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Best Famous How I Feel Poems

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

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Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Boola-Boola Maid

 In the wilds of Madagascar, Dwelt a Boola-boola maid;
For her hand young men would ask her, But she always was afraid.
Oh that Boola-boola maid She was living in the shade Of a spreading Yum-yum tree; And - when the day was done At the setting of the sun, She would make this melodee: As this ditty she was cooing, Came a Boola-boola man; And he lost no time in wooing; For he punched her on the pan.
Oh that Boola-boola maid She was terribly afraid So he punched her on the eye; And - then he laugh'd with glee As beneath the Yum-yum tree He - heard that maiden cry: Then with shrieks of ribald laughter, Said the Boola-boola man; "If it's only socks you're after, I will do the best I can.
I have handed you a pair, And I've plenty more to spare," So he socked her on the nose; And a woeful maid was she, As beneath the Yum-yum tree, This - lamentation 'rose: Now the wedding tom-tom's over, for this Boola-boola maid; And when ev'ning shadows hover, She no longer is afraid.
For she weasrs a palm-leaf pinny And she rocks a pickaninny In the shade of the Yum-yum tree, And she's happy with her he-man, Though she still dreams of a She-man, As she sings this song with glee: Chorus: Oh - I don't want my cave-man to caress me, Oh I don't want no coal-black heads to press me.
All I want is a fellow who wears suspenders, That'll be the **** to whom this babe surenders.
For the man I wed must have a proper trouseau.
On none of your fig-leaf dudes will make me do so.
For it's funny how I feel, But I'm crazy for socks appeal And my dream is to marry a man with a pair of socks.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Seville

 My Pa and Ma their honeymoon
Passed in an Andulasian June,
And though produced in Drury Lane,
I must have been conceived in Spain.
Now having lapsed from fair estate, A coster's is my sorry fate; Yet on my barrow lo! I wheel The golden harvest of Saville.
"Sweet Spanish oranges!" I cry.
Ah! People deem not as they buy, That in a dream a steel guitar I strum beside the Alcázar, And at the Miralda I meet A signorita honey sweet, And stroll beneath the silver moon Like Pa and Ma that magic June.
Alack-a-day! I fear I'll never Behold the golden Guadalquivir; Yet here in Brixton how I feel My spiritual home's Saville; And hold the hope that some day I Will visit there, if just to die; Feeling I have not lived in vain To crown my days in sunny Spain.
Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 120: Foes I sniff when I have less to shout

 Foes I sniff, when I have less to shout
or murmur.
Pals alone enormous sounds downward & up bring real.
Loss, deaths, terror.
Over & out, beloved: thanks for cabbage on my wounds: I'll feed you how I feel:— of avocado moist with lemon, yea formaldehyde & rotting sardines O in our appointed time I would I could a touch more fully say my consentless mind.
The senses are below, which in this air sublime do I repudiate.
But foes I sniff! My nose in all directions! I be so brave I creep into an Arctic cave for the rectal temperature of the biggest bear, hibernating—in my left hand sugar.
I totter to the lip of the cliff.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

You Cant Can Love

 I don't know how the fishes feel, but I can't help thinking it odd,
That a gay young flapper of a female eel should fall in love with a cod.
Yet - that's exactly what she did and it only goes to prove, That' what evr you do you can't put the lid on that crazy feeling Love.
Now that young tom-cod was a dreadful rake, and he had no wish to wed, But he feared that her foolish heart would break, so this is what he said: "Some fellows prize a woman's eyes, and some admire her lips, While some have a taste for a tiny waist, but - me, what I like is HIPS.
" "So you see, my dear," said that gay tom-cod, "Exactly how I feel; Oh I hate to be unkind but I know my mind, and there ain't no hips on an eel.
" "Alas! that's true," said the foolish fish, as she blushed to her finny tips: "And with might and main, though it gives me pain, I'll try to develop hips.
" So day and night with all her might she physical culturized; But alas and alack, in the middle of her back no hump she recognized.
So - then she knew that her love eclipse was fated from the start; For you never yet saw an eel with hips, so she died of a broken heart.
Chorus: Oh you've gotta hand it out to Love, to Love you can't can Love You'll find it from the bottom of the briny deep to the blue above.
From the Belgin hare to the Polar Bear, and the turtle dove, You can look where you please, But from elephant to fleas, You'll never put the lid on Love.
You can look where you choose, But from crabs to kangaroos, You'll never put the lid on Love.
You can look where you like, But from polywogs to pike, You'll never put the lid on Love.
You can look where you please, But from buffalo to bees, You'll never put the lid on Love.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Wood-Cutter

 The sky is like an envelope,
 One of those blue official things;
 And, sealing it, to mock our hope,
 The moon, a silver wafer, clings.
What shall we find when death gives leave To read--our sentence or reprieve? I'm holding it down on God's scrap-pile, up on the ***-end of earth; O'er me a menace of mountains, a river that grits at my feet; Face to face with my soul-self, weighing my life at its worth; Wondering what I was made for, here in my last retreat.
Last! Ah, yes, it's the finish.
Have ever you heard a man cry? (Sobs that rake him and rend him, right from the base of the chest.
) That's how I've cried, oh, so often; and now that my tears are dry, I sit in the desolate quiet and wait for the infinite Rest.
Rest! Well, it's restful around me; it's quiet clean to the core.
The mountains pose in their ermine, in golden the hills are clad; The big, blue, silt-freighted Yukon seethes by my cabin door, And I think it's only the river that keeps me from going mad.
By day it's a ruthless monster, a callous, insatiate thing, With oily bubble and eddy, with sudden swirling of breast; By night it's a writhing Titan, sullenly murmuring, Ever and ever goaded, and ever crying for rest.
It cries for its human tribute, but me it will never drown.
I've learned the lore of my river; my river obeys me well.
I hew and I launch my cordwood, and raft it to Dawson town, Where wood means wine and women, and, incidentally, hell.
Hell and the anguish thereafter.
Here as I sit alone I'd give the life I have left me to lighten some load of care: (The bitterest part of the bitter is being denied to atone; Lips that have mocked at Heaven lend themselves ill to prayer.
) Impotent as a beetle pierced on the needle of Fate; A wretch in a cosmic death-cell, peaks for my prison bars; 'Whelmed by a world stupendous, lonely and listless I wait, Drowned in a sea of silence, strewn with confetti of stars.
See! from far up the valley a rapier pierces the night, The white search-ray of a steamer.
Swiftly, serenely it nears; A proud, white, alien presence, a glittering galley of light, Confident-poised, triumphant, freighted with hopes and fears.
I look as one looks on a vision; I see it pulsating by; I glimpse joy-radiant faces; I hear the thresh of the wheel.
Hoof-like my heart beats a moment; then silence swoops from the sky.
Darkness is piled upon darkness.
God only knows how I feel.
Maybe you've seen me sometimes; maybe you've pitied me then-- The lonely waif of the wood-camp, here by my cabin door.
Some day you'll look and see not; futile and outcast of men, I shall be far from your pity, resting forevermore.
My life was a problem in ciphers, a weary and profitless sum.
Slipshod and stupid I worked it, dazed by negation and doubt.
Ciphers the total confronts me.
Oh, Death, with thy moistened thumb, Stoop like a petulant schoolboy, wipe me forever out!
Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

POSSESSION

Whose little lady is you, chile,
Whose little gal is you?
What's de use o' kiver'n up yo' face?
Chile, dat ain't de way to do.
Lemme see yo' little eyes,
Tek yo' little han's down nice,
Lawd, you wuff a million bills,
Huh uh, chile, dat ain't yo' price.
Honey, de money ain't been made
Dat dey could pay fu' you;
'T ain't no use a-biddin'; you too high
Fu' de riches' Jap er Jew.
Lemme see you smilin' now,
How dem teef o' yo'n do shine,
An' de t'ing dat meks me laff
Is dat all o' you is mine.
How 's I gwine to tell you how I feel,
How's I gwine to weigh yo' wuff?
Oh, you sholy is de sweetes' t'ing
Walkin' on dis blessed earf.
Possum is de sweetes' meat,
Cidah is the nices' drink,
But my little lady-bird
Is de bes' of all, I t'ink.
Talk erbout 'uligion he'pin' folks
All thoo de way o' life,
Gin de res' 'uligion, des' gin me
You, my little lady-wife.
Den de days kin come all ha'd,
[Pg 199]Den de nights kin come all black,
Des' you tek me by de han',
An' I'll stumble on de track.
Stumble on de way to Gawd, my chile,
Stumble on, an' mebbe fall;
But I'll keep a-trottin', while you lead on,
Pickin' an' a-trottin', dat's all.
Hol' me mighty tight, dough, chile,
Fu' hit's rough an' rocky lan',
Heaben 's at de en', I know,
So I's leanin' on yo' han'.