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Finality

Posted by MFish Profile 08/20/24 at 02:24PM Poetry See more by MFish

The finality of life,
as we know it today,
will soon change,
and go away.

It's OK for in this,
our life's cycle here,
will bring forth a
time which we held dear.

Life must end,
this we know.
I wish to exit quietly,
as my final show.

A Reflection

Posted by MFish Profile 08/18/24 at 06:57AM Poetry See more by MFish

There are time when,
we should reflect on life.
This is one of those times,
when faced with strife,

you find there are outside,
influences effecting your way
of thinking. How you view,
what once was a safe day.

It is unfortunate, when life,
doesn't remain the same,
and we revert to calling it,
by another name.

Poetry

Posted by MFish Profile 08/13/24 at 02:15PM Poetry See more by MFish

In the early days of my writing,
I chose to write verse,
or in my case, rhyming poetry.
I didn't know, for it was terse.

On Writing

Posted by MFish Profile 08/12/24 at 09:56PM Poetry See more by MFish

When we write of things,
which memory supplies,
may we assume we know,
before the memories dies?

My father used to say,
"Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow's grave
or the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self-reliant like the cat—
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth—
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which has delighted them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint."
Nor was he insincere in saying, "Make my house your inn."
Inns are not residences.


Marianne Craig Moore (1887 – 1972). American modernist poet, critic, translator, and editor. She is consider one of American literature’s foremost poets. Her poetry is noted for its precise diction, irony, and wit. She was nominated for the 1968 Nobel Prize in Literature.
This poem is in the public domain.

The Memories

Posted by MFish Profile 07/30/24 at 08:49PM Poetry See more by MFish

Love has, many memories.
Here is one of imagination,
which I wish I could revisit.

A Comment by Loy

Your avatar
Loy • 07/30/2024 at 10:33PM • Like 1 Profile

Beautiful poem. One of my favorites

A Comment by MFish

Your avatar
MFish • 07/31/2024 at 04:33AM • Like Profile

Thank you.

Come With Me

Posted by MFish Profile 07/13/24 at 03:06PM Poetry See more by MFish

Come with me, my friend,
to a land far away,
where we return to our youth,
playing games every day.

A place, we will love,
above all the rest.
Where friends are friends,
unlike all of the rest.

There is no hatred,
where we will soon go,
just love for others,
as we live out life's show.

Are you ready to,
take the next move?
To play like a child,
with nothing to lose.

Love, a Poetic Thought

Posted by MFish Profile 07/03/24 at 10:24PM Poetry See more by MFish

Frustrations,
may abide, when
we guess at our
thoughts of living.

     THE YELLOW VIOLET

When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue-bird's warble know,
The yellow violet's modest bell
Peeps from the last year's leaves below.

Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume
Alone is in the virgin air.

Of all her train, the hands of Spring
First plant thee in the watery mould,
And I have seen thee blossoming
Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip,
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,[Page 16]
And earthward bent thy gentle eye,
Unapt the passing view to meet,
When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.

Oft, in the sunless April day,
Thy early smile has stayed my walk;
But midst the gorgeous blooms of May,
I passed thee on thy humble stalk.

So they, who climb to wealth, forget
The friends in darker fortunes tried.
I copied them—but I regret
That I should ape the ways of pride.

And when again the genial hour
Awakes the painted tribes of light,
I'll not o'erlook the modest flower
That made the woods of April bright.

William Cullen Bryant (1794 – 1878) was an American romantic poet, journalist, and long-time editor of the New York Evening Post. Born in Massachusetts, he started his career as a lawyer but showed an interest in poetry early in his life. He soon relocated to New York and took up work as an editor at various newspapers. He became one of the most significant poets in early literary America and has been grouped among the fireside poets for his accessible, popular poetry. Wikipedia

Poem is in the public domain

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