Sons poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best Sons poems ever written. Read all poems about Sons.
We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart
For the joys of the multitude.
And I would not have the tears that sadness makes
To flow from my every part turn into laughter.
When these graven lines you see,
Traveller, do not pity me;
Though I be among the dead,
Let no mournful word be said.
You're in this dream of cotton plants.
You raise a hoe, swing, and the first weeds
Fall with a sigh. You take another step,
Chop, and the sigh comes again,
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, 'Speak to us of Children.'
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
A WOMAN waits for me--she contains all, nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the
right man were lacking.
I ask not that my bed of death
From bands of greedy heirs be free;
For these besiege the latest breath
Of fortune's favoured sons, not me.
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—
Ten to make and the match to win—
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
We Black men of England
Too proud to cry for shame,
Let's cry a sea
rebellious sons wanted to migrate,
across land and oceans with no fright,
leaving parents and loved ones distraught,
to create Nations and wonders of world.
Is Jesus God?
A logical and comprehensive method to unleash the truth
September 16,2002; Monday afternoon, April 15,2019
- for my sons Devin and Shawn
On the mother's mad smiles the raindrops
patter down. On their beloved
mad faces the lanterns tap
their yellow fingers.
Pure raindrops and lanterns. And the mothers
draw near, blowing on their cold fingers,
moving their bodies
through filial bones, tendons,
And the intrinsic mothers calmly sit down
inside filial heads.
They sit there in slow and urgent silence,
and burning the images, fuelling the images,
while love keeps getting stronger.
Showering them in the face. Tender love.
And the mothers are ever more beautiful.
Think the sons whom the mothers levitate.
Violent flowers strike their eyelids.
Above and below they breathe
theirs faces gleaming in the spray
around the lanterns. In the continuous
pourring down of sons.
Mothers are the loftiest things
created by sons, since they dwell
in their sons' deflagration, since
sons are like dandelion invaders
in their mothers' terrain.
And mothers are oil wells in the speech of their sons,
spurting through them
from out of the earth.
And the sons dive, in rubber suits, into the depths
of myriad waters
with the mothers wrapped like octopi around their hands
and around their tenderest nerves.
And the son sits with his mother at the head of the table.
Through him the mother fiddles
with the teacups and the forks,
and through her he thinks
no dead is possible, and the waters
through his hand touching the mad face
of his mother who can sense his touch
and through love, in love, until it's only possible
to love everything
and it's possible to rediscover everything through love.
Conceived in bravery, so was your land carved
Perfect in beauty it stretched from north to south
Pyramids lands that sheltered The Lord from Herod
The birthplace of civilization, a torch to the world
The Thousand Years of Peace
Revelation 20: 1-6 Then I saw an angel coming down from heaven with the key to the bottomless pit and a heavy chain in his hand.2 He seized the dragon—that old serpent, who is the devil, Satan—and bound him in chains for a thousand years.3 The angel threw him into the bottomless pit, which he then shut and locked so Satan could not deceive the nations anymore until the thousand years were finished. Afterward he must be released for a little while.4 Then I saw thrones, and the people sitting on them had been given the authority to judge. And I saw the souls of those who had been beheaded for their testimony about Jesus and for proclaiming the word of God. They had not worshiped the beast or his statue, nor accepted his mark on their foreheads or their hands. They all came to life again, and they reigned with Christ for a thousand years.5 This is the first resurrection. (The rest of the dead did not come back to life until the thousand years had ended.) 6 Blessed and holy are those who share in the first resurrection. For them the second death holds no power, but they will be priests of God and of Christ and will reign with him a thousand years.
Table of the Lord preaches the thousand of years of peace spoken of in the Book of Revelation chapter 20 as being real; it is not allegory, metaphor or symbolism for the church age experiencing a prosperous blessed time.
There is a family of eight.
A mother and father, five sons and one daughter.
One day among the children arose a debate,
“Daddy who among us is greater”?
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.