Poems begining by M
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My Frog Is a Frog
© Jack Prelutsky
My frog is a frog that is hopelessly hoarse,
my frog is a frog with a reason, of course,
my frog is a frog that cannot croak a note,
my frog is a frog with a frog in its throat.
Modern Love: I
© George Meredith
By this he knew she wept with waking eyes:
That, at his hand's light quiver by her head,
My Lifes Delight
© Thomas Campion
Come, O come, my lifes delight,
Let me not in languor pine!
Love loves no delay; thy sight,
The more enjoyed, the more divine:
O come, and take from me
The pain of being deprived of thee!
Mariana in the South
© Alfred Tennyson
With one black shadow at its feet,
The house thro' all the level shines,
[My prime of youth is but a frost of cares]
© Chidiock Tichborne
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain.
The day is gone and I yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
Men at My Father’s Funeral
© William Matthews
The ones his age who shook my hand
on their way out sent fear along
my arm like heroin. These weren’t
men mute about their feelings,
or what’s a body language for?
Miriam Tazewell
© Pindar
When Miriam Tazewell heard the tempest bursting
And his wrathy whips across the sky drawn crackling
She stuffed her ears for fright like a young thing
And with heart full of the flowers took to weeping.
My Papa’s Waltz
© Theodore Roethke
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
My Brother, the Artist, at Seven
© Philip Levine
As a boy he played alone in the fields
behind our block, six frame houses
Marrying the Hangman
© Margaret Atwood
She has been condemned to death by hanging. A man
may escape this death by becoming the hangman, a
woman by marrying the hangman. But at the present
time there is no hangman; thus there is no escape.
Mourning Poem for the Queen of Sunday
© Robert Hayden
Lord’s lost Him His mockingbird,
His fancy warbler;
Satan sweet-talked her,
four bullets hushed her.
Who would have thought
she’d end that way?
Modern Love: IX
© George Meredith
He felt the wild beast in him betweenwhiles
So masterfully rude, that he would grieve
Making Money: Drought Year in Minkler, California
© Gary Soto
“It’s a ’49,” Rhinehardt said, and slammed
The screen door, then worked his way around
