Poems begining by P

/ page 57 of 110 /

Order by :

1
. . .
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
. . .
110

Poets At Seven Years

© Arthur Rimbaud

And the mother, closing the work-book
Went off, proud, satisfied, not seeing,
In the blue eyes, under the lumpy brow,
The soul of her child given over to loathing.

Phenomenal Woman

© Maya Angelou

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Phyllis

© Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz

(Español)
Lo atrevido de un pincel,
Filis, dio a mi pluma alientos:
que tan gloriosa desgracia
más causa corrió que miedo.

Practicing Time

© Edgar Albert Guest

Always whenever I want to play

I've got to practice an hour a day,

Psalm 10

© Isaac Watts

Why doth the Lord stand off so far?
And why conceal his face,
When great calamities appear,
And times of deep distress?

Toad, hog, assassin, mirror. Some of its favorite words, which are breath. Or handwriting: the long tail of the y disappearing into a barn like a rodents, and suddenly it is winter after all.

After all what? After the ponds dry up in mid-August and the children drop pins down each canyon and listen for an echo. Next question, please. What sex is it, if it has any? Its a male. Its a white male Caucasian. No distinguishing birthmarks, the usual mole above the chin. Last seen crossing against a light in Omaha. Looks intelligent. But havent most Americans seen this poem at least once by now? At least once. Then, how is the disease being . . . communicated? As far as we can determine, it is communicated entirely by doubt. As soon as the poets reach their mid-twenties they begin living behind hedgerows. At the other end of the hedgerows someone attractive is laughing, either at them, or with a lover during sexual intercourse. So it is like prom night. Yes. But what is the end of prom night? The end of prom night is inside the rodent; it is the barn collapsing on a summer day. It is inside the guts of a rodent. Then, at least, you are permitted an unobstructed view of the plain? Yes. And what will be out there, then, on the plain? A rider approaching with a tense face, who cant see that this horse has white roses instead of eyes. You mean . . . the whole thing all over again. Unfortunately, yes, at least as far as we are permitted to see

Pity Me, Loo!

© Henry Clay Work

On the sunset borders of the mountains I stray,
Of a dear home dreaming 'yond the snow peaks far away,
While the bubbling brook beside me goes dancing along,
As it seeks the "Golden Gate" of the ocean blue;
And a lone bird murmurs in the bush-top his song-
"Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!" "Pity me, Loo!"

Perkin Warbeck

© Lord Alfred Douglas

At Turney in Flanders I was born
Fore-doomed to splendour and sorrow,
For I was a king when they cut the corn,
And they strangle me to-morrow.

Poem To The Mysterious Woman

© Robert Desnos

I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real.
Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss your mouth and make
your dear voice come alive again?

Put By The Flute

© Gertrude Bartlett

O LOVE, put by the flute.

Too slight the tender, liquid strain

Palmyra (1st Edition)

© Thomas Love Peacock

--anankta ton pantôn huperbal-
lonta chronon makarôn.
Pindar. Hymn. frag. 33

Prophecy of a Ten Ton Cheese

© James McIntyre

Machine it could be made with ease
That could turn this monster cheese,
The greatest honour to our land
Would be this orb of finest brand,
Three hundred curd they would need squeeze
For to make this mammoth cheese.

Philosophy

© Dorothy Parker

If I should labor through daylight and dark,
Consecrate, valorous, serious, true,
Then on the world I may blazon my mark;
And what if I don't, and what if I do?

Paddy Malone in Australia

© Anonymous

Och ! my name's Pat Malone, and I'm from Tipperary.

Sure, I don't know it now, I'm so bothered, Ohone!

Promise ThisWhen You be Dying

Promise ThisWhen You be Dying
Some shall summon Me
Mine belong Your latest Sighing
Mineto Belt Your Eye

Poems On Love

Love adorns itself;

it seeks to prove inward joy by outward beauty.

Pandora (For a Picture)

WHAT of the end, Pandora? Was it thine,

The deed that set these fiery pinions free?

Prothalamion

© Horace Smith

Go, like St. Simon, on your lonely tower,
Wish to make all men good, but want the power.
Freedom you'll have, but still will lack the thrall,--
The bond of sympathy, which binds us all.
Children and wives are hostages to fame,
But aids and helps in every useful aim.

1
. . .
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
. . .
110