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Here is a special place for you to post your favorite poems and maybe describe why it's special to you.  Does it remind you of a certain time in your life?  Does it evoke special memories?  Does it make you "think"?  Does it inspire and encourage you to reach farther, try harder, laugh more, live better?  

 

Poetry has a unique way of touching our souls on different levels, finding those spaces inside us that are empty or yearning for something that we just can't put our finger on....striking a chord deep within us...drawing us in...then connecting us with one another in a shared experience of thoughts and emotions.

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High Flight

 

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .

 

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —

And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

 

— John Gillespie Magee, Jr

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~ It's not my place to run the train

  the whistle I can't blow,

  It's not my place to say how far

  the train's allowed to go.

 

  It's not my place to shoot off steam

  or even ring the bell,

  but let the damn thing jump the track

  and see who catches hell.

 

 

  (author unknown) I read this once on a guy's T-shirt.

  I never forgot it. (I was at Pineapple Willies... this restaurant right outside on the beach). I wrote down the poem on a napkin while I was waiting for my food.  :hugegrin:

 

 

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The urge to fly, to be, to live, and to explore.  It's welling up within me, like a tidal wave about to crash.  It's a monstrous feeling which explains so much.

 

These modern walls and ways of living are like bars to a prison of conformity.  You must be like us they say, you must be boring!

 

But alas, I speak out, for myself, from the heart!  NO!  It isn't my fault, these things I've been feeling!  It's the real me, trying to escape, trying to break free, tring to fly...  Trying to thrive...  Trying to survive...  Trying to live...

 

~Me 8.5.11  2:00 PM

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~ to live, to love, to laugh, to dance...

I wish to hell I could get in his pants.  :hugegrin:

 

I think I Might have written that one over a pitcher of wine coolers with all my gal pals one night  :notangel:

(It's short but to the point.) 

 

 

 

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At last Ive found the perfect girl I could not ask for more

 

Shes deaf and dumb and over sexed and owns a liquor store.  :naughty:

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I started writing lyrics years ago, I used to rap as well...anyways heres a little somethin that seems forum friendly.

 

"Nice Guys Finish Last" by PRICE.

 

Where do we go from here?

I scream out loud but no one hears

maybe they do they just dont listen

or maybe my words mean nothin

Ive tried to fight, but slowly given up

my lungs are sore from tryin so much

If I give up does that make me a quitter?

or will it heal the frustration n make things better

I used to be open and gullable

took each promise like it was a 1st place medal

trust to me is the most important

But thats just me, cuz its always bein broken

and again im left alone with no one around

only myself and a bottle to down

the alcohol helps reduce the pain

temporally blocks out the hurt in my brain

but a small fix just isnt enough

maybe someone, someday, can show me true "love"

I give my best and get nothing but hurt in the end

you lose out twice cuz she was also a friend

But before it all you talked about wanting someone different

someone who treated ya good and always listened

I gave you that, because thats who I was

I treated you with respect but it wasnt good enough

In the future we chat it up for a bit

you tell me how your new man treats you like shit

I make some excuses so I can see you smile

tell you its just a fight itll get better after awhile

so when you hear it said out loud and everyone laughs

just remeber its true...Nice guys DO finish last.

 

 

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"The Voice"

 

 

I hear your voice on the wind

And I hear you call out my name

 

"Listen, my child," you say to me

"I am the voice of your history

Be not afraid, come follow me

Answer my call, and I'll set you free"

 

I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain

I am the voice of your hunger and pain

I am the voice that always is calling you

I am the voice, I will remain

 

I am the voice in the fields when the summer's gone

The dance of the leaves when the autumn winds blow

Ne'er do I sleep thoughout all the cold winter long

I am the force that in springtime will grow

 

I am the voice of the past that will always be

Filled with my sorrow and blood in my fields

I am the voice of the future, bring me your peace

Bring me your peace, and my wounds, they will heal

 

I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain

I am the voice of your hunger and pain

I am the voice that always is calling you

I am the voice

 

I am the voice of the past that will always be

I am the voice of your hunger and pain

I am the voice of the future

I am the voice, I am the voice.

 

(Lyric from the Album "Celtic Women").

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I heard this one for the first time yesterday at the Gentleman's Outdoor Skills seminar I attended.

 

 

STALKING A BUCK

 

RESTING on leaves of feathery pine,

Stilling my lurcher’s eager whine,

Stealthy and watchful I recline.

 

Gray streaks are in the eastern sky:

The morning breeze floats gently by,

And all alert of hand or eye

 

I watch the mist rise o’er the stream.

Slowly athwart the copses gleam

Bright streaks of sunlight; and one beam

 

Dashes against the wrinkled crag

Where, mid the ferns and brake and rag-

Wort, feeds alone a gallant stag.

 

A hundred rods I needs must pass

Through brake, and thorn, and rank wet grass,

O’er fallen logs and deep morass.

 

A clump of briars is gained unseen.

Cautious, above the leafy screen

I raise my head: with royal mien

 

And antlered brow of regal pride,

His forefeet in the rippling tide,

There stands the stag, his glossy side

 

Turned fairly to me. True and fine

The sights range up in deadly line—

One sharp report—the stag is mine!

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Beneath a rustic roof of bark

Idly I course each rising spark,

Limned on the hemlocks grim and dark.

 

Red steaks are broiling, sweet and slow,

And in the camp-fire’s ruddy glow

A crystal streamlet sings below.

 

From "Forest Runes" by Nessmuk

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The Quitter

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,

And Death looks you bang in the eye,

And you're sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle

To cock your revolver and . . . die.

But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"

And self-dissolution is barred.

In hunger and woe, oh, it’s easy to blow . . .

It’s the hell-served-for-breakfast that’s hard. 

 

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now that’s a shame.

You're young and you're brave and you're bright.

"You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal,

Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.

It’s the plugging away that will win you the day,

So don't be a piker, old pard!

Just draw on your grit, it’s so easy to quit.

It’s the keeping-your chin-up that’s hard. 

 

It’s easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;

It’s easy to crawfish and crawl;

But to fight and to fight when hope’s out of sight —

Why that’s the best game of them all!

And though you come out of each gruelling bout,

All broken and battered and scarred,

Just have one more try — it’s dead easy to die,

It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard. 

 

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The Quitter

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,

And Death looks you bang in the eye,

And you're sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle

To cock your revolver and . . . die.

But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"

And self-dissolution is barred.

In hunger and woe, oh, it’s easy to blow . . .

It’s the hell-served-for-breakfast that’s hard. 

 

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now that’s a shame.

You're young and you're brave and you're bright.

"You've had a raw deal!" I know — but don't squeal,

Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.

It’s the plugging away that will win you the day,

So don't be a piker, old pard!

Just draw on your grit, it’s so easy to quit.

It’s the keeping-your chin-up that’s hard. 

 

It’s easy to cry that you're beaten — and die;

It’s easy to crawfish and crawl;

But to fight and to fight when hope’s out of sight —

Why that’s the best game of them all!

And though you come out of each gruelling bout,

All broken and battered and scarred,

Just have one more try — it’s dead easy to die,

It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard. 

 

I like it, Watcher. Yours?

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The Quitter

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,

And Death looks you bang in the eye,

And you're sore as a boil, its according to Hoyle

To cock your revolver and . . . die.

But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"

And self-dissolution is barred.

In hunger and woe, oh, its easy to blow . . .

Its the hell-served-for-breakfast thats hard. 

 

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now thats a shame.

You're young and you're brave and you're bright.

"You've had a raw deal!" I know but don't squeal,

Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.

Its the plugging away that will win you the day,

So don't be a piker, old pard!

Just draw on your grit, its so easy to quit.

Its the keeping-your chin-up thats hard. 

 

Its easy to cry that you're beaten and die;

Its easy to crawfish and crawl;

But to fight and to fight when hopes out of sight

Why thats the best game of them all!

And though you come out of each gruelling bout,

All broken and battered and scarred,

Just have one more try its dead easy to die,

Its the keeping-on-living thats hard. 

 

 

~ Now THAT is a Bad Ass poem right there. That's what survival is all about.  "It's easy to die...  it's the keeping-on-living that's hard."

 

Touche'.  :arigato:

 

that is absolutely bad-to-the-bone excellent.  :thumbup:

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My all time favorite poem is by William Ernest Henley.  This was the first poem I memorized (I was a 17 year old kid in Basic Training, and read this poem and it struck a cord)

 

Invictus

 

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

 

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

 

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

 

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Here is one I wrote for my wife many many years ago.  (No it's not grammatically well done, but it works LOL).  She is an amazing mother, I'd be completely lost without her.

 

A Mother In My Home

 

I watch her in the morn as she rises from her keep.

First thing on her mind I see is her resting children's sleep.

 

I watch her at the noontime hour after lunch is gone and done.

The laughter as she plays so hard with children born to run.

 

I watch her in the early eve as the children's books come down.

She teaches them so soft and sweet never once would you see a frown.

 

I watch her in the evening the gentle kisses to say goodnight.

She tucks the children off to bed no hint or clue of fright

 

I watch as she goes to bed herself marveling at the care she's shown.

I am ever so thankful to have a mother in my home.

 

 

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My all time favorite poem is by William Ernest Henley.  This was the first poem I memorized (I was a 17 year old kid in Basic Training, and read this poem and it struck a cord)

 

Invictus

 

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

 

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

 

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

 

 

One of my favorites too.  :yes:  I keep hoping it will inspire me NOT to have panic and anxiety attacks.  :rofl:

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Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

 

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

 

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

 

Robert Frost

 

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