find and post 43 poems that I like to remind myself that I don't hate poetry as a whole

Peace flows into me
As the tide to the pool by the shore;
It is mine forevermore.
I am the pool of blue
That worships the vivid sky;
My hopes are heaven-high,
They are all fulfilled in you.
I am the pool of gold
When sunset burns and dies
You are my deepening skies;
Give me your stars to hold.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Elephants walking
Along the trails

Are holding hands
By holding tails

Trunks and tails
Are handy things

When elephants walk
In circus rings.

Elephants work
And elephants play

And elephants walk
And feel so gay

And when they walk-
It never fails

They’re holding hands
By holding tails

Isn’t it strange some people make
you feel so tired inside,
Your thoughts begin to shrivel up
like leaves all brown and dried!

But when you’re with some other ones,
it’s stranger still to find
Your thoughts as thick as fireflies
all shiny in your mind!

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

read this years ago somewhere, probably a poetry book of my mother’s

On the good nights
when the bottle’s empty
we always want
just a little more,
half a glass,
a few sips,
a taste.
We know
this desire
can be dangerous
to pursue,
that it can make
mornings difficult,
so usually we
brush our teeth
let the dog in,
lock the doors,
but sometimes,
even as we say
We really should
get ready for bed,
instead of loading
the dishwasher
we will search
for the corkscrew,
all the while
shaking our heads
in wonder
at this willingness
to ignore the clocks
and the fact we have
to work tomorrow,
this irresponsibility,
this evidence
even after all these years
of the unquenchable desire
for each other’s company.

found through npr

There was a boy who never got enough.
You know what I mean. Something
In him longed to find the big
Mother, and he leaped into the sea.

It took a while, but a whale
Agreed to swallow him.
He knew it was wrong, but once
Past the baleen, it was too late.

It’s OK. There’s a curved library
Inside, and those high
Ladders. People take requests.
It’s like the British Museum.

But one has to build a fire.
Maybe it was the romance
Novels he burned. Smoke curls
Up the gorge. She coughs.

And that’s it. The boy swims to shore;
It’s a fishing town in Alaska.
He finds a telephone booth,
And calls his father. “Let’s talk.”

To mate on the wing,
now that’s a trick I want to learn—

hopped up on pheromones,
legs twitching,
wings flapping impossibly fast ….

For that I’d take a spin
as an insignificant lepidoterid.
For that I’d give up
all my nature programs,
rock music, erotic poetry.

I’d even do
penance in the egg.
I’d crawl through adolescence on my belly
eating none of the food I love, eating nothing
but cabbage, cabbage, cabbage.

For that instant
of sudden weightlessness,
fluttering with my beloved on the verge
of a holy convulsion

I await my turn.