It's National Poetry Day so...

[Dennis the 'Bloody Peasant']

Have at it folks!

"I hate you haiku,
I find you so hard to do
How many sylla-?"

[Blake's Baby]

There once was a peasant called Dennis,
And he always thought that the pen is
Mightier than the sword; but then he got bored
And went for a nice game of tennis.

So you have to pronounce 'mightier' as 'might yeah'. And 'pen is' as 'pen iss'. But I don't care.

On Poetry day;
Illumination comes - flash -
sunburst of meaning.

[leftistman]

The Golden Years have come at last.

I cannot see.
I cannot pee.
I cannot chew.
I cannot screw.
My memory shrinks.
My hearing stinks.
No sense of smell.
I look like hell.
My body is drooping.
I have trouble pooping.
The Golden Years have come at last.
The Golden Years . . . can kiss my ass.
- Dr. Seuss

[Pirate Utopian]

To the window
To the walls
Till the sweat drip down my balls

- william shakespeare

[Prometeo liberado]

Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number —
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you —
Ye are many — they are few.

[maskerade]

During that summer
When unicorns were still possible;
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned;
When shiny horse chestnuts
(Hollowed out
Fitted with straws
Crammed with tobacco
Stolen from butts
In family ashtrays)
Were puffed in green lizard silence
While straddling thick branches
Far above and away
From the softening effects
Of civilization;

During that summer--
Which may never have been at all;
But which has become more real
Than the one that was--
Watermelons ruled.

Thick imperial slices
Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins;
Leaving the best part,
The black bullet seeds,
To be spit out in rapid fire
Against the wall
Against the wind
Against each other;

And when the ammunition was spent,
There was always another bite:
It was a summer of limitless bites,
Of hungers quickly felt
And quickly forgotten
With the next careless gorging.

The bites are fewer now.
Each one is savored lingeringly,
Swallowed reluctantly.

But in a jar put up by Felicity,
The summer which maybe never was
Has been captured and preserved.
And when we unscrew the lid
And slice off a piece
And let it linger on our tongue:
Unicorns become possible again.

John Tobias

yea yea it's corny as fuck but i love this poem and i want to be 10 years old again