Poems begining by M

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Messy Room

© Sheldon Allan Silverstein

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.

Michael The Archangel

© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

A Statuette.

I.
MY white archangel, with thy steadfast eyes

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.

Memories Of The Fifties

© Barry Tebb

Eggshell and Wedgwood Blue were just two

Murmur Not

© Friedrich Rückert

Murmur not and say thou art in fetters holden,
Murmur not that thou earth's heavy yoke must bear.
Say not that a prison is this world so golden--
'Tis thy murmurs only set its harsh walls there.

My Father

© Barry Tebb

I had a father once, the records say.

Morning Walk

© Barry Tebb

For Barbara

My Perfect Rose

© Barry Tebb

At ten she came to me, three years ago,

Mornings Like This

© Barry Tebb

Mornings like this I awaken and wonder

Metropolitan

© Arthur Rimbaud

From the indigo straits to Ossian's seas,

on pink and orange sands washed by the vinous sky,

Marginalia

© Barry Tebb

Here is a silence I had not hoped for

Monuments For A Friendly Girl At A Tenth Grade Party

© William Stafford

Now I learn you died
serving among the natives of Garden City,
Kansas, part of a Peace Corps
before governments thought of it.

Michaelangelo

© Vachel Lindsay

Would I might wake in you the whirl-wind soul
Of Michelangelo, who hewed the stone
And Night and Day revealed, whose arm alone
Could draw the face of God, the titan high

My Lady in Her White Silk Shawl

My lady in her white silk shawl
Is like a lily dim,
Within the twilight of the room
Enthroned and kind and prim.

Marmion: Introduction to Canto V.

When dark December glooms the day,

And takes our autumn joys away;

Milton--December 9, 1608: December 9, 1908

Homage to him
His debtor band, innumerable as waves
Running all golden from an eastern sun,
Joyfully render, in deep reverence
Subscribe, and as they speak their Milton's name,
Rays of his glory on their foreheads bear.

Mae Marsh, Motion Picture Actress

The arts are old, old as the stones
From which man carved the sphinx austere.
Deep are the days the old arts bring:
Ten thousand years of yesteryear.

Mark Twain and Joan of Arc

When Yankee soldiers reach the barricade
Then Joan of Arc gives each the accolade.For she is there in armor clad, today,
All the young poets of the wide world say.Which of our freemen did she greet the first,
Seeing him come against the fires accurst?Mark Twain, our Chief, with neither smile nor jest,