Not Waving But Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been to cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out my whole life
And not waving but drowning.
By Stevie Smith
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Oh Captain, My Captain
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
-Walt Whitman
Making Sarah Cry
He stood among his friends from school,
He joined their childhood games
Laughing as they played kickball
And when they called poor Sarah names.
Sarah was unlike the rest;
She was slow and not as smart,
And it would seem to all his friends
She was born without a heart.
And so he gladly joined their fun
Of making Sarah cry.
But somewhere deep within his heart,
He never knew just why.
For he could hear his mother’s voice,
Her lessons of right and wrong
Playing over and over inside his head
Just like a favorite song.
“Treat others with respect, son,
The way you’d want them treating you.
And remember, when you hurt others,
Someday, someone might hurt you.”
He knew his mother wouldn’t understand
The purpose of their game
Of teasing Sarah, who made them laugh
As he own tears fell like rain.
The funny faces that she made
And the way she’d stomp her feet
Whenever they mocked the way she walked
Or the stutter when she’d speak.
To him she must deserve it
Because she never tried to hide.
And if she truly wanted to be left alone,
Then she should stay inside.
But every day she’d do the same:
She’d come outside to play,
And stand there, tears upon her face,
Too upset to run away.
The game would soon be over
As tears dropped from her eyes,
For the purpose of their fun
Was making Sarah cry.
It was nearly two whole months
He hadn’t see his friends.
He was certain they all must wonder
What happened and where he’d been
So he felt a little nervous
As he limped his way to class.
He hoped no one would notice,
He prayed no one would ask,
About that awful day:
The day his bike met with a car,
Leaving him with a dreadful limp
And a jagged-looking scar.
So he held his breath a little
As he hobbled into the room.
Where inside he saw a “Welcome Back” banner
And lots of red balloons.
He felt a smile cross his face
As his friends all smiled, too
And he couldn’t wait to play outside–
His favorite thing to do.
So the second that he stepped outdoors
And saw his friends all waiting there,
He expected a fw pats on the back–
Instead, they all stood back and stared.
He felt his face grow hotter
As he limped to join their side
To play a game of kickball
And of making Sarah cry.
An awkward smile crossed his face
When he heard somebody laugh
And heard the words, “Hey freak,
Where’d you get that ugly mask?”
He turned, expecting Sarah,
But Sarah could not be seen.
It was the scar upon his own face
That caused such words so mean.
He joined in their growing laughter,
Trying hard to not give in
To the awful urge inside to cry
Or the quivering of his chin.
They are only teasing,
He made himself believe.
The are still my friends;
They’d never think of hurting me.
But the cruel remarks continued
About the scar and then his limp.
And he knew if he shed a single tear
They’d label him a wimp.
And so the hurtful words went on,
And in his heart he wondered why.
But he knew without a doubt
The game would never end, until they made him cry.
And just when a tear had formed,
He heard a voice speak out from behind.
“Leave him alone you bullies,
Because he’s a friend of mine.”
He turned to see poor Sarah,
Determination on her face,
Sticking up for one of her own tormentors
And willing to take his place.
And when his friends did just that,
Trying their best to make poor Sarah cry,
This time he didn’t join in,
And at last understood exactly why.
“Treat others with respect, son,
The way you’d want them treating you.
And remember, when you hurt others,
Someday, someone might hurt you.”
It took a lot of courage
But he knew he must be strong,
For at last he saw a difference
Between what’s right and wrong.
And Sarah didn’t seem so weird
Through his understanding eyes.
Now he knew he’d never play again
The game of making Sarah cry.
It took several days of teasing
And razzing from his friends,
But when they saw his strength,
They chose to be like him.
And now out on the playground,
A group of kids meet every day
For a game of kickball and laughter
And teaching their new friend, Sarah, how to play.
-By Cheryl L. Costello-Forshey
Practical Application
He's teaching her arithmetic,
He said it was his mission,
He kissed her once, he kissed her twice and said,
"Now that's addition."
And as he added smack by smack
In silent satisfaction,
She sweetly gave the kisses back and said,
"Now that's subtraction."
Then he kissed her, she kissed him,
Without an explanation,
And both together smiled and said,
"That's multiplication."
Then dad appeared upon the scene and
Made a quick decision.
He kicked that kid three blocks away
And said, "That's long division!"
By Dan Clarke
"Invictus"
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
-William Ernest Hemmingway
To The Virgins to Make Much of Time
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may
Ole times are still a flying
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
That glorious lamp of heaven the sun
The high he's a getting
No sooner will the race be run
The nearer he's to setting.
That age is best, which is the first
When youth and blood are warmer
Then being spent the worse and worst
Times still succeed the former.
So be not coy but use your time
And while ye may go marry
For having lost but once your prime
Ye may forever terry.
By Robert Herrick
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