Robert Frost The road not taken I'd love to write poetry but I have no knowledge of it's structure except for the most simplistic. I love words and thoughts and I know I'd do well. 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.

I have two favorites that came to mind so ya get both..lol 1. Dream within a dream. E.A.Poe Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.

"Quiet Things" by Grace Noll Crowell A verse.. The cool green stillness of an April wood,

IF - Kipling If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same;

2nd one..Dylan Thomas Do not go gentle into that goodnight.. Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Computer computer! So much better than being a commuter My job would let me work on Jupiter As long as I have my computer!

It's all I have to bring today – This, and my heart beside – This, and my heart, and all the fields – And all the meadows wide – Be sure you count – should I forget Some one the sum could tell – This, and my heart, and all the Bees Which in the Clover dwell. - Emily Dickson

I have two of my own original poems in my profile for anyone to enjoy this week. You are welcomed to look. Thanks!

I am the stone that the builder refused I am the visual The inspiration That made ladies sing the blues, I'm the spark that makes your idea bright The same spark that lightes the dark So that you can know your left from your right, I am the ballet in your box The bullet in the gun That inner glow that lets you know to call your brother "son", The story that just begun The premisce of what's to come And I'm gonna remain a soldier till the war is won! Not my poem but I really like it! :)

I wrote this while in High School (1987) “NOW THAT WE HAVE OUR OWN PLACE YOU’RE GONNA COOK TONIGHT” COOKIES AND BROWNIES AND CHOCOLATE CAKES, CHERRY PIES AND SLIM FAST SHAKES. BLUE BERRY MUFFINS AND A CINNIMON ROLL, STIR IN THE GOODS AND MIX IT IN A BOWL. WORK ALL DAY ON AN EMPTY TUMMY, WHEN I GET HOME I WANT SOMETHING YUMMY MAKE MY LUNCH AND MAKE MY DINNER, I DON'T CARE IF I GET NO THINNER. HOT DOGS AND HAMBURGERS AND LOTS OF FISH, WHIP IT UP FAST-A TASTY DISH. ROAST IT-TOAST IT-BABY YOU CAN HOST IT, IF IT DON'T WORK THEN YOU CAN COAST IT. BAKE IT-SHAKE IT-BABY JUST MAKE IT, IF I'M IN A HURRY THEN I'LL JUST TAKE IT. CHEESE AND CRACKERS AND SOME WINE, YOU FIX IT UP SO WE CAN DINE. BAKE FRESH BREAD AND CUPCAKES TOO, SAVE ME IF I CHOKE AND I TURN BLUE. CANDLE LIGHT DINNERS-A SPECIAL FEAST, GREEN PEAS AND CARROTS I LIKE LEAST. TWO CUPS HERE-A PINCH OF THAT, I DON'T CARE IF I GET FAT. SPAGHETTI AND SAUCE AND SOME VEAL, I'M SURE YOU CAN MAKE A PRETTY GOOD MEAL. IN THE KITCHEN MORNING `TIL NOON, I'LL BE THE ONE TO LICK THE SPOON. BEANS AND WEINIES ARE A MUST, LEAVE BETTY CROCKER IN THE DUST. FOIL IT-BROIL IT-JUST DON'T SPOIL IT, A GOOD TABLE CLOTH I'M SURE WELL SOIL IT. TOSS THOSE SALADS-COOK UP FRIES, I ALWAYS LIKE A GOOD SURPRISE. WHATEVER YOU COOK I'M SURE TO EAT, I BET YOUR COOKIN' CAN'T BE BEAT. BUY IT-FRY IT-AT LEAST I'LL TRY IT, IF I DON'T LIKE IT I'M SURE TO RIOT. PLENTY OF SANDWICHES AND GOOD SOUPS, I WANT TO GET ALL OF MY FOOD GROUPS. SET THE TABLE-I'M SURE YOUR ABLE, DON'T BUY CANS WITHOUT A LABLE. FIX ME A DRINK-CLEAN THE SINK, GARBAGE DISPOSAL IS ON THE BRINK. MAKE ME SOMETHING GOOD TO EAT, MAKE IT DELICIOUS- A SPECIAL TREAT. THE REFRIDGERATORS EMPTY-I DON'T CARE, I'M SO HUNGRY I COULD EAT A BEAR. PUSH IT PUSH IT-CRAM IT ALL IN, I'M GONNA NEED ANOTHER NAPKIN. FRIED PORK CHOPS AND PIZZA TOO, I WON'T WORRY WHAT'S ON THE MENU. SO ANYTHING YOU MAKE I PROMIS TO TRY, THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN IS I COULD DIE.

Thank God for the thornes in our lives.

The Perfect High - a poem by Shel Silverstein There once was a boy named Gimme-Some-Roy... He was nothin' like me or you, 'cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do. As a kid, he sat in the cellar...sniffing airplane glue. And then he smoked banana peels, when that was the thing to do. He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, he breathed helium on the sly, and his life became an endless search to find the perfect high. But grass just made him wanna lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night, and the great things he wrote when he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light. Speed made him wanna rap all day, reds laid him too far back, Cocaine-Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back. He tried PCP, he tried THC, but they never quite did the trick. Poppers nearly blew his heart, mushrooms made him sick. Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long. Hash was a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong. Quaaludes made him stumble, booze just made him cry. Then he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high. Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat...lived high up in Nepal, High on a craggy mountain top, up a sheer and icy wall. "Well, hell!" says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly, Till I find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high." So out and off goes Gimme-Some-Roy, to the land that knows no time, Up a trail no man could conquer, to a cliff no man could climb. For fourteen years he climbed that cliff...back down again he'd slide . . . He'd sit and cry, then climb some more, pursuing the perfect high. Grinding his teeth, coughing blood, aching and shaking and weak, Starving and sore, bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak. And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat, As there in repose, and wearing no clothes, sits the god-like Baba Fats. "What's happenin', Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I've come to state my biz . . . I hear you're hip to the perfect trip... Please tell me what it is. "For you can see," says Roy to he, "I'm about to die, So for my last ride, tell me, how can I achieve the perfect high?" "Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "Another burned out soul, Who's lookin' for an alchemist to turn his trip to gold. It isn't in a dealer's stash, or on a druggist's shelf... Son, if you would find the perfect high, find it in yourself." "Why, you jive mother-fucker!" says Roy, "I climbed through rain and sleet, I froze three fingers off my hands, and four toes off my feet! I braved the lair of the polar bear, I've tasted the maggot's kiss. Now, you tell me the high is in myself? What kinda shit is this? My ears, before they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kinda crap; But I didn't climb for fourteen years to hear your sophomore rap. And I didn't climb up here to hear that the high is on the natch, So you tell me where the real stuff is, or I'll kill your guru ass!" "Okay...okay," says Baba Fats, "You're forcin' it outta me... There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zabolee. A wretched land of stone and sand, where snakes and buzzards scream, And in this devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzutzu tree. Now, once every ten years it blooms one flower, as white as the Key West sky, And he who eats of the Tzutzu flower shall know the perfect high. For the rush comes on like a tidal wave...hits like the blazin' sun. And the high? It lasts forever, and the down don't never come. But, Zabolee Land is ruled by a giant, who stands twelve cubits high, And with eyes of red in his hundred heads, he awaits the passer-by. And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the river of slime, Where the mucous beasts await to feast on those who journey by. And if you slay the giant and beasts, and swim the slimy sea, There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards the Tzutzu tree." "Well, to hell with your witches and giants," says Roy, "To hell with the beasts of the sea-- Why, as long as the Tzutzu flower still blooms, hope still blooms for me." And with tears of joy in his sun-blind eyes, he slips the guru a five, And crawls back down the mountainside, pursuing the perfect high. "Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone, Facing another thousand years of talking to God, alone. "Yes, Lord, it's always the same...old men or bright-eyed youth... It's always easier to sell 'em some shit than it is to give them the truth."

This is my favourite one. I wrote it for a long lost friend. Quite a sad poem .. hope you like it. Anna Rexya stares, in nothingness .. far. Fear, pain and gloom. Haunted, trapped, doomed. Weak tears fall down her face .. smile gone .. gone, no trace. Grey thoughts, she feels trapped. Lonely .. aching with each breath. She'd kill to get her life back, but lost she feels, her thoughts so black. Cries her soul away, to sleep .. praying to God. Please set me free. To Anna Rexya ..

Footprints

IF by Rudyard Kipling..... IF you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, ' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!