What's your favorite poem?

Poem Title: The Greatest Fears Lies Within

In The Night

If Ever I Might

Think Of My Fears

Which Brings Me Tears

The Things I See In My sight

Gives Me Quite A Fright

The Horror Makes Me Shiver

Or Should I Say Quiver

Do you ever wonder

What makes you Ponder?

The Greatest One Of All

Lies In The Art Gallery Hall

The Cats Yes The Cats!

They go around prawling

And they Also Like Yawning

Late At Night When The Moon Is Out

No one dares to roam the town

Because You know It's Going Down

When the clock strikes thrice

The Witching hour Begins

And The Nightmare hour begins

It is true what they say that there is No God In Sight

And The World Will Put Up A Fight

The Youths rebel For They Are Right

The Enemy Lies Within You Forever More

And only you can conquer him

Only you can get rid of your greatest fears

Written By: Queenstar Betty Amoah ( Ama Oforiwaa)

A Poem

Tell me, if I caught you one day

and kissed the sole of your foot,

wouldn't you limp a little then,

afraid to crush my kiss?…

Nichita Stanescu

A few sonnets never truly leave you once you hear them. Ariana Brown's "Wolfchild" was one of those sonnets for me a year ago. Earthy colored talks on dark and earthiness with such intricacy and crudeness and effortlessness in this piece. Each opportunity I return to it I'm flabbergasted how through such shocking language she creatives something so otherworldly and clear and required in our discussions about re­imagining America and America­ness. Hella shocking, hella significant, and furthermore a phenomenal sonnet. I'm deciding in favor of this sonnet in the primaries.

Edgar Allan Poe.

The Raven

There are many, but one that I wrote recalling my RAF service still gives me quite a bit of pleasure, not that I suppose its much good, but it does rattle the bars a bit because of its personal nostalger.

The night train by WH Auden.

Special mention for The Tay Bridge  Disaster by William McGonagall. 

I know an old lady who swallowed a fly.

And at every drifting cloud that went 

With sails of silver by. 

I walked, with other souls in pain, 

Within another ring, 

And was wondering if the man had done 

A great or little thing, 

When a voice behind me whispered low, 

"That fellow's got to swing." 

Dear Christ! the very prison walls 

Suddenly seemed to reel, 

And the sky above my head became 

Like a casque of scorching steel; 

And, though I was a soul in pain, 

My pain I could not feel. 

I only knew what hunted thought 

Quickened his step, and why 

He looked upon the garish day 

With such a wistful eye; 

The man had killed the thing he loved, 

And so he had to die. 

Yet each man kills the thing he loves, 

By each let this be heard, 

Some do it with a bitter look, 

Some with a flattering word, 

The coward does it with a kiss, 

The brave man with a sword! 

Some kill their love when they are young, 

And some when they are old; 

Some strangle with the hands of Lust, 

Some with the hands of Gold: 

The kindest use a knife, because 

The dead so soon grow cold. 

Some love too little, some too long, 

Some sell, and others buy; 

Some do the deed with many tears, 

And some without a sigh: 

For each man kills the thing he loves, 

Yet each man does not die. 

He does not die a death of shame 

On a day of dark disgrace, 

Nor have a noose about his neck, 

Nor a cloth upon his face, 

Nor drop feet foremost through the floor 

Into an empty space. 

I know not whether Laws be right, 

Or whether Laws be wrong; 

All that we know who lie in gaol 

Is that the wall is strong; 

And that each day is like a year, 

A year whose days are long. 

This too I know—and wise it were 

If each could know the same— 

That every prison that men build 

Is built with bricks of shame, 

And bound with bars lest Christ should see 

How men their brothers maim. 

With bars they blur the gracious moon, 

And blind the goodly sun: 

And they do well to hide their Hell, 

For in it things are done 

That Son of God nor son of Man 

Ever should look upon! 

The vilest deeds like poison weeds 

Bloom well in prison-air: 

It is only what is good in Man 

That wastes and withers there: 

every stone we turn by day 

Becomes one's heart by night. 

With midnight always in one's heart, 

And twilight in one's cell, 

We turn the crank, or tear the rope, 

Each in his separate Hell, 

And the silence is more awful far 

Than the sound of a brazen bell. 

And never a human voice comes near 

To speak a gentle word: 

And the eye that watches through the door 

Is pitiless and hard: 

And by all forgot, we rot and rot, 

With soul and body marred. 

And thus we rust Life's iron chain 

Degraded and alone: 

And some men curse, and some men weep, 

And some men make no moan

My favorite style are limericks. Often making reference to a certain town in New England.

The Charge of the Light Brigade.