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Best Famous Honesty Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Honesty poems. This is a select list of the best famous Honesty poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Honesty poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of honesty poems.

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12
Written by Emanuel Xavier | Create an image from this poem

A SIMPLE POEM

 I want you to continue writing
because I will not always be around

With lips that will never touch mine
read your poems out loud
so that the words are left engraved 
on the wall
make me feel your voice rush through me
like a breeze from Oyá

I want to hear about Puerto Rico
about sisters with names like La Bruja
about educating youth about AIDS
I want to hear about life 
in the Boogie Down Bronx
surviving on the Down Low
don't leave out stories about men
you have loved and still love

I want you to write poems that you 
will never read
press hard on the paper 
so that the ink runs deep
hold the pen tight 
so that you control the details
prove to me that I inspire you
reveal yourself between the lines
hear my praise 
with each flicker of the candle
Write a poem for me

Do not choose a fresh page 
from a brand new journal
use paper that has been crumbled and tossed
thrown out by a spineless father 
only to be recycled
Save a tree for future poets to write under

Rewrite me into someone more attractive
stronger than life has made me
make me tough and sexy, 
aggressive like a tiger
stain the pages with cum, 
lube, the arousal you find
at the sight of naked boys, draw me sketches
bring the words to life with images
make me a man with this poem

Read it in front of the audience
with hidden messages just for me
be real and tell me why
I am only worth a haiku

Your epics are meant for others
I already know,
use red ink to match the blood 
from these wounds
with brutal honesty
let me die with your last sentence

Then resurrect me with rhyme
read from your gut
let me hear the wisdom of mi abuelo 
in your voice
let me find my father in you
remind me of all the men 
that left me broken promises

In your eyes I want to see a poem
when you bring me to tears
with painful memories
buried beneath your thick skin

Between teeth gapped like divas,
I want to hear quotes from books
I never read

Make me believe you want to be a poet

Make my heart break,
tell me why you could never love me
with just a few words
leave me lost and insecure
feel the admiration of others
bask in their desire
forget that I am there

Pound your fists in the air with passion
go off about politics, poverty, 
machismo and hate
scream poems that don't give a ****
about traditions, slamming or scores
save your whispers 
for those who make love to you

Write a poem for me 
that makes me want to puff a joint

A poem that loses control
unafraid to be vulnerable
for once just make me believe
it is all worth letting go
when the smoke clears
I will understand
the reason 
I am just another face 
in the crowd

I want you to continue writing
because I will not always be around
Written by David Berman | Create an image from this poem

Self-Portrait At 28

 I know it's a bad title
but I'm giving it to myself as a gift
on a day nearly canceled by sunlight
when the entire hill is approaching
the ideal of Virginia
brochured with goldenrod and loblolly
and I think "at least I have not woken up
with a bloody knife in my hand"
by then having absently wandered
one hundred yards from the house
while still seated in this chair
with my eyes closed.
It is a certain hill the one I imagine when I hear the word "hill" and if the apocalypse turns out to be a world-wide nervous breakdown if our five billion minds collapse at once well I'd call that a surprise ending and this hill would still be beautiful a place I wouldn't mind dying alone or with you.
I am trying to get at something and I want to talk very plainly to you so that we are both comforted by the honesty.
You see there is a window by my desk I stare out when I am stuck though the outdoors has rarely inspired me to write and I don't know why I keep staring at it.
My childhood hasn't made good material either mostly being a mulch of white minutes with a few stand out moments, popping tar bubbles on the driveway in the summer a certain amount of pride at school everytime they called it "our sun" and playing football when the only play was "go out long" are what stand out now.
If squeezed for more information I can remember old clock radios with flipping metal numbers and an entree called Surf and Turf.
As a way of getting in touch with my origins every night I set the alarm clock for the time I was born so that waking up becomes a historical reenactment and the first thing I do is take a reading of the day and try to flow with it like when you're riding a mechanical bull and you strain to learn the pattern quickly so you don't inadverantly resist it.
II two I can't remember being born and no one else can remember it either even the doctor who I met years later at a cocktail party.
It's one of the little disappointments that makes you think about getting away going to Holly Springs or Coral Gables and taking a room on the square with a landlady whose hands are scored by disinfectant, telling the people you meet that you are from Alaska, and listen to what they have to say about Alaska until you have learned much more about Alaska than you ever will about Holly Springs or Coral Gables.
Sometimes I am buying a newspaper in a strange city and think "I am about to learn what it's like to live here.
" Oftentimes there is a news item about the complaints of homeowners who live beside the airport and I realize that I read an article on this subject nearly once a year and always receive the same image.
I am in bed late at night in my house near the airport listening to the jets fly overhead a strange wife sleeping beside me.
In my mind, the bedroom is an amalgamation of various cold medicine commercial sets (there is always a box of tissue on the nightstand).
I know these recurring news articles are clues, flaws in the design though I haven't figured out how to string them together yet, but I've begun to notice that the same people are dying over and over again, for instance Minnie Pearl who died this year for the fourth time in four years.
III three Today is the first day of Lent and once again I'm not really sure what it is.
How many more years will I let pass before I take the trouble to ask someone? It reminds of this morning when you were getting ready for work.
I was sitting by the space heater numbly watching you dress and when you asked why I never wear a robe I had so many good reasons I didn't know where to begin.
If you were cool in high school you didn't ask too many questions.
You could tell who'd been to last night's big metal concert by the new t-shirts in the hallway.
You didn't have to ask and that's what cool was: the ability to deduct to know without asking.
And the pressure to simulate coolness means not asking when you don't know, which is why kids grow ever more stupid.
A yearbook's endpages, filled with promises to stay in touch, stand as proof of the uselessness of a teenager's promise.
Not like I'm dying for a letter from the class stoner ten years on but.
.
.
Do you remember the way the girls would call out "love you!" conveniently leaving out the "I" as if they didn't want to commit to their own declarations.
I agree that the "I" is a pretty heavy concept and hope you won't get uncomfortable if I should go into some deeper stuff here.
IV four There are things I've given up on like recording funny answering machine messages.
It's part of growing older and the human race as a group has matured along the same lines.
It seems our comedy dates the quickest.
If you laugh out loud at Shakespeare's jokes I hope you won't be insulted if I say you're trying too hard.
Even sketches from the original Saturday Night Live seem slow-witted and obvious now.
It's just that our advances are irrepressible.
Nowadays little kids can't even set up lemonade stands.
It makes people too self-conscious about the past, though try explaining that to a kid.
I'm not saying it should be this way.
All this new technology will eventually give us new feelings that will never completely displace the old ones leaving everyone feeling quite nervous and split in two.
We will travel to Mars even as folks on Earth are still ripping open potato chip bags with their teeth.
Why? I don't have the time or intelligence to make all the connections like my friend Gordon (this is a true story) who grew up in Braintree Massachusetts and had never pictured a brain snagged in a tree until I brought it up.
He'd never broken the name down to its parts.
By then it was too late.
He had moved to Coral Gables.
V five The hill out my window is still looking beautiful suffused in a kind of gold national park light and it seems to say, I'm sorry the world could not possibly use another poem about Orpheus but I'm available if you're not working on a self-portrait or anything.
I'm watching my dog have nightmares, twitching and whining on the office floor and I try to imagine what beast has cornered him in the meadow where his dreams are set.
I'm just letting the day be what it is: a place for a large number of things to gather and interact -- not even a place but an occasion a reality for real things.
Friends warned me not to get too psychedelic or religious with this piece: "They won't accept it if it's too psychedelic or religious," but these are valid topics and I'm the one with the dog twitching on the floor possibly dreaming of me that part of me that would beat a dog for no good reason no reason that a dog could see.
I am trying to get at something so simple that I have to talk plainly so the words don't disfigure it and if it turns out that what I say is untrue then at least let it be harmless like a leaky boat in the reeds that is bothering no one.
VI six I can't trust the accuracy of my own memories, many of them having blended with sentimental telephone and margarine commercials plainly ruined by Madison Avenue though no one seems to call the advertising world "Madison Avenue" anymore.
Have they moved? Let's get an update on this.
But first I have some business to take care of.
I walked out to the hill behind our house which looks positively Alaskan today and it would be easier to explain this if I had a picture to show you but I was with our young dog and he was running through the tall grass like running through the tall grass is all of life together until a bird calls or he finds a beer can and that thing fills all the space in his head.
You see, his mind can only hold one thought at a time and when he finally hears me call his name he looks up and cocks his head and for a single moment my voice is everything: Self-portrait at 28.
Written by Robinson Jeffers | Create an image from this poem

The Deer Lay Down Their Bones

 I followed the narrow cliffside trail half way up the mountain
Above the deep river-canyon.
There was a little cataract crossed the path, flinging itself Over tree roots and rocks, shaking the jeweled fern-fronds, bright bubbling water Pure from the mountain, but a bad smell came up.
Wondering at it I clam- bered down the steep stream Some forty feet, and found in the midst of bush-oak and laurel, Hung like a bird's nest on the precipice brink a small hidden clearing, Grass and a shallow pool.
But all about there were bones Iying in the grass, clean bones and stinking bones, Antlers and bones: I understood that the place was a refuge for wounded deer; there are so many Hurt ones escape the hunters and limp away to lie hidden; here they have water for the awful thirst And peace to die in; dense green laurel and grim cliff Make sanctuary, and a sweet wind blows upward from the deep gorge.
--I wish my bones were with theirs.
But that's a foolish thing to confess, and a little cowardly.
We know that life Is on the whole quite equally good and bad, mostly gray neutral, and can be endured To the dim end, no matter what magic of grass, water and precipice, and pain of wounds, Makes death look dear.
We have been given life and have used it--not a great gift perhaps--but in honesty Should use it all.
Mine's empty since my love died--Empty? The flame- haired grandchild with great blue eyes That look like hers?--What can I do for the child? I gaze at her and wonder what sort of man In the fall of the world .
.
.
I am growing old, that is the trouble.
My chil- dren and little grandchildren Will find their way, and why should I wait ten years yet, having lived sixty- seven, ten years more or less, Before I crawl out on a ledge of rock and die snapping, like a wolf Who has lost his mate?--I am bound by my own thirty-year-old decision: who drinks the wine Should take the dregs; even in the bitter lees and sediment New discovery may lie.
The deer in that beautiful place lay down their bones: I must wear mine.
Written by David Herbert Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

Worm Either Way

 If you live along with all the other people 
and are just like them, and conform, and are nice 
you're just a worm -- 

and if you live with all the other people 
and you don't like them and won't be like them and won't conform 
then you're just the worm that has turned, 
in either case, a worm.
The conforming worm stays just inside the skin respectably unseen, and cheerfully gnaws away at the heart of life, making it all rotten inside.
The unconforming worm -- that is, the worm that has turned -- gnaws just the same, gnawing the substance out of life, but he insists on gnawing a little hole in the social epidermis and poking his head out and waving himself and saying: Look at me, I am not respectable, I do all the things the bourgeois daren't do, I booze and fornicate and use foul language and despise your honest man.
-- But why should the worm that has turned protest so much? The bonnie bonnie bourgeois goes a-whoring up back streets just the same.
The busy busy bourgeois imbibes his little share just the same if not more.
The pretty pretty bourgeois pinks his language just as pink if not pinker, and in private boasts his exploits even louder, if you ask me, than the other.
While as to honesty, Oh look where the money lies! So I can't see where the worm that has turned puts anything over the worm that is too cunning to turn.
On the contrary, he merely gives himself away.
The turned worm shouts.
I bravely booze! the other says.
Have one with me! The turned worm boasts: I copulate! the unturned says: You look it.
You're a d----- b----- b----- p----- bb-----, says the worm that's turned.
Quite! says the other.
Cuckoo!
Written by Mari Evans | Create an image from this poem

Speak the Truth to the People

Speak the truth to the people
Talk sense to the people
Free them with honesty
Free the people with Love and Courage for their Being
Spare them the fantasy
Fantasy enslaves
A slave is enslaved
Can be enslaved by unwisdom
Can be re-enslaved while in flight from the enemy
Can be enslaved by his brother whom he loves
His brother whom he trusts whom he loves
His brother whom he trusts
His brother with the loud voice
And the unwisdom
Speak the truth to the people
It is not necessary to green the heart
Only to identify the enemy
It is not necessary to blow the mind
Only to free the mind
To identify the enemy is to free the mind
A free mind has no need to scream

A free mind is ready for other things

To BUILD black schools
To BUILD black children
To BUILD black minds
To BUILD black love
To BUILD black impregnability
To BUILD a strong black nation
To BUILD

Speak the truth to the people
Spare them the opium of devil-hate
They need no trips on honky-chants.

Move them instead to a BLACK ONENESS.

A black strength which will defend its own
Needing no cacophony of screams for activation
A black strength which will attack the laws
exposes the lies, disassembles the structure
and ravages the very foundation of evil.
Speak the truth to the people
To identify the enemy is to free the mind
Free the mind of the people
Speak to the mind of the people
Speak Truth
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

A Carol

 Our Lord Who did the Ox command
 To kneel to Judah's King,
He binds His frost upon the land
 To ripen it for Spring --
To ripen it for Spring, good sirs,
 According to His Word.
Which well must be as ye can see -- And who shall judge the Lord? When we poor fenmen skate the ice Or shiver on the wold, We hear the cry of a single tree That breaks her heart in the cold -- That breaks her heart in the cold, good sirs, And rendeth by the board.
Which well must be as ye can see -- And who shall judge the Lord? Her wood is crazed and little worth Excepting as to burn, That we may warm and make our mirth Until the Spring return -- Until the Spring return, good sirs, When Christians walk abroad; When well must be as ye can see -- And who shall judge the Lord? God bless the master of this house, And all who sleep therein! And guard the fens from pirate folk, And keep us all from sin, To walk in honesty, good sirs, Of thought and deed ad word! Which shall befriend our latter end.
.
.
.
And who shall judge the Lord?
Written by John Wilmot | Create an image from this poem

Tunbridge Wells

 At five this morn, when Phoebus raised his head
From Thetis' lap, I raised myself from bed,
And mounting steed, I trotted to the waters
The rendesvous of fools, buffoons, and praters,
Cuckolds, whores, citizens, their wives and daughters.
My squeamish stomach I with wine had bribed To undertake the dose that was prescribed; But turning head, a sudden curséd view That innocent provision overthrew, And without drinking, made me purge and spew.
From coach and six a thing unweildy rolled, Whose lumber, card more decently would hold.
As wise as calf it looked, as big as bully, But handled, proves a mere Sir Nicholas Cully; A bawling fop, a natural Nokes, and yet He dares to censure as if he had wit.
To make him more ridiculous, in spite Nature contrived the fool should be a knight.
Though he alone were dismal signet enough, His train contributed to set him off, All of his shape, all of the selfsame stuff.
No spleen or malice need on them be thrown: Nature has done the business of lampoon, And in their looks their characters has shown.
Endeavoring this irksome sight to balk, And a more irksome noise, their silly talk, I silently slunk down t' th' Lower Walk, But often when one would Charybdis shun, Down upon Scilla 'tis one's fate to run, For here it was my curséd luck to find As great a fop, though of another kind, A tall stiff fool that walked in Spanish guise: The buckram puppet never stirred its eyes, But grave as owl it looked, as woodcock wise.
He scorns the empty talking of this mad age, And speaks all proverbs, sentences, and adage; Can with as much solemnity buy eggs As a cabal can talk of their intrigues; Master o' th' Ceremonies, yet can dispense With the formality of talking sense.
From hence unto the upper walk I ran, Where a new scene of foppery began.
A tribe of curates, priests, canonical elves, Fit company for none besides themselves, Were got together.
Each his distemper told, Scurvy, stone, strangury; some were so bold To charge the spleen to be their misery, And on that wise disease brought infamy.
But none had modesty enough t' complain Their want of learning, honesty, and brain, The general diseases of that train.
These call themselves ambassadors of heaven, And saucily pretend commissions given; But should an Indian king, whose small command Seldom extends beyond ten miles of land, Send forth such wretched tools in an ambassage, He'd find but small effects of such a message.
Listening, I found the cob of all this rabble Pert Bays, with his importance comfortable.
He, being raised to an archdeaconry By trampling on religion, liberty, Was grown to great, and looked too fat and jolly, To be disturbed with care and melancholy, Though Marvell has enough exposed his folly.
He drank to carry off some old remains His lazy dull distemper left in 's veins.
Let him drink on, but 'tis not a whole flood Can give sufficient sweetness to his blood To make his nature of his manners good.
Next after these, a fulsome Irish crew Of silly Macs were offered to my view.
The things did talk, but th' hearing what they said I did myself the kindness to evade.
Nature has placed these wretches beneath scorn: They can't be called so vile as they are born.
Amidst the crowd next I myself conveyed, For now were come, whitewash and paint being laid, Mother and daughter, mistress and the maid, And squire with wig and pantaloon displayed.
But ne'er could conventicle, play, or fair For a true medley, with this herd compare.
Here lords, knights, squires, ladies and countesses, Chandlers, mum-bacon women, sempstresses Were mixed together, nor did they agree More in their humors than their quality.
Here waiting for gallant, young damsel stood, Leaning on cane, and muffled up in hood.
The would-be wit, whose business was to woo, With hat removed and solemn scrape of shoe Advanceth bowing, then genteelly shrugs, And ruffled foretop into order tugs, And thus accosts her: "Madam, methinks the weather Is grown much more serene since you came hither.
You influence the heavens; but should the sun Withdraw himself to see his rays outdone By your bright eyes, they would supply the morn, And make a day before the day be born.
" With mouth screwed up, conceited winking eyes, And breasts thrust forward, "Lord, sir!" she replies.
"It is your goodness, and not my deserts, Which makes you show this learning, wit, and parts.
" He, puzzled, butes his nail, both to display The sparkling ring, and think what next to say, And thus breaks forth afresh: "Madam, egad! Your luck at cards last night was very bad: At cribbage fifty-nine, and the next show To make the game, and yet to want those two.
God damn me, madam, I'm the son of a whore If in my life I saw the like before!" To peddler's stall he drags her, and her breast With hearts and such-like foolish toys he dressed; And then, more smartly to expound the riddle Of all his prattle, gives her a Scotch fiddle.
Tired with this dismal stuff, away I ran Where were two wives, with girl just fit for man - Short-breathed, with pallid lips and visage wan.
Some curtsies past, and the old compliment Of being glad to see each other, spent, With hand in hand they lovingly did walk, And one began thus to renew the talk: "I pray, good madam, if it may be thought No rudeness, what cause was it hither brought Your ladyship?" She soon replying, smiled, "We have a good estate, but have no child, And I'm informed these wells will make a barren Woman as fruitful as a cony warren.
" The first returned, "For this cause I am come, For I can have no quietness at home.
My husband grumbles though we have got one, This poor young girl, and mutters for a son.
And this is grieved with headache, pangs, and throes; Is full sixteen, and never yet had those.
" She soon replied, "Get her a husband, madam: I married at that age, and ne'er had 'em; Was just like her.
Steel waters let alone: A back of steel will bring 'em better down.
" And ten to one but they themselves will try The same means to increase their family.
Poor foolish fribble, who by subtlety Of midwife, truest friend to lechery, Persuaded art to be at pains and charge To give thy wife occasion to enlarge Thy silly head! For here walk Cuff and Kick, With brawny back and legs and potent prick, Who more substantially will cure thy wife, And on her half-dead womb bestow new life.
From these the waters got the reputation Of good assistants unto generation.
Some warlike men were now got into th' throng, With hair tied back, singing a bawdy song.
Not much afraid, I got a nearer view, And 'twas my chance to know the dreadful crew.
They were cadets, that seldom can appear: Damned to the stint of thirty pounds a year.
With hawk on fist, or greyhound led in hand, The dogs and footboys sometimes they command.
But now, having trimmed a cast-off spavined horse, With three hard-pinched-for guineas in their purse, Two rusty pistols, scarf about the ****, Coat lined with red, they here presume to swell: This goes for captain, that for colonel.
So the Bear Garden ape, on his steed mounted, No longer is a jackanapes accounted, But is, by virtue of his trumpery, then Called by the name of "the young gentleman.
" Bless me! thought I, what thing is man, that thus In all his shapes, he is ridiculous? Ourselves with noise of reason we do please In vain: humanity's our worst disease.
Thrice happy beasts are, who, because they be Of reason void, and so of foppery.
Faith, I was so ashamed that with remorse I used the insolence to mount my horse; For he, doing only things fit for his nature, Did seem to me by much the wiser creature.
Written by Robinson Jeffers | Create an image from this poem

Shiva

 There is a hawk that is picking the birds out of our sky,
She killed the pigeons of peace and security,
She has taken honesty and confidence from nations and men,
She is hunting the lonely heron of liberty.
She loads the arts with nonsense, she is very cunning Science with dreams and the state with powers to catch them at last.
Nothing will escape her at last, flying nor running.
This is the hawk that picks out the star's eyes.
This is the only hunter that will ever catch the wild swan; The prey she will take last is the wild white swan of the beauty of things.
Then she will be alone, pure destruction, achieved and supreme, Empty darkness under the death-tent wings.
She will build a nest of the swan's bones and hatch a new brood, Hang new heavens with new birds, all be renewed.
Written by Bob Hicok | Create an image from this poem

Another Awkward Stage Of Convalescence

 Drunk, I kissed the moon
where it stretched on the floor.
I'd removed happiness from a green bottle, both sipped and gulped just as a river changes its mind, mostly there was a flood in my mouth because I wanted to love the toaster as soon as possible, and the toothbrush with multi-level brissels created by dental science, and the walls holding pictures in front of their faces to veil the boredom of living fifty years without once turning the other way.
I wanted the halo a cheap beaujolais paints over everything like artists gave the holy before perspective was invented, and for a moment thought in the glow of fermented bliss that the bending of spoons by the will was inevitable, just as the dark-skinned would kiss the light-skinned and those with money and lakefront homes would open their verandas and offer trays of cucumber sandwiches to the poor scuttling along the fringes of their lawns looking for holes in the concertina wire.
Of course I had to share this ocean of acceptance and was soon on the phone with a woman from Nogales whose hips had gone steady with mine.
I told her I was over her by pretending I was just a friend calling to say the Snow Drops had nuzzled through dirt to shake their bells in April wind.
This threw her off the scent of my anguish as did the cement mixer of my voice, as did the long pause during which I memorized her breathing and stared at my toes like we were still together, reading until out eyes slid from the page and books fell off the bed to pound their applause as our tongues searched each others' body.
When she said she had to go like a cop telling a bum to move on, I began drinking downhill, with speed that grew its own speed, and fixed on this image with a flagellant's zeal, how she, returning to bed, cupped her lover's crotch and whispered not to worry, it was no one on the phone, and proved again how forgotten I'd become while I, bent over the cold confessional, listened to the night's sole point of honesty.
Written by Bertolt Brecht | Create an image from this poem

How Fortunate The Man With None

 You saw sagacious Solomon
You know what came of him,
To him complexities seemed plain.
He cursed the hour that gave birth to him And saw that everything was vain.
How great and wise was Solomon.
The world however did not wait But soon observed what followed on.
It's wisdom that had brought him to this state.
How fortunate the man with none.
You saw courageous Caesar next You know what he became.
They deified him in his life Then had him murdered just the same.
And as they raised the fatal knife How loud he cried: you too my son! The world however did not wait But soon observed what followed on.
It's courage that had brought him to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.
You heard of honest Socrates The man who never lied: They weren't so grateful as you'd think Instead the rulers fixed to have him tried And handed him the poisoned drink.
How honest was the people's noble son.
The world however did not wait But soon observed what followed on.
It's honesty that brought him to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.
Here you can see respectable folk Keeping to God's own laws.
So far he hasn't taken heed.
You who sit safe and warm indoors Help to relieve our bitter need.
How virtuously we had begun.
The world however did not wait But soon observed what followed on.
It's fear of god that brought us to that state.
How fortunate the man with none.
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