dinneR ★ Posted April 4, 2020 Share #1 Posted April 4, 2020 Two poems about dogs by Billy Collins 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
maddmaxx ★ Posted April 4, 2020 Share #2 Posted April 4, 2020 1 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dinneR ★ Posted April 4, 2020 Author Share #3 Posted April 4, 2020 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dinneR ★ Posted April 7, 2020 Author Share #4 Posted April 7, 2020 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
MickinMD ★ Posted April 7, 2020 Share #5 Posted April 7, 2020 The first poem I had to memorize, in first grade at a Catholic school, was Trees by Joyce Kilmer. I've never forgotten it as I have with most poems except for a few of Robert Frost favorites. We first graders had to suppress a giggle when we got to "flowing breast" in the second verse: Trees By Joyce Kilmer I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Zealot Posted April 8, 2020 Share #6 Posted April 8, 2020 17 years ago I wrote this. With the impending invasion of Iraq, I was in a funk where internal struggles were only beginning to come to light. I was only beginning to share my heart with a counselor and the complexities of struggle, whether on the international scene or in a very personal light, were crashing in. There is a ‘triple’ entendre in these 17 couplets that embraces my life. “The Game” With fevered brow and thoughts of war Redeeming time, a settled score; Again she calls, panicked and strewn Her mind tormented, seeking too soon What I cannot give. Yet in her state Seeks resolution, but can’t abate The childhood games; one up on you, A repertoire played right on cue. The phone still rings, forlorn at night I close my eyes, ignore the plight. And yet my heart does yearn to see Her mind at rest, but can it be? When life deals cards, we each our hand, And calls to play a final stand It beckons, “call,” as time draws near and in its wake we loathe, we fear. Knowing full well we cannot see What we cannot hold or cannot be; That shade of loss, a fearful plight Someone of flesh of thought and sight Whose vision clears and thoughts dispel; A game surreal, we seek to quell. I touch the pad; a familiar tone It softly rings, “Noone at home.” So for this night I lay to rest Resolve and dread of my own quest. And with the morrow I pray to see A path more fair, a way to be That light she needs, serene and calm; And play the game, a reasoned psalm. But with weary heart and wounded soul And spoken truth my only goal I pen these words, a hope to be Much more than my soliloquy. -Me, March 17, 2003. 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Longjohn ★ Posted April 8, 2020 Share #7 Posted April 8, 2020 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
onbike1939 Posted April 8, 2020 Share #8 Posted April 8, 2020 I write poetry in order to properly understand what I'm feeling...as well as hoping that I can communicate these feelings to others. I find growing old difficult. The visit This time when she came I asked her to give me a hug... a thing I've never done before... but I needed to hold her again as I did so long ago..... when I would scoop her up.. and breathe her in and know that in this moment nothing in the world could mean more than this wriggling bundle. But now I am old and certainty is a stranger to me days pass without me knowing their name... I doubt....everything and so I asked... though this was hard for me knowing she would mark this well and see the why of it.... this need to hold her close..to be certain of this one thing. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Zealot Posted April 8, 2020 Share #9 Posted April 8, 2020 2 hours ago, onbike1939 said: I write poetry in order to properly understand what I'm feeling...as well as hoping that I can communicate these feelings to others. I find growing old difficult. The visit This time when she came I asked her to give me a hug... a thing I've never done before... but I needed to hold her again as I did so long ago..... when I would scoop her up.. and breathe her in and know that in this moment nothing in the world could mean more than this wriggling bundle. But now I am old and certainty is a stranger to me days pass without me knowing their name... I doubt....everything and so I asked... though this was hard for me knowing she would mark this well and see the why of it.... this need to hold her close..to be certain of this one thing. I felt all that you poured into this, @onbike1939. Maybe it is shared emotion, maybe my age, or maybe my empathic tendencies. Well done. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dinneR ★ Posted April 19, 2020 Author Share #10 Posted April 19, 2020 Introduction to Poetry BY BILLY COLLINS I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive. I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out, or walk inside the poem’s room and feel the walls for a light switch. I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author’s name on the shore. But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
MickinMD ★ Posted April 19, 2020 Share #11 Posted April 19, 2020 Spring has sprung. The grass is riz. I wonder where the peoples is? 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
onbike1939 Posted April 19, 2020 Share #12 Posted April 19, 2020 Snowdrops All over my garden promises are being made.. in half-hidden corners we hear the whispers.. it comes….Spring is coming….it comes... a day past and there was nothing to see…. yet here they are…. foolhardy messengers newly born from the still-cold earth dressed in green and pristine white they dare to speak of new life to come when all around them is dead... and desolate and we do not doubt these promises….but choose to believe... we believe for it has always been so…. and we forget that this is momentous...astonishing….. and so the miracle becomes common-place. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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