**** you poem hunter

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.

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Kee Thampi 06 March 2006

Mydear Joy, Lovable mission of life makes this poem Fighting through the sands Traversing the open lands Breathing harsh, drawing hot, fetid air Eyes scanning the lanscape for foes, trying to remain ever aware Ever vigilant, a constant presence Tho the danger level seems formality, keep watch with alll your senses Your specific surroundings will remain mystery Your duties I can only speculate, but I wish you to carry A special thing when you go. Me, my heart, my love and all that I know Perhaps my fears will be settted You are not near dangers' heart tho it still has me nettled But among the hellish, stinking rot, Inflamed by the sun, exposed skin raw from sand and grit, fear not Tho you may have little to occupy your time Aside from work or the bleached dunes you hope never to climb I stand with you, near you, inside you Gaurding what lies within, there's nothing else you have to do

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Ulrike Gerbig 02 February 2006

your poetry is angry, honest, sensual, moving, deep, dark, brave and beautiful. ulrike

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Joy Vanderhelm 29 January 2006

Well, since no one seems to want to leave a comment about me, I will. Joy, your poetry, sometimes amusing, sometimes sassy, sometimes dark, never ceases to amaze. There, that about sums it all up. Okay, I'm being silly again, oh well.

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A Boston Ballad, 1854

TO get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early;
Here's a good place at the corner--I must stand and see the show.

Clear the way there, Jonathan!
Way for the President's marshal! Way for the government cannon!
Way for the Federal foot and dragoons--and the apparitions copiously

I love to look on the stars and stripes--I hope the fifes will play
Yankee Doodle.

How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops!
Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town.

A fog follows--antiques of the same come limping,
Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless. 10

Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth!
The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to see!
Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear!
Cock'd hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist!
Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men's shoulders!

What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of
bare gums?
Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for
fire-locks, and level them?

If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the President's