Just some poems
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
I became obsessed with writing at a very early age. I always had my head in a book, and I would get lost in the books I read. I loved it with a passion, and I still do to this day. Poetry never really did anything for me, and I didn't really have a great talent for it. I have kept a diary religiously since my school days. I have two kinds of diary. One I gave up on a while ago, and one I still write. The one I gave up on was my picture diary. It was a book, and I had stuck, pictures, photographs and all sorts, on pages and then wrote about them. Reading back I am slightly embarrassed at how innocent and idealistic I was. I thought I could change the world, how wrong was I. Anyway the point of this, I found two poems stuck in there, that I really liked. As I said poems never really did anything for me, but there was something about these two. I don't know what. When you leave school you have these books that people sign. Teachers, school friends. My English teachers message to me was, 'I think you can become a great poet one day, you have the mind for it.' Ha...shows how much she knew! Though something about that makes me smile, even now. No one ever had faith in my writing, not even me, but she always did. Anyway, waffle, here are the poems...enjoy 
Mid - Term Break
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying-
He had always taken funerals in his stride-
And big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrased
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble";
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock, the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room.Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year
- Seamus Heany
Poem at Thirty-Nine
How I miss my father.
I wish he had not been
so tired
when I was
born.
Writing deposit slips and checks
I think of him.
He taught me how.
This is the form,
he must have said:
the way it is done.
I learned to see
bits of paper
as a way
to escape
the life he knew
and even in high school
had a savings
account.
He taught me
that telling the truth
did not always mean
a beating;
though many of my truths
must have grieved him
before the end.
How I miss my father!
He cooked like a person
dancing
in a yoga meditation
and craved the voluptuous
sharing
of good food.
Now I look and cook just like him:
my brain light;
tossing this and that
into the pot;
seasoning none of my life
the same way twice; happy to feed
whoever strays my way.
He would have grown
to admire
the woman I’ve become:
cooking, writing, chopping wood,
staring into the fire.
- Alice Walker
Mid - Term Break
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying-
He had always taken funerals in his stride-
And big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrased
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble";
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock, the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room.Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year
- Seamus Heany
Poem at Thirty-Nine
How I miss my father.
I wish he had not been
so tired
when I was
born.
Writing deposit slips and checks
I think of him.
He taught me how.
This is the form,
he must have said:
the way it is done.
I learned to see
bits of paper
as a way
to escape
the life he knew
and even in high school
had a savings
account.
He taught me
that telling the truth
did not always mean
a beating;
though many of my truths
must have grieved him
before the end.
How I miss my father!
He cooked like a person
dancing
in a yoga meditation
and craved the voluptuous
sharing
of good food.
Now I look and cook just like him:
my brain light;
tossing this and that
into the pot;
seasoning none of my life
the same way twice; happy to feed
whoever strays my way.
He would have grown
to admire
the woman I’ve become:
cooking, writing, chopping wood,
staring into the fire.
- Alice Walker
.
!