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Best Famous Molly Poems

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

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Written by Sharon Olds | Create an image from this poem

The Pact

 We played dolls in that house where Father staggered with the
Thanksgiving knife, where Mother wept at noon into her one ounce of
cottage cheese, praying for the strength not to
kill herself.
We kneeled over the rubber bodies, gave them baths carefully, scrubbed their little orange hands, wrapped them up tight, said goodnight, never spoke of the woman like a gaping wound weeping on the stairs, the man like a stuck buffalo, baffled, stunned, dragging arrows in his side.
As if we had made a pact of silence and safety, we kneeled and dressed those tiny torsos with their elegant belly-buttons and minuscule holes high on the buttock to pee through and all that darkness in their open mouths, so that I have not been able to forgive you for giving your daughter away, letting her go at eight as if you took Molly Ann or Tiny Tears and held her head under the water in the bathinette until no bubbles rose, or threw her dark rosy body on the fire that burned in that house where you and I barely survived, sister, where we swore to be protectors.


Written by Etheridge Knight | Create an image from this poem

Dark Prophecy: I Sing Of Shine

 And, yeah brothers
while white America sings about the unsinkable molly brown
(who was hustling the titanic
when it went down)
I sing to thee of Shine
the stoker who was hip enough to flee the fucking ship
and let the white folks drown
with screams on their lips
(jumped his black *** into the dark sea, Shine did,
broke free from the straining steel).
Yeah, I sing to thee of Shine and how the millionaire banker stood on the deck and pulled from his pockets a million dollar check saying Shine Shine save poor me and I'll give you all the money a black boy needs— how Shine looked at the money and then at the sea and said jump in muthafucka and swim like me— and Shine swam on—Shine swam on— and how the banker's daughter ran naked on the deck with her pink **** trembling and her pants roun her neck screaming Shine Shine save poor me and I'll give you all the pussy a black boy needs— how Shine said now pussy is good and that's no jive but you got to swim not **** to stay alive— And Shine swam on Shine Swam on— How Shine swam past a preacher afloating on a board crying save me ****** Shine in the name of the Lord— and how the preacher grabbed Shine's arm and broke his stroke— how Shine pulled his shank and cut the preacher's throat— And Shine swam on—Shine swam on— And when news hit shore that the titanic had sunk Shine was up in Harlem damn near drunk—
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Alarm

 In Memory of one of the Writer's Family who was a Volunteer during the War
with Napoleon

In a ferny byway
Near the great South-Wessex Highway,
A homestead raised its breakfast-smoke aloft;
The dew-damps still lay steamless, for the sun had made no sky-way,
And twilight cloaked the croft.
'Twas hard to realize on This snug side the mute horizon That beyond it hostile armaments might steer, Save from seeing in the porchway a fair woman weep with eyes on A harnessed Volunteer.
In haste he'd flown there To his comely wife alone there, While marching south hard by, to still her fears, For she soon would be a mother, and few messengers were known there In these campaigning years.
'Twas time to be Good-bying, Since the assembly-hour was nighing In royal George's town at six that morn; And betwixt its wharves and this retreat were ten good miles of hieing Ere ring of bugle-horn.
"I've laid in food, Dear, And broached the spiced and brewed, Dear; And if our July hope should antedate, Let the char-wench mount and gallop by the halterpath and wood, Dear, And fetch assistance straight.
"As for Buonaparte, forget him; He's not like to land! But let him, Those strike with aim who strike for wives and sons! And the war-boats built to float him; 'twere but wanted to upset him A slat from Nelson's guns! "But, to assure thee, And of creeping fears to cure thee, If he should be rumored anchoring in the Road, Drive with the nurse to Kingsbere; and let nothing thence allure thee Till we've him safe-bestowed.
"Now, to turn to marching matters:-- I've my knapsack, firelock, spatters, Crossbelts, priming-horn, stock, bay'net, blackball, clay, Pouch, magazine, flints, flint-box that at every quick-step clatters; .
.
.
My heart, Dear; that must stay!" --With breathings broken Farewell was kissed unspoken, And they parted there as morning stroked the panes; And the Volunteer went on, and turned, and twirled his glove for token, And took the coastward lanes.
When above He'th Hills he found him, He saw, on gazing round him, The Barrow-Beacon burning--burning low, As if, perhaps, uplighted ever since he'd homeward bound him; And it meant: Expect the Foe! Leaving the byway, And following swift the highway, Car and chariot met he, faring fast inland; "He's anchored, Soldier!" shouted some: "God save thee, marching thy way, Th'lt front him on the strand!" He slowed; he stopped; he paltered Awhile with self, and faltered, "Why courting misadventure shoreward roam? To Molly, surely! Seek the woods with her till times have altered; Charity favors home.
"Else, my denying He would come she'll read as lying-- Think the Barrow-Beacon must have met my eyes-- That my words were not unwareness, but deceit of her, while trying My life to jeopardize.
"At home is stocked provision, And to-night, without suspicion, We might bear it with us to a covert near; Such sin, to save a childing wife, would earn it Christ's remission, Though none forgive it here!" While thus he, thinking, A little bird, quick drinking Among the crowfoot tufts the river bore, Was tangled in their stringy arms, and fluttered, well-nigh sinking, Near him, upon the moor.
He stepped in, reached, and seized it, And, preening, had released it But that a thought of Holy Writ occurred, And Signs Divine ere battle, till it seemed him Heaven had pleased it As guide to send the bird.
"O Lord, direct me!.
.
.
Doth Duty now expect me To march a-coast, or guard my weak ones near? Give this bird a flight according, that I thence know to elect me The southward or the rear.
" He loosed his clasp; when, rising, The bird--as if surmising-- Bore due to southward, crossing by the Froom, And Durnover Great-Field and Fort, the soldier clear advising-- Prompted he wist by Whom.
Then on he panted By grim Mai-Don, and slanted Up the steep Ridge-way, hearkening betwixt whiles, Till, nearing coast and harbor, he beheld the shore-line planted With Foot and Horse for miles.
Mistrusting not the omen, He gained the beach, where Yeomen, Militia, Fencibles, and Pikemen bold, With Regulars in thousands, were enmassed to meet the Foemen, Whose fleet had not yet shoaled.
Captain and Colonel, Sere Generals, Ensigns vernal, Were there, of neighbor-natives, Michel, Smith, Meggs, Bingham, Gambier, Cunningham, roused by the hued nocturnal Swoop on their land and kith.
But Buonaparte still tarried; His project had miscarried; At the last hour, equipped for victory, The fleet had paused; his subtle combinations had been parried By British strategy.
Homeward returning Anon, no beacons burning, No alarms, the Volunteer, in modest bliss, Te Deum sang with wife and friends: "We praise Thee, Lord, discerning That Thou hast helped in this!"
Written by Edward Lear | Create an image from this poem

Dd Dolly

D

d

Dolly, Molly, Polly, Nolly, Nursy dolly, Little doll!

Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Dead Heart

 After I wrote this, a friend scrawled on this page, "Yes.
" And I said, merely to myself, "I wish it could be for a different seizure--as with Molly Bloom and her ‘and yes I said yes I will Yes.
" It is not a turtle hiding in its little green shell.
It is not a stone to pick up and put under your black wing.
It is not a subway car that is obsolete.
It is not a lump of coal that you could light.
It is a dead heart.
It is inside of me.
It is a stranger yet once it was agreeable, opening and closing like a clam.
What it has cost me you can't imagine, shrinks, priests, lovers, children, husbands, friends and all the lot.
An expensive thing it was to keep going.
It gave back too.
Don't deny it! I half wonder if April would bring it back to life? A tulip? The first bud? But those are just musings on my part, the pity one has when one looks at a cadaver.
How did it die? I called it EVIL.
I said to it, your poems stink like vomit.
I didn't stay to hear the last sentence.
It died on the word EVIL.
It did it with my tongue.
The tongue, the Chinese say, is like a sharp knife: it kills without drawing blood.


Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

Coffee And Tea

 

Molly, my sister and I fell out,
And what do you think it was all about?
She loved coffee and I loved tea,
And that was the reason we couldn't agree.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Philanderer

 Oh, have you forgotten those afternoons
With riot of roses and amber skies,
When we thrilled to the joy of a million Junes,
And I sought for your soul in the deeps of your eyes?
I would love you, I promised, forever and aye,
And I meant it too; yet, oh, isn't it odd?
When we met in the Underground to-day
I addressed you as Mary instead of as Maude.
Oh, don't you remember that moonlit sea, With us on a silver trail afloat, When I gracefully sank on my bended knee At the risk of upsetting our little boat? Oh, I vowed that my life was blighted then, As friendship you proffered with mournful mien; But now as I think of your children ten, I'm glad you refused me, Evangeline.
Oh, is that moment eternal still When I breathed my love in your shell-like ear, And you plucked at your fan as a maiden will, And you blushed so charmingly, Guenivere? Like a worshiper at your feet I sat; For a year and a day you made me mad; But now, alas! you are forty, fat, And I think: What a lucky escape I had! Oh, maidens I've set in a sacred shrine, Oh, Rosamond, Molly and Mignonette, I've deemed you in turn the most divine, In turn you've broken my heart .
.
.
and yet It's easily mended.
What's past is past.
To-day on Lucy I'm going to call; For I'm sure that I know true love at last, And She is the fairest girl of all.