A beautiful English poem-Mom doesn't want a dog.
Author: Judith Viorst
Mom doesn't want a dog.
Mom says they stink,
Never sit when you say sit,
Even when you're yelling.
When you come home late at night
There's ice and snow,
You have to go back because
The dumb dog must leave.
Mom doesn't want a dog.
Mom said they would fall off,
Always let strangers in
Barking at friends,
Doing something shameful on the carpet,
Leave mud marks on the floor,
Fall in your bed at night.
Snoring Their dog snores.
Mom doesn't want a dog.
She made a mistake.
Because, not just a dog, I think.
She won't want this snake.
On Beautiful English Poetry Part II: Mr. Grampudup's Songs
Cher Silverstein
Everything is wrong,
The days are too long,
The sun is too hot,
The wind is too strong.
The clouds are too fluffy,
The grass is too green,
The ground is too dirty,
The sheets are too clean.
The stars are too twinkling,
The moon is too high,
There is too much water,
The sand is too dry.
The stone is too heavy,
Feathers are too light,
The children are too noisy,
The shoes are too tight.
People are so happy,
Singing their songs.
Why can't they see it?
Everything is wrong!
On Beautiful English Poetry Part III Grave Digger
Sarah Lindsay
This pile of dirt and summer are heirs.
From the past and present,
Pinch by pinch. She kept the record.
The point is, students are assured,
Just don't look for someone. Their goal is
To understand the ground.
What the water did to it and when.
How often do earthworms comb and throw?
Whether it is cultivated or pushed away,
Which seeds are in it and which pollen is in it.
When it is too dark to dig, she will set up a tent.
Reading homework. A chapter on similarity
Between the spears unearthed in Virginia
And the Soteland point in Spain,
Both are made for beauty.
Hidden in a pile of red ochre. Another book.
Invite her to stare at the keyhole shape of the bone.
The size of her index finger, engraved with
Forty strokes. Ten thousand years?
Fourteen, eight, eleven, then seven? And polishing.
A score, a game, a score?
We will never know. This is a review.
An argument about a broken rock
May have been pounded into useful shapes.
Deliberately use another stone,
Some primitive bipeds that made axes,
Or maybe it's a geographical fact, a joke,
A found axe? Or no tools at all.
She put out the light.
All the words have disappeared.
Good morning, back to the mound. Now there are two mounds;
She knows half of it, its wayward level,
Silky and barren, or nutritious,
Thick clay, a thousand shades of brown.
She closed her eyes and looked at it with her palm.
Try it sometimes. Leaving behind flint and bones.
For thrill seekers and dreamers.
The earth answered her question. She has dug in the past.
Any prop or plot or character
All the stories walk on it.
Four Muses about Beautiful English Poems
Mina Alexander
I was young when you came to me.
Everything rings in turn,
You sing in my ear, a little thing.
A girl dressed like a monastery
White socks, shoes,
Dark blue apron, white coat.
Holding a pencil box: girl, book, tree.
This is what you gave me.
The girl is Penny, with her hair combed back.
Shining on the scalp,
The reflection in the mirror in the mahogany room.
The sky in the monsoon season, a pearl-like gap
Under the cloud cover, a kind of uneven music poured in:
The crack of feeling, the original contract
Still clasped in a book bound in gold,
Pusta Kamm's pages are separated,
The ink was misty,
A bird may dream that its shadow is there.
Spread flames in the Woods.
You mumble the word, slide it on your tongue,
Want to know how a girl becomes
Become something that melts without burning.
Centuries later, exhausted by travel.
I rest under the tree.
You come to me.
A bird shedding its golden feathers,
Everyone scraped my eardrum with a quill.
You put a book on my rib.
Night after night, I untied it
On the edge of the mirror
Letters flicker and soar.
Write in the light
In all languages,
You know, the earth contains,
You whisper in my ear.
This is pure transportation.
A woman warned about the beautiful English poem Five Muses
On honor? E. Fanona jeffers
It's fair to change blood for the septet.
Guarding the rhythm, the horn blooms
Into a cadenza. Without the scowl of a good pimp, his
The baby's voice spoiled the sweetness of this time.
Yes, one-fifth of these predictable ones. Oh, the blues
Is to throw out those low-level stories
The back door (singing: the child pried open.
Color floor). Oh, Billie makes a hullabaloo about.
Road (singing: women are on the edge of acupuncture.
Logic). Does she know? Yes, I will.
Kissing some guy's sugar fist tonight. Oh, this
Tableau's muse, a lady warned me:
Stick to it, girl. Sweat soaked Jones.
I want nothing more. Spit out your last damn note