Poems Kingdom

Welcome to Poems Land.

For watching all of the following Poems in the form of Video then please click on the following like:

Click here to Visit Videos Page.

A House

What is a house?

It’s brick and stone

and wood that’s hard.

Some window glass

and perhaps a yard.

It’s eaves and chimneys

and tile floors

and stucco and roof

and lots of doors.

What is a home?

It’s loving and family

and doing for others.

It’s brothers and sisters

and fathers and mothers.

It’s unselfish acts

and kindly sharing

and showing your loved ones

you’re always caring.

By Lorraine M. Halli

A Lecture Upon The Shadow  

Stand still and I will read to thee

A Lecture, Love, in loves philosophy,

These three houres that we have spent,

Walking here, Two shadowes went

Along with us, which we our selves produc’d;

But, now the Sunne is just above our head,

We doe those shadowes tread;

And to brave clearnesse all things are reduc’d.

So whilst our infant loves did grow,

Disguises did, and shadowes, flow,

From us, and our cares; but now ’tis not so.

That love hath not attain’d the high’st degree,

Which is still diligent lest others see.

Except our loves at this noone stay,

We shall new shadowes make the other way.

As the first were made to blinde

Others; these which come behinde

Will worke upon our selves, and blind our eyes.

If our loves faint, and westwardly decline;

To me thou, falsely thine;

And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.

The morning shadowes were away,

But these grow longer all the day,

But oh, loves day is short, if love decay.

By John Donne

A Legend of the Northland 

Away, away in the Northland,

Where the hours of the day are few,

And the nights are so long in winter

That they cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer

To the sledges, when it snows;

And the children look like bear’s cubs

In their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story —

I don’t believe ’tis true;

And yet you may learn a lesson

If I tell the tale to you.

Once, when the good Saint Peter

Lived in the world below,

And walked about it, preaching,

Just as he did, you know,

He came to the door of a cottage,

In travelling round the earth,

Where a little woman was making cakes,

And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting,

For the day was almost done,

He asked her, from her store of cakes,

To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake,

But as it baking lay,

She looked at it, and thought it seemed

Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another,

And still a smaller one;

But it looked, when she turned it over,

As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,

And rolled and rolled it flat;

And baked it thin as a wafer —

But she couldn’t part with that.

For she said, “My cakes that seem too small

When I eat of them myself

Are yet too large to give away."

So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry,

For he was hungry and faint;

And surely such a woman

Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, “You are far too selfish

To dwell in a human form,

To have both food and shelter,

And fire to keep you warm.

Now, you shall build as the birds do,

And shall get your scanty food

By boring, and boring, and boring,

All day in the hard, dry wood."

Then up she went through the chimney,

Never speaking a word,

And out of the top flew a woodpecker,

For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head,

And that was left the same;

But all the rest of her clothes were burned

Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country schoolboy

Has seen her in the wood,

Where she lives in the trees till this very day,

Boring and boring for food.

By PHOEBE CARY

A Letter to Grown-Ups :

Dear Grown-Ups,

Please leave all the flowers there

And do not cut down the trees.

We need the trees to make fresh air

And flowers to feed the bees.

Please do not always use your car

To take you everywhere.

Because the fumes go very far

And heat the atmosphere.

Then soon the sun will be too hot

And all the plants will die.

So, please get out and walk a lot

To see the clear blue sky.

Then we will run and jump and play

And grow up strong and tall

Then we will be happy everyday

And we will thank you all

With love from the children.

BY Stevie Ann Wilde

A little bird sees. 

A little bird sees

Ripe fruit on our tree

And eats a tasty berry.

The bird flies tall

And a berry seed falls.

The rains have come

Hurry! let’s run.

Clouds, rain and sun...

Our plant is born, a little one.

Now a tree,

With branches long,

Crows and bird-song,

Crawling ants and spiders’ webs,

Caterpillars with tiny legs,

Rich green leaves, life aplenty.

The tree has fruit,

Some big, some small,

Let us pluck them

But do not fall!

Crows perch, squirrels run,

And see the monkeys

Having fun!

Strong branches,

With pretty swings,

Our beautiful tree

Has so many things.

by Pranab and Smita Chakravarti

A Little Bit of Nonsense 

There was an old Man with a beard

Who said, ‘‘It is just as I feared!

Two Owls and a Hen,

Four Larks and a Wren,

Have all built their nests in my beard!

by Anonymous

A Lover Calls

Where are you, my beloved? Are you in that little

Paradise, watering the flowers who look upon you

As infants look upon the breast of their mothers?

Or are you in your chamber where the shrine of

Virtue has been placed in your honor, and upon

Which you offer my heart and soul as sacrifice?

Or amongst the books, seeking human knowledge,

While you are replete with heavenly wisdom?

Oh companion of my soul, where are you? Are you

Praying in the temple? Or calling Nature in the

Field, haven of your dreams?

Are you in the huts of the poor, consoling the

Broken-hearted with the sweetness of your soul, and

Filling their hands with your bounty?

You are God's spirit everywhere;

You are stronger than the ages.

Do you have memory of the day we met, when the halo of

You spirit surrounded us, and the Angels of Love

Floated about, singing the praise of the soul's deed?

Do you recollect our sitting in the shade of the

Branches, sheltering ourselves from Humanity, as the ribs

Protect the divine secret of the heart from injury?

Remember you the trails and forest we walked, with hands

Joined, and our heads leaning against each other, as if

We were hiding ourselves within ourselves?

Recall you the hour I bade you farewell,

And the Maritime kiss you placed on my lips?

That kiss taught me that joining of lips in Love

Reveals heavenly secrets which the tongue cannot utter!

That kiss was introduction to a great sigh,

Like the Almighty's breath that turned earth into man.

That sigh led my way into the spiritual world,

Announcing the glory of my soul; and there

It shall perpetuate until again we meet.

I remember when you kissed me and kissed me,

With tears coursing your cheeks, and you said,

"Earthly bodies must often separate for earthly purpose,

And must live apart impelled by worldly intent.

"But the spirit remains joined safely in the hands of

Love, until death arrives and takes joined souls to God.

"Go, my beloved; Love has chosen you her delegate;

Over her, for she is Beauty who offers to her follower

The cup of the sweetness of life.

As for my own empty arms, your love shall remain my

Comforting groom; you memory, my Eternal wedding."

Where are you now, my other self? Are you awake in

The silence of the night? Let the clean breeze convey

To you my heart's every beat and affection.

Are you fondling my face in your memory? That image

Is no longer my own, for Sorrow has dropped his

Shadow on my happy countenance of the past.

Sobs have withered my eyes which reflected your beauty

And dried my lips which you sweetened with kisses.

Where are you, my beloved? Do you hear my weeping

From beyond the ocean? Do you understand my need?

Do you know the greatness of my patience?

Is there any spirit in the air capable of conveying

To you the breath of this dying youth? Is there any

Secret communication between angels that will carry to

You my complaint?

Where are you, my beautiful star? The obscurity of life

Has cast me upon its bosom; sorrow has conquered me.

Sail your smile into the air; it will reach and enliven me!

Breathe your fragrance into the air; it will sustain me!

Where are you, me beloved?

Oh, how great is Love!

And how little am I!

By Khalil Gibran

A Moments Indulgence 

I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works

that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.

Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite,

and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.

Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and

the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.

Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing

dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.

By Rabindranath Tagore

A Night in June

The sun has long been set.

The stars are out by twos and threes.

The little birds are piping yet

Among the bushes and trees.

There’s a cuckoo and one or two thrushes

And a far-off wind that rushes

And a sound of water that gushes

And the cuckoo’s sovereign cry

Fills all the hollow of the sky.

William Wordsworth

A Photograph 

The cardboard shows me how it was

When the two girl cousins went paddling

Each one holding one of my mother’s hands,

And she the big girl - some twelve years or so.

All three stood still to smile through their hair

At the uncle with the camera, A sweet face

My mother’s, that was before I was born

And the sea, which appears to have changed less

Washed their terribly transient feet.

Some twenty- thirty- years later

She’d laugh at the snapshot. “See Betty

And Dolly," she’d say, “and look how they

Dressed us for the beach." The sea holiday

was her past, mine is her laughter. Both wry

With the laboured ease of loss

Now she’s has been dead nearly as many years

As that girl lived. And of this circumstance

There is nothing to say at all,

Its silence silences.

BY SHIRLEY TOULSON

A Poison Tree :

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine.

And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole;

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

By William Blake

A Psalm of Life 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,— act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A Psalm of Life 

What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream! -

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each tomorrow

Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, how’er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act, - act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing

Learn to labor and to walk.

H. W. Longfellow

A Roadside Stand 

The little old house was out with a little new shed

In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped,

A roadside stand that too pathetically pled,

It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread,

But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports

The flower of cities from sinking and withering faint.

The polished traffic passed with a mind ahead,

Or if ever aside a moment, then out of sorts

At having the landscape marred with the artless paint

Of signs that with N turned wrong and S turned wrong

Offered for sale wild berries in wooden quarts,

Or crook-necked golden squash with silver warts,

Or beauty rest in a beautiful mountain scene,

You have the money, but if you want to be mean,

Why keep your money (this crossly) and go along.

The hurt to the scenery wouldn’t be my complaint

So much as the trusting sorrow of what is unsaid:

Here far from the city we make our roadside stand

And ask for some city money to feel in hand

To try if it will not make our being expand,

And give us the life of the moving-pictures’ promise

That the party in power is said to be keeping from us.

It is in the news that all these pitiful kin

Are to be bought out and mercifully gathered in

To live in villages, next to the theatre and the store,

Where they won’t have to think for themselves anymore,

While greedy good-doers, beneficent beasts of prey,

Swarm over their lives enforcing benefits

That are calculated to soothe them out of their wits,

And by teaching them how to sleep they sleep all day,

Destroy their sleeping at night the ancient way.

Sometimes I feel myself I can hardly bear

The thought of so much childish longing in vain,

The sadness that lurks near the open window there,

That waits all day in almost open prayer

For the squeal of brakes, the sound of a stopping car,

Of all the thousand selfish cars that pass,

Just one to inquire what a farmer’s prices are.

And one did stop, but only to plow up grass

In using the yard to back and turn around;

And another to ask the way to where it was bound;

And another to ask could they sell it a gallon of gas

They couldn’t (this crossly); they had none, didn’t it see?

No, in country money, the country scale of gain,

The requisite lift of spirit has never been found,

Or so the voice of the country seems to complain,

I can’t help owning the great relief it would be

To put these people at one stroke out of their pain.

And then next day as I come back into the sane,

I wonder how I should like you to come to me

And offer to put me gently out of my pain.

Robert Frost

A Red Red Rose

O my Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June;

O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun:

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Luve

And fare thee well, a while!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

By Robert Burns

A Silly Poem 

Said Hamlet to Ophelia,

I'll draw a sketch of thee,

What kind of pencil shall I use?

2B or not 2B?

By Spike Milligan

Aeroplane 

Oh! What a wonder in the sky!

It is an aeroplane flying so high!

I am faster than any other transport!

I hold and rest in the airports.

I fly above the mountains and oceans!

I safely drop my passengers in their destination.

I am a feast to your eyes as a twinking stars.

People come with me to travel fast and far.

By V. Mirnal –

A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal 

A slumber did my spirit seal—

I had no human fears.

She seemed a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthy years.

No motion has she now, no force—

She neither hears nor sees,

Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course

With rocks and stones and trees.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Smile To Remember 

We had goldfish and they circled around and around

in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes

covering the picture window and

my mother, always smiling, wanting us all

to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!'

and she was right: it's better to be happy if you can

but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while

raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't

understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,

wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a

week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, smile!

why don't you ever smile?'

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the

saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,

they floated on the water, on their sides, their

eyes still open,

and when my father got home he threw them to the cat

there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother

smiled.

By Charles Bukowski

A Thing of Beauty 1

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its lovliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

An endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

By John Keats

A Thing of Beauty 2

A thing of beauty is a joy forever

Its loveliness increases, it will never

Pass into nothingness; but will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

‘Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms;

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

All lovely tales that we have heard or read;

An endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

By John Keats

A Very Short Song 

Once, when I was young and true,

Someone left me sad-

Broke my brittle heart in two;

And that is very bad.

Love is for unlucky folk,

Love is but a curse.

Once there was a heart I broke;

And that, I think, is worse.

By Dorothy Parker

A Vision in a Dream-A Fragment 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced;

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:

And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever

It flung up momently the sacred river.

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,

Then reached the caverns measureless to man,

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:

And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure

Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight, ’twould win me,

That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honeydew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

S.T. Coleridge

For More Please Click on Next:

Next