Thankyou Herman for helping me locate this


The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

-- Rupert Brooke

Gives me goose bumps

I dont care if youre all going to post proper deep poems, I like this one ok?!

Halfway down the stairs
Is a stair where I sit:
There isn't any other stair quite like it.
I'm not at the bottom,
I'm not at the top:
So this is the stair where I always stop.

Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up, and isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery, it isn't in the town:
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head:
"It isn't really anywhere! It's somewhere else instead!"

Weerwoord


het mes is bij het laatste licht geslepen
naast de kerk gaat hij naar de vergeten deur
hij heeft zijn harp gespannen, zijn droom begrepen
van het meisje met weke hals en verre geur

hij zal haar niet wurgen, al spannen zijn kleren
als ze verstrooid wat noten kraakt op haar kruk
en ze met bleke blik het spreken verleren
te veel drinken op het vreemde geluk

wacht dacht zijn auto in de stille straat
de gebroken snaar wordt morgen beloofd
als het meisje van nu naar de kippen gaat
met de laatste kruimels uit zijn hoofd

hij had al eens gehoord
van Jezus enzovoort



For those who know Dutch

All You who Sleep Tonight
by Vikram Seth

All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right
And emptiness above -

Know that you aren't alone
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.

The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy



He proposed in the dunes,
they were wed by the sea,
Their nine-day-long honeymoon
was on the isle of Capri.

For their supper they had one specatular dish-
a simmering stew of mollusks and fish.
And while he savored the broth,
her bride's heart made a wish.

That wish came true-she gave birth to a baby.
But was this little one human
Well, maybe.

Ten fingers, ten toes,
he had plumbing and sight.
He could hear, he could feel,
but normal?
Not quite.
This unnatural birth, this canker, this blight,
was the start and the end and the sum of their plight.

She railed at the doctor:
"He cannot be mine.
He smells of the ocean, of seaweed and brine."

"You should count yourself lucky, for only last week,
I treated a girl with three ears and a beak.
That your son is half oyster
you cannot blame me.
... have you ever considered, by chance,
a small home by the sea?"

Not knowing what to name him,
they just called him Sam,
or sometimes,
"that thing that looks like a clam"

Everyone wondered, but no one could tell,
When would young Oyster Boy come out of his shell?

When the Thompson quadruplets espied him one day,
they called him a bivalve and ran quickly away.

One spring afternoon,
Sam was left in the rain.
At the southwestern corner of Seaview and Main,
he watched the rain water as it swirled
down the drain.

His mom on the freeway
in the breakdown lane
was pouding the dashboard-
she couldn't contain
the ever-rising grief,
frustration,
and pain.

"Really, sweetheart," she said
"I don't mean to make fun,
but something smells fishy
and I think it's our son.
I don't like to say this, but it must be said,
you're blaming our son for your problems in bed."

He tried salves, he tried ointments
that turned everything red.
He tried potions and lotions
and tincture of lead.
He ached and he itched and he twitched and he bled.

The doctor diagnosed,
"I can't quite be sure,
but the cause of the problem may also be the cure.
They say oysters improve your sexual powers.
Perhaps eating your son
would help you do it for hours!"

He came on tiptoe,
he came on the sly,
sweat on his forehead,
and on his lips-a lie.
"Son, are you happy? I don't mean to pry,
but do you dream of Heaven?
Have you ever wanted to die?

Sam blinked his eye twice.
but made no reply.
Dad fingered his knife and loosened his tie.

As he picked up his son,
Sam dripped on his coat.
With the shell to his lips,
Sam slipped down his throat.

They burried him quickly in the sand by the sea
-sighed a prayer, wept a tear-
and they were back home by three.

A cross of greay driftwood marked Oyster Boy's grave.
Words writ in the sand
promised Jesus would save.
But his memory was lost with one high-tide wave.

Yeats - When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

I asked an orger to write a poem for me ages ago ,but he didn't

Night Train

it's getting late as i
travel thru dark tunnels and
lights flicker in
the car while
homeless drunks mumble and doze
i sigh...
and think back 2 2nite
the way our bodies entwined
my skin melted in2
yours - choclate sweet
i shiver @
the thought of how u
kissed - touched - teased me
put me @ ease 4 the rest
of the night (shhh...peace)
i know this route
all 2 well
but u...
took me 2 a place
no train, plane, automobile
could ever go
u were my one-way ticket
2ecstasy - so 2 speak
our journey finished now
4 good, so sad
as i jump 2 my feet
she a tear as wheels screech
and step off
The Night Train...



wrote that when i was about 15 or so.

Nikki23 said:

Would a dirty limerick do?

mdiver said:

Yes !!

Nikki23 said:

I know of a horny boy Matt
Who played with a vampire bat
With his dick in his hand
His voice did command
"Try sucking the blood out of that!"

mdiver said:

!!!!!

mdiver said:

i still want him to write my poem though !

Nikki23 said:

Said a woman with open delight,
My pubic hair's perfectly white.
I admit there's a glare,
But the fellows don't care
They locate it more quickly at night.

mdiver said:

Where are you getting these from?!

Once a young woman named Alice
Used a dynamite stick for a phallus.
They found her vagina
In North Carolina,
And part of her anus in Dallas.

mdiver said:

MarieLouise said:

Very nice, MarieLouise.It 'feels' right, you know: it's not just 'rijmen en dichten zonder uw gat op te lichten' if you know what I mean (don't take it the wrong way). It's intriguing, even though I don't get everything after a first reading.
Very good

OMG BRB I GOT SOME

isadora said:

Thanks! This must be one of the poems I'm most proud of. I've won a prize with it, and it feels like I deserved that.

It's the only sonnet I ever managed to write. And this is the guy who inspired it...
www.heldersite.com

We've only been together for two weeks, because it was too hard for both of us. But it's still someone who makes me shiver when he comes too close. I would never give my boyfriend up for him, it's not at all like that, but... we've been very faithful muses to each other in the past. This poem is almost three years old I guess.

Acid lullaby
Elaine Degro

And tonight I will hear the acid lullaby that will rock me to sleep.
Acid lullaby in silent lucidity.
A drop of your acid lullaby has fallen on my heart and burnt through.
Leaving me unattached to you.

Fingertips that touch my bleeding heart and stare into your eyes.
And your acid lullaby sings me goodnight.
Sleepless in a pit of anger and a string of fits.
Wondering just why I feel like this.

Laying in my own skin lost and scared.
And you acid lullaby whispers its dares.
Shaking hands, shaking fingers, desperate pleas.
But you continue to sing your acid lullaby to me.

And your lullaby takes my breath away and makes it your own.
Into your pounding heart's home.
So as I lay here motionless in my sleep
I will always know you sang your acid lullaby to me.


The sky is red
By: Elaine Degro

The sky is red and rain keeps falling down.
Droplets of blood splattering upon the ground.
Greatness broken and now its story out and told
And the sky is now red, scary, and old.

Fearless once it was and power it knew
Now the sky runs red and plays un-cued.
The stars no longer flicker but remain dull and with out a shine.
The fire of its own clarity is now burning out in short time.

"The sky is red" calls out the children that once knew...
that the sky was always clear and bountiful blue.
Now it pours the blood drops that it calls rain.
Day and night, Night and day, it is always the same.

Fragility has poured itself upon this red sky
It is now easily broken and down to its demise.
A cure can not be cast on the red sky here
For it seems merely impossible to bring color through its red tears.

The sky is red and the moon is high.
Fearful enough it can never say goodbye.
The dull capacity of its stars will soon shimmer again.
And the sky will one day be blue again.

Rain your red tears red sky of time.
Doubtful days will go on with out a lie.
Rain your red tears red sky of pain.
Broken Eagerness shall soon feel the same.

Absolution


The anguish of the earth absolves our eyes
Till beauty shines in all that we can see.
War is our scourge; yet war has made us wise,
And, fighting for our freedom, we are free.

Horror of wounds and anger at the foe,
And loss of things desired; all these must pass.
We are the happy legion, for we know
Time’s but a golden wind that shakes the grass.

There was an hour when we were loth to part
From life we longed to share no less than others.
Now, having claimed this heritage of heart,
What need we more, my comrades and my brothers?

'If' by rudyard Kipling


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


--Rudyard Kipling


Best read by Des Lynam

I Am A Military Wife

Author Unknown

I am a military wife - a member of that sisterhood of women who have had the courage to watch their men go into battle, and the strength to survive until their return. Our sorority knows no rank, for we earn our membership with a marriage license, travelling over miles, or over nations to begin a new life with our military husbands. Within days, we turn a barren, echoing building into a home, and though our quarters are inevitably white-walled and unpapered, we decorate with the treasures of our travels, for we shop the markets of the globe.

Using hammer and nail, we tack our pictures to the wall, and our roots to the floor as firmly as if we had lived there for a lifetime. We hold a family together by the bootstraps, and raise the best of 'brats', instilling in them the motto: "Home is togetherness", whether motel, or guest house, apartment or duplex. As military wives we soon realize that the only good in "Good-bye" is the "Hello again". For as salesmen for freedom, our husbands are often on the road, at sea, or in the sky, leaving us behind for a week, a month, an assignment.

During separations we guard the home front, existing until the homecoming. Unlike our civilian counterparts, we measure time, not by years, but by tours - married at Petawawa, a baby born at Gagetown, a special anniversary at Uplands, a promotion in St Jean. We plant trees, and never see them grow tall, work on projects completed long after our departure, and enhance our community for the betterment of those who come after us.

We leave a part of ourselves at every stop. Through experience, we have learned to pack a suitcase, a car or hold baggage, and live indefinitely from the contents within: and though our fingers are sore from the patches we have sewn, and the silver we have shined, our hands are always ready to help those around us. Women of peace, we pray for a world in harmony, for the flag that leads our men into battle, will also blanket them in death.

Yet we are an optimistic group, thinking of the good, and forgetting the bad, cherishing yesterday, while anticipating tomorrow. Never rich by monetary standards, our hearts are overflowing with a wealth of experiences common only to those united by the special tradition of military life. We pass on this legacy to every military bride, welcoming her with outstretched arms, with love and friendship, from one sister to another, sharing in the bounty of our unique, fulfilling military way of life.

I like short right to the point poems, so here goes:


If this thing you and I share were real
my life wouldn't seem so incomplete
If life gave me everything I wanted
you would be here with me
If I could be true to only one person
no doubt it would be you
But, if life wasn't so complicated
I probably wouldn't even want you


By: DeeDee a.k.a MichaelsLight

2the9s said:

wow that's beautiful.

Written in my Poetry 2 module class on October 24th 2001.
For some reason i had sketched a picture of the inside of a woman's reproductive organ
I think i has started 2 fight with my mum for the first time when i'd written this

I post this at my own risk- i usually feel a lil too vulnerable to share my poetry

~untitled~

lost and abandoned
like a motherless
child.
Not knowing the
possible pain felt
by a childless
mother.
To grow
is to let go
But to let go
Is the equivelant
of physical pain
tearing
which occurs
in the womb
of the mother
Does child
weep tears
of agony
Or tears
of joy
Which come after hours
of pounding
On the protective
walls which
Nurtured it so much
the cord is cut.
But the bond
need not be broken.