poems

If I were John LennonAnd my feelings for you grew,I'd have left The BeatlesTo spend all my time with you

You will not know all about the firesimply because you asked.When she speaks of the forestthis is what she is teaching you,you who thought you were her master.

You write poetry?" Klaus asked.He had read a lot about poets but had never met one."Just a little bit," Isadora said modestly. "I write poems down in this notebook. It's an interest of mine.""Sappho!" Sunny shrieked, which meant something like, "I'd be very pleased to hear a poem of yours!

Words mean nothingActions are everythingExpect nothingAppreciate everything

Asthmatic spewer of filth gasps, but clean air does not sufficeTo fuel fires fueled by thoughts got rottenLest we all be forgotten thingsThat sit like dust upon the mantel of her mind

Beyond the YearsI the years the answer lies,Beyond where brood the grieving skies And Night drops tears.Where Faith rod-chastened smiles to rise And doff its fears,And carping Sorrow pines and dies_ Beyond the years.IIBeyond the years the prayer for restShall beat no more within the breast; The darkness clears,And Morn perched on the mountain's crest Her form uprears__he day that is to come is best, Beyond the years.IIIBeyond the years the soul shall findThat endless peace for which it pined, For light appears,And to the eyes that still were blind With blood and tears,Their sight shall come all unconfined Beyond the years.

Before people complain of the obscurity of modern poetry, they should first examine their consciences and ask themselves with how many people and on how many occasions they have genuinely and profoundly shared some experience with another.

Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance.

The rat isthe mous-tacheinthetrache.the wrong-doerinthesoer.

2.07 WALK OF LIFELife but like a cycle that you be riding,You will fall if you ever stop peddling,Life not of good cards you be holding,But those held and how you be playing.[68] - 4

The Power of the Dogby Rudyard KiplingThere is sorrow enough in the natural way From men and women to fill our day; And when we are certain of sorrow in store, Why do we always arrange for more? Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear. Buy a pup and your money will buy Love unflinching that cannot lie-- Perfect passion and worship fed By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head. Nevertheless it is hardly fair To risk your heart for a dog to tear. When the fourteen years which Nature permits Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits, And the vet's unspoken prescription runs To lethal chambers or loaded guns, Then you will find--it's your own affair-- But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear. When the body that lived at your single will, With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!). When the spirit that answered your every mood Is gone--wherever it goes--for good, You will discover how much you care, And will give your heart to a dog to tear. We've sorrow enough in the natural way, When it comes to burying Christian clay. Our loves are not given, but only lent, At compound interest of cent per cent. Though it is not always the case, I believe, That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve: For, when debts are payable, right or wrong, A short-time loan is as bad as a long-- So why in--Heaven (before we are there) Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

BurialCathy Linh CheThere is the rain, the odor of fresh earth, and you, grandmother, in a box. I bury the distance, 22 years of not meeting you and your ruined hands.I bury your hair, parted to the side and pinned back, your áo d_i of crushed velvet, the implements you used to farm,the stroke which claimed your right side, the land you gave up when you remarried, your grief over my grandfather's passing,the war that evaporated your father's leg, the war that crushed your bowls, your childhood home razedby the rutted wheels of an American tank_ I bury it all.You learned that nothing stays in this life, not your daughter, not your uncle, not even the dignity of leaving this worldwith your pants on. The bed sores on your hips were clean and sunken in. What did I know, child who heard you speak only once,and when we met for the first time, tears watered the side of your face. I held your hand and said,b_ ngoai, b_ ngoaiTen years later, I returned. It rained on your gravesite. In the picture above your tomb,you looked just like my mother. We lit the joss sticks and planted them. We kept the encroaching grass at bay.

The burning off and the gathering together are one.

Horse[Man you will find herea new representation of the universeat its most poetic and most modernMan man man man man manGive yourself up to this art where the sublimedoes not exclude charmand brilliancy does not blur the nuanceit is now or never the momentto be sensitive to poetry for it dominatesall dreadfullyGuillaume Apollinaire]

I didn__ leave early that morning. I waited for him to wake up and kiss me good morning. He said he was going to take a shower and I should come join him. I thought now was as good of a time as any and placed the ring on his corner table with my note. It read:My Love, I don__ know how you will accept my decision. I do love you with all my heart but you are not my first love. I am always going to be infatuated with my love for the sea. Accept my proposal after I have completed my education, claim my heart for thy own & obtain thy love in which it possesses.With all My Love, Zara-emerald eyes of the sea

when the glory night envelop the moon that would light up the exhilaration of heart..the sun was reluctant to reveal smile to warm the earth..when the fire burn until the wood becomes charcoal yield and melted into disappointment..the earth will always embrace the rest of the wood by the fire burning in her arms..then it's me and you in equation narrative prose deep and glorious..

When one does not die for the other, then we are already dead_

In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on rowThat mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns belowWe are the DeadShort days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow/Loved, and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders FieldsTake up our quarrel with the foeTo you from failing hands we throw The torchbe yours to hold it highIf ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep/though poppies growIn Flanders Fields