Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't really fuzzy Was he? |
A yellow bird
With a yellow bill Landed on my window sill I lured him in with some crumbs of bread And then I smashed his yellow head The crap I learned from my father growing up..... |
This is one that hung on the wall of my French class if your kid REALLY wants to seem like he's "up his own ass":
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"Stopping by Woods on Snowy Evening"
By Robert Frost "He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sounds a sweep Of easy wind and downy flake." I'm Back By Eminem "Sorry Puff but I don't give a **** if this chick was my own mother, Id still **** her with no rubber and cum inside her and a son and a new brother at the same time, and just say that it aint mine" Both geniuses ahead of their time. |
I am weak
Looking to get stronger When I open my eyes all the way It's all there is for me Kindness is strength It's easier to close a door, than to keep it open Hatred is easy Frustration is life on pause These are truths that are hard for me to deal with I learned a lot this year I think I am stronger than last year Self-creation is painful Trying to take my parent's blood out of mine Trying to stand on my own two feet Without leaning on someone else Looking to myself for total strength To be One From None Henry Rollins 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 Ang |
"Ode to a Grecian Urn" by Keats
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Always like this one... and it might be more your son's speed...
Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face Be glad your nose is on your face, not pasted on some other place, for if it were where it is not, you might dislike your nose a lot. Imagine if your precious nose were sandwiched in between your toes, that clearly would not be a treat, for you'd be forced to smell your feet. Your nose would be a source of dread were it attached atop your head, it soon would drive you to despair, forever tickled by your hair. Within your ear, your nose would be an absolute catastrophe, for when you were obliged to sneeze, your brain would rattle from the breeze. Your nose, instead, through thick and thin, remains between your eyes and chin, not pasted on some other place-- be glad your nose is on your face! by Jack Prelutsky |
Many of my favorite current poets would probably be too...different for your son's project. So I'll recommend Auden. 'As I Walked Out One Evening' perhaps, or 'Musee des Beaux Arts'
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The woodpecker pecked on the school house door. He pecked and he pecked til his pecker was sore. |
A Story That Could Be True
- William Stafford If you were exchanged in the cradle and your real mother died without ever telling the story then no one knows your name, and somewhere in the world your father is lost and needs you but you are far away. He can never find how true you are, how ready. When the great wind comes and the robberies of the rain you stand on the corner shivering. The people who go by-- you wonder at their calm. They miss the whisper that runs any day in your mind, "Who are you really, wanderer?"-- and the answer you have to give no matter how dark and cold the world around you is: "Maybe I'm a king." |
I've read everything Charles Bukowski ever wrote, This is the best of them all.
That man is a legend. Let It Enfold You either peace or happiness, let it enfold you when I was a young man I felt these things were dumb, unsophisticated. I had bad blood, a twisted mind, a precarious upbringing. I was hard as granite, I leered at the sun. I trusted no man and especially no woman. I was living a hell in small rooms, I broke things, smashed things, walked through glass, cursed. I challenged everything, was continually being evicted, jailed,in and out of fights, in and out of my mind. women were something to screw and rail at, I had no male freinds, I changed jobs and cities, I hated holidays, babies, history, newspapers, museums, grandmothers, marriage, movies, spiders, garbagemen, english accents,spain, france,italy,walnuts and the color orange. algebra angred me, opera sickened me, charlie chaplin was a fake and flowers were for pansies. peace an happiness to me were signs of inferiority, tenants of the weak an addled mind. but as I went on with my alley fights, my suicidal years, my passage through any number of women-it gradually began to occur to me that I wasn't different from the others, I was the same, they were all fulsome with hatred, glossed over with petty greivances, the men I fought in alleys had hearts of stone. everybody was nudging, inching, cheating for some insignificant advantage, the lie was the weapon and the plot was empty, darkness was the dictator. cautiously, I allowed myself to feel good at times. I found moments of peace in cheap rooms just staring at the knobs of some dresser or listening to the rain in the dark. the less I needed the better I felt. maybe the other life had worn me down. I no longer found glamour in topping somebody in conversation. or in mounting the body of some poor drunken female whose life had slipped away into sorrow. I could never accept life as it was, i could never gobble down all its poisons but there were parts, tenous magic parts open for the asking. I re formulated I don't know when, date, time, all that but the change occured. something in me relaxed, smoothed out. i no longer had to prove that I was a man, I did'nt have to prove anything. I began to see things: coffee cups lined up behind a counter in a cafe. or a dog walking along a sidewalk. or the way the mouse on my dresser top stopped there with its body, its ears, its nose, it was fixed, a bit of life caught within itself and its eyes looked at me and they were beautiful. then- it was gone. I began to feel good, I began to feel good in the worst situations and there were plenty of those. like say, the boss behind his desk, he is going to have to fire me. I've missed too many days. he is dressed in a suit, necktie, glasses, he says, 'I am going to have to let you go' 'it's all right' I tell him. He must do what he must do, he has a wife, a house, children. expenses, most probably a girlfreind. I am sorry for him he is caught. I walk onto the blazing sunshine. the whole day is mine temporailiy, anyhow. (the whole world is at the throat of the world, everybody feels angry, short-changed, cheated, everybody is despondent, dissillusioned) I welcomed shots of peace, tattered shards of happiness. I embraced that stuff like the hottest number, like high heels, breasts, singing,the works. (dont get me wrong, there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism that overlooks all basic problems just for the sake of itself- this is a shield and a sickness.) The knife got near my throat again, I almost turned on the gas again but when the good moments arrived again I did'nt fight them off like an alley adversary. I let them take me, i luxuriated in them, I bade them welcome home. I even looked into the mirror once having thought myself to be ugly, I now liked what I saw,almost handsome, yes, a bit ripped and ragged, scares, lumps, odd turns, but all in all, not too bad, almost handsome, better at least than some of those movie star faces like the cheeks of a baby's butt. and finally I discovered real feelings of others, unheralded, like lately, like this morning, as I was leaving, for the track, i saw my wife in bed, just the shape of her head there (not forgetting centuries of the living and the dead and the dying, the pyramids, Mozart dead but his music still there in the room, weeds growing, the earth turning, the toteboard waiting for me) I saw the shape of my wife's head, she so still, I ached for her life, just being there under the covers. I kissed her in the, forehead, got down the stairway, got outside, got into my marvelous car, fixed the seatbelt, backed out the drive. feeling warm to the fingertips, down to my foot on the gas pedal, I entered the world once more, drove down the hill past the houses full and empty of people, I saw the mailman, honked, he waved back at me. |
I sent this little gem to a woman via text when asked for a poem.
Roses area red Violets are blue Poems are hard. So am I. |
Yeats' "The Second Coming" is the most referenced poem of the 20th century; "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" might be the most beautiful;
Pound's "Hugh Selwyn Mauberly" is dense enough to stand up to dozens of readings but accessible enough not to require poring over to get a drip of info out of. Ted Hughes' "Daffodils" is wonderful Others: Wallace Stevens: The Snowman Stanley Kunitz: The Wellfleet Whale Randall Jarrell: The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner Frost: Nothing Gold can Stay Wilfred Owen: Dulce et Decorum est |
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me—he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable; I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. |
This Be the Verse
BY PHILIP LARKIN They **** you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were ****ed up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another’s throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don’t have any kids yourself. |
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