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

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.

“Who’s that tickling my back?” said the wall.
“Me,” said a small
Caterpillar. “I’m learning
To crawl.”

So it’s not life altering stuff, but I like it, still.

Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn’t care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear’s big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I’ll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry.
Isabel didn’t scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.

Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
the witch’s face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch’s gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I’ll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry,
Isabel didn’t scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.

Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forehead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I’ll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry,
Isabel didn’t scream or scurry.
She nibbled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant’s head off.

Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor’s talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor’s satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry,
Isabel didn’t scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.

(Again, my version doesn’t have the last stanza. Weird. Anyway, I especially adored this poem when I was a kid and have very fond memories of reading it with my grandmother.)

What are you able to build with your blocks?
Castles and palaces, temples and docks.
Rain may keep raining, and others go roam,
But I can be happy and building at home.

Let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea,
There I’ll establish a city for me:
A kirk and a mill and a palace beside,
And a harbor as well where my vessels may ride.

Great is the palace with pillar and wall,
A sort of a tower on top of it all,
And steps coming down in an orderly way
To where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay.

This one is sailing and that one is moored:
Hark to the song of the sailors on board!
And see on the steps of my palace, the kings
Coming and going with presents and things!

(My copy of the poem reads like this. I’ve found it online with 2 extra stanzas though. I like it both ways but the 2 stanzas seem to completely change the poem. I think I may prefer the version that’s in my book.)

^{Now I have done with it, down let it go!
All in a moment the town is laid low.
Block upon block lying scattered and free,
What is there left of my town by the sea?}

^{Yet as I saw it, I see it again,
The kirk and the palace, the ships and the men,
And as long as I live and where’er I may be,
I’ll always remember my town by the sea.}