too shall be looking at
    Living corpses on the sidewalk,
    At you and me.


  • Sarah Grindrod (3/10/2013 8:11:00 AM) Post reply

    I was taught a poem by my Grandfather as a very small child and now as an adult try as I might I can only remember the first line. " Good morning world the day has begun" . Ive searched on the internet with no luck, any ideas???

  • Rakesh Sai (3/9/2013 2:57:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Years ago I read a poem, I cant remember the first line,
    Its a poem about a person missing his friend who he died in the war, and he is trying to make his dog understand this.

    There one line in the poem " Now I know what a dog can't..............."

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