Post a Poem!

[Justine]

Okay, anybody want to post a poem? I'll go first with Sonnet # 18 by William Shakespeare.

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:

But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose posession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as med can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

[Talon Karrde]

Sure! I'm game!

Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.

[shadowwalker]

GHOST HOUSE

All day in the dreamy house
The doors would creak
And mouses would shriek

Faces glimmere'd thro doors
Footsteps walked the upper floors
Voices calling out loud
There was no one around

Curtains blow to and fro
Shadows sway upon the walls
All within is dark as night
In the windows no light

Spirits haunt and walk around
Making rattling sounds
Chillness every where
Is there anyone there


by bevan

(One of my Fav ghost poems from a poet at http://www.poets.com)

[Justine]

Shakespeare, Sonnet #130 (Can you tell I'm analyzing Shakesperean sonnetts in my Lit class? LOL)

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some prefumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reaks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground;
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

[Talon Karrde]

Let's Communicate
by Bruce B. Wilmer

Let's never underestimate
Our power to communicate.
If pressures lead to words unfair,
Let's talk it over, clear the air.
If dialogue can save the day,
Let's seek the words and find a way.
So silence cannot barriers build,
Let's keep our lives discussion-dilled.
So we don't burst with things unsaid,
Let's practice speaking out instead.
So we can both feel good inside,
Let's know we always can confide.
So tender thoughts don't slip the mind,
Let's always share a word that's kind.
So love is nourished day by day,
Let's speak our hearts in every way.

[SoBeLoVer]

As short as it is, this is still my favorite poem of all time...

Separation
W.S. Merwin

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

[Justine]

Epilogue

Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme--
why are they no help to me now
I want to make
something imagined, not recalled?
I hear the noise of my own voice:
The painter's vision is not a lens,
it trembles to caress the light.
But sometimes everything I write
with the threadbare art of my eye
seems a snapshot,
lurid, rapid, garish, grouped,
heightened from life,
yet paralyzed by fact.
All's misalliance.
Yet why not say what happened?
Pray for the grace of accuracy
Vermeer gave to the sun's illumination
stealing like the tide across a map
to his girl solid with yearning.
We are poor passing facts,
warned by that to give
each figure in the photograph
his living name.