POEM FOR FRIENDS

THE COLOURS OF THE SEA LOOKS TO FADE AWAY. THE HUES OF THE EVENING CLOUD LOOKS LESS BRIGHT EVERY DAY. IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE NONE OF THEM STANDS TALL COMPARED TO YOUR RADIANCE EVEN THE SUN FEELS SO  SMALL GOOD NIGHT  

  On an island of music in a city of drumbeats the drum dream girl dreamed   of pounding tall conga drums tapping small bongó drums and boom boom booming with long, loud sticks on big, round, silvery moon-bright timbales.   But everyone on the island of music in the city of drumbeats believed that only boys should play drums   so the drum dream girl had to keep dreaming quiet secret drumbeat dreams.   At outdoor cafés that looked like gardens she heard drums played by men but when she closed her eyes she could also hear her own imaginary music.   When she walked under wind-wavy palm trees in a flower-bright park she heard the whir of parrot wings the clack of woodpecker beaks the dancing tap of her own footsteps and the comforting pat of her own heartbeat.   At carnivals, she listened to the rattling beat of towering dancers on stilts   and the dragon clang of costumed drummers wearing huge masks.   At home, her fingertips rolled out their ow...

  april is a dog's dream the soft grass is growing the sweet breeze is blowing the air all full of singing feels just right so no excuses now we're going to the park to chase and charge and chew and I will make you see what spring is all about source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/147302/april-is-a-dog39s-dream

  Sun is bright with too much light You are quite with hand on your bite Peoples are doing right with you on height Just take side with clear sight Am i writing this poem right? Will you demand for right write? Just don’t blame the angry fight with me and night You and us are have tight the tide Just take of your big and beautiful sight, I am asking you to do the justice in this night Don’t wait to end this fight. I am entering with you in this beautiful night. Clear the crystal before the end of this night. Do the same for justice and right. Everything is good and bright. Care and aware the peoples light.  

I Celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy. By WALT WHITMAN

            The Mirror I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful ‚ The eye of a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over. Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, Searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important to her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. by Sylvia Plath

    The Solitary Reaper Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?— Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;— I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The...

        The Road Not Taken  Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. ~by Robert Frost

    T.S ELIOT PRELUDES 1 The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o’clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps. by T.S ELLIOT