The Rainbow – W Wordsworth

My heart leaps up when I behold
A Rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the man;
And I wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

Enter This Deserted House – Shel Silverstein

But please walk softly as you do.
Frogs dwell here and crickets too.

Ain’t no ceiling, only blue.
Jays dwell here and sunbeams too.

Floors are flowers – take a few
Ferns grow here and daisies too.

Swoosh, whoosh – too-whit, too-woo
Bats dwell here and hoot owls too.

Ha-ha-ha, hee-hee, hoo-hoooo,
Gnomes dwell here and goblins too.

And my child, I thought you knew
I dwell here… and so do you

A Slumber did my Spirit Seal – W Wordsworth

A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

When We Two Parted – Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow–
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shrudder comes o’er me–
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee so well–
Long, long I shall rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?–
With silence and tears.

Crossing Legs – Karen Alkalay

So much of poetry depends
on keeping legs crossed
at the right moment
but whether at my knee
or your neck
that is the question.

Don’t waste time
wondering when our paths
or legs will cross.
They won’t or if they do
it won’t be because
of a promise in a poem.

Kill your Balm—and its Odors bless you – E Dickinson

Kill your Balm—and its Odors bless you—
Bare your Jessamine—to the storm—
And she will fling her maddest perfume—
Haply—your Summer night to Charm—

Stab the Bird—that built in your bosom—
Oh, could you catch her last Refrain—
Bubble! “forgive”—”Some better”—Bubble!
“Carol for Him—when I am gone”!

Gingerly – James Whitley

Should there remain a day
beyond this attenuated night —
which, to me, seems like

some dark final statement —
I think I would like to see it, and
to begin, again, collecting

memories of the large bright door
swinging open suddenly,
of budding asters —

all gala and promise —
gathered
for spontaneous presentation.

Despite the several
meanderings this faulty compass
may have me endure,

I believe
I would like to walk the worn
path again, next time,

perhaps, taking more
chary steps under the moon’s
watchful pale blue eye.

So now, to this end, I pray
nightly to the beneficent god of
healing-completely-after-perfidy,

laying all my meager hopes
the sweet angel of
letting-go-and-moving-on-already.

My Stolen Car – Tom Hunley

My neighbor steals my car
part by part, first
the starter, then
the carburetor, the spark plugs.
My car sputters out

of my neighbor’s driveway.
The cigarette I’m smoking
on my front porch
dwindles, puff by puff.
I’m killing myself

a drag at a time,
and I think of how I never
really knew my neighbor
as I watch a speeding car
hit him head on
right there on our cul-de-sac.

I think of how
everything gets taken,
little by little,
away from us.

That was my car.
That was my neighbor.
So I’m giving my porch,
one board at a time,
to his widow.

I’ll keep giving until my house
is just an addition onto hers.
Then I’ll put on my best suit,
buy some roses,
and ring her doorbell,
which used to be mine.

Meeting Poets – Eunice de Souza.

Meeting poets I am
disconcerted sometimes
by the colour of their socks
the suspicion of a wig
the wasp in the voice
and an air, sometimes,
of dankness.

Best to meet in poems:
cool speckled shells
in which one hears
a sad but distant sea.

It’s Dark in Here – Shel Silverstein

I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it’s rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion’s cage
I’m afraid I got too near.
And I’m writing these lines
From inside a lion,
And it’s rather dark in here.