Life poems

/ page 140 of 844 /

Order by :

1
. . .
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
. . .
844

I was sitting with my microscope, upon my parlor rug,
With a very heavy quarto and a very lively bug;
The true bug had been organized with only two antennae,
But the humbug in the copperplate would have them twice as many.

In The Black Rock Tavern by Judith Slater: American Life in Poetry #36 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureat

© Ted Kooser

running a crane on an overhead track in the mill.
Eight hours a day moving ingots into rollers.
Sometimes without a break
because of the bother of getting down.
Never had an accident.
Never hurt anyone. He had that much control.

The Hwomestead A-Vell Into Hand

© William Barnes

The house where I wer born an' bred,

Did own his woaken door, John,

Pleasing Dad

© Edgar Albert Guest

When I was but a little lad, not more than two or three,
I noticed in a general way my dad was proud of me.
He liked the little ways I had, the simple things I said;
Sometimes he gave me words of praise, sometimes he stroked my head;
And when I'd done a thing worth while, the thought that made me glad
Was always that I'd done my best, and that would please my dad.

Palinodia

© Charles Kingsley

Ye mountains, on whose torrent-furrowed slopes,
And bare and silent brows uplift to heaven,
I envied oft the soul which fills your wastes
Of pure and stern sublime, and still expanse
Unbroken by the petty incidents
Of noisy life: Oh hear me once again!

The Garden Of Saint Rose

© Bliss William Carman

THIS is a holy refuge,
The garden of Saint Rose,
A fragrant altar to that peace
The world no longer knows.

Italy : 28. An Interview

© Samuel Rogers

Pleasure, that comes unlooked-for, is thrice-welcome;
And, if it stir the heart, if aught be there,
That may hereafter in a thoughtful hour
Wake but a sigh, 'tis treasured up among

The Education of a Poet by Leslie Monsour: American Life in Poetry #61 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureat

© Ted Kooser

Everywhere I travel I meet people who want to write poetry but worry that what they write won't be "any good." No one can judge the worth of a poem before it's been written, and setting high standards for yourself can keep you from writing. And if you don't write you'll miss out on the pleasure of making something from words, of seeing your thoughts on a page. Here Leslie Monsour offers a concise snapshot of a self-censoring poet.

The Banner Of The Covenanters

© Caroline Norton

I.
HERE, where the rain-drops may not fall, the sunshine doth not play,
Where the unfelt and distant breeze in whispers dies away;
Here, where the stranger paces slow along the silent halls,

A Dream Or No

© Thomas Hardy

Why go to Saint-Juliot? What's Juliot to me?
I've been but made fancy
By some necromancy
That much of my life claims the spot as its key.

Agnes

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

THE KNIGHT
The tale I tell is gospel true,
As all the bookmen know,
And pilgrims who have strayed to view
The wrecks still left to show.

Summer Downpour on Campus by Juliana Gray: American Life in Poetry #110 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laurea

© Ted Kooser

I've talked a lot in this column about poetry as celebration, about the way in which a poem can make an ordinary experience seem quite special. Here's the celebration of a moment on a campus somewhere, anywhere. The poet is Juliana Gray, who lives in New York. I especially like the little comic surprise with which it closes.
Summer Downpour on Campus

When clouds turn heavy, rich
and mottled as an oyster bed,