Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
Writing a poem is not about bringing some words together to create some charming sentences. It's so much deeper than that. Writing poetry is a bridge that allows people to express their feelings and make others live every single word they read. Poetry is to educate people, to lead them away from hate to love, from violence to mercy and pity. Writing poetry is to help this community better understand life and live it more passionately. PoemHunter.com contains an enormous number of famous poems from all over the world, by both classical and modern poets. You can read as many as you want, and also submit your own poems to share your writings with all our poets, members, and visitors.
FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.
Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
The carcass of beauty spent and done:
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage,
Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.
Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
Laundering the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,
And often reading what contents it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,
In clamours of all size, both high and low.
Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride,
As they did battery to the spheres intend;
Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied
To the orbed earth; sometimes they do extend
Their view right on; anon their gazes lend
To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd,
In the thin classroom, where your face
was noble and your words were all things,
I find this boily creature in your place;
find you disarranged, squatting on the window sill,
irrefutably placed up there,
like a hunk of some big frog
watching us through the V
of your woolen legs.
I don't claim to know everything
Far from it, as my life has shown
But throughout my journey on this rock
Memories reveal how much I've grown
The early roads I traveled are spotted
With first loves and early sadness
Young love often is the spyglass
Giving a glimpse into madness
there is perceived and actual value in all things
inherent value and actual value are not always recognized
the test of time may establish prove enduring value
What if it be morning, or not!
I don't wait for any morning.
I know every morning is
the illusion of novelty, a mere mirage.
On the fringe of this vast expanse,
in this desolate valley, who am I waiting for?
Did someone promise to arrive?
As far as I remember, no.
I'm a little hare. Nameless and unknown.
In the green bushes on the slopes of this hill,
a shallow nest covered with vines is my home.
I have grown up in the rugged terrains,
I buried my head and died
I couldn't stand what I was doing to myself and other people
I was cruel and selfish and angry
I felt like I lost everything
When the rain pelts down
fallen angels go to ground.
No return for them.
They are barred by Heaven's gates.
In the deep
And dark night.....
The invisible devil tried
To snatch it
Επικολλημένο στα αστέρια τα μάτια μου θα μείνουν,
Κουδουνίζει από εκεί για να αγκαλιάσει τον Ήλιο,
Ποιανού ο φωτεινός κόσμος φωτίζει την Ημέρα,
Καθώς ο χρόνος τρέχει Παρελθόν πριν η ζωή άρχισε.
Win Over Fate to Achieve Our Goals in Life!
Between hell and heaven, day and night
Life of world goes on according to fate;
Which I was in... and rather than 'protective mode'. In that mode apparently you're supposed to let the punches keep coming, because it won't kill you, you'll survive. Beck to the Magpie. I suppose it's different though when you're in a position where you see the punches coming. I also understand Christianity plays a role in the 'love your enemy' which I feel I do, through grace and through my 'expressive mode' (I have tamed my honesty in) Is it healthy to just stand there and just take it though? What about healthy boundaries? Is it possible that there is also 'Toxic Love' for others, because I can't feel it 100% of the time and difficult to find it when the intentions are to hurt me (for learning or not) It's so confusing.. and leads to the guilt of it as well. I can only express what's genuine, what's me, what the spirit is inspired by. I'm grateful and happy to be engaged in this experience and also sad, because it seems the enjoyment of it is mostly for others.. but you know, I'll hopefully find joy regardless of their behaviour, for the rest of my life I'm assuming is the intention. I'll try to find the Joy in this. As for the current lesson, I gave it for free (as I understand the value in that) but also the spirit can serve through teaching and boundaries...and though I may not be seen as one of those, my intentions are always there too.
In the absence
You left behind
If you die before me
I would jump down into your grave
and hug you so innocently
that angels will become jealous.
Beautiful is the 'thank you'
Wrapped with gratitude,
Offered to peace prone people
Who offer what is real-themselves
Indoors by technology, outdoors by speedy transport
I travel the world
Today in Japan, tomorrow in Rome,
Next day by an ancient civilization or in Hawaii or Coast Ivory,
The low lands call
I am tempted to answer
They are offering me a free dwelling
Without having to conquer
The Peace Warrior Of Mzansi, among heroes - a colossus!
Sun Of The Nation; a rare gift of Providence.
Once, entangled in the web of racist succubus;
Unruffled he declares before High Justice:
(This is a composition in Pilipino Language the first one I did, the only one, and hope some of the Filipinos will get this funny poem in this site. The poem is updated with English translation)
Noong taong otsenta dekada
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest ce jour-là
Et tu marchais souriante
Épanouie ravie ruisselante
you put this pen
in my hand and you
take the pen from you put this pen
On this dry prepared path walk heavy feet.
This is not "dinner music." This is a power structure.
"Come, pretty birds, present your lays,
And learn to chaunt a goddess praise;
Ye wood-nymphs, let your voices be
Employ'd to serve her deity:
If you had the choice of two women to wed,
(Though of course the idea is quite absurd)
And the first from her heels to her dainty head
Was charming in every sense of the word:
A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.
Between us now and here -
Two thrown together
Who are not wont to wear
Life's flushest feather -