Best Famous Notices Poems

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

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• All Famous Notices Poems

Written by Charles Bukowski | We Aint Got No Money Honey But We Got Rain call it the greenhouse effect or whatever but it just doesn't rain like it used to. I particularly remember the rains of the depression era. there wasn't any money but there was plenty of rain. it wouldn't rain for just a night or a day, it would RAIN for 7 days and 7 nights and in Los Angeles the storm drains weren't built to carry off taht much water and the rain came down THICK and MEAN and STEADY and you HEARD it banging against the roofs and into the ground waterfalls of it came down from roofs and there was HAIL big ROCKS OF ICE bombing exploding smashing into things and the rain just wouldn't STOP and all the roofs leaked- dishpans, cooking pots were placed all about; they dripped loudly and had to be emptied again and again. the rain came up over the street curbings, across the lawns, climbed up the steps and entered the houses. there were mops and bathroom towels, and the rain often came up through the toilets:bubbling, brown, crazy,whirling, and all the old cars stood in the streets, cars that had problems starting on a sunny day, and the jobless men stood looking out the windows at the old machines dying like living things out there. the jobless men, failures in a failing time were imprisoned in their houses with their wives and children and their pets. the pets refused to go out and left their waste in strange places. the jobless men went mad confined with their once beautiful wives. there were terrible arguments as notices of foreclosure fell into the mailbox. rain and hail, cans of beans, bread without butter;fried eggs, boiled eggs, poached eggs; peanut butter sandwiches, and an invisible chicken in every pot. my father, never a good man at best, beat my mother when it rained as I threw myself between them, the legs, the knees, the screams until they seperated. "I'll kill you," I screamed at him. "You hit her again and I'll kill you!" "Get that son-of-a-bitching kid out of here!" "no, Henry, you stay with your mother!" all the households were under seige but I believe that ours held more terror than the average. and at night as we attempted to sleep the rains still came down and it was in bed in the dark watching the moon against the scarred window so bravely holding out most of the rain, I thought of Noah and the Ark and I thought, it has come again. we all thought that. and then, at once, it would stop. and it always seemed to stop around 5 or 6 a. m. , peaceful then, but not an exact silence because things continued to drip drip drip and there was no smog then and by 8 a. m. there was a blazing yellow sunlight, Van Gogh yellow- crazy, blinding! and then the roof drains relieved of the rush of water began to expand in the warmth: PANG!PANG!PANG! and everybody got up and looked outside and there were all the lawns still soaked greener than green will ever be and there were birds on the lawn CHIRPING like mad, they hadn't eaten decently for 7 days and 7 nights and they were weary of berries and they waited as the worms rose to the top, half drowned worms. the birds plucked them up and gobbled them down;there were blackbirds and sparrows. the blackbirds tried to drive the sparrows off but the sparrows, maddened with hunger, smaller and quicker, got their due. the men stood on their porches smoking cigarettes, now knowing they'd have to go out there to look for that job that probably wasn't there, to start that car that probably wouldn't start. and the once beautiful wives stood in their bathrooms combing their hair, applying makeup, trying to put their world back together again, trying to forget that awful sadness that gripped them, wondering what they could fix for breakfast. and on the radio we were told that school was now open. and soon there I was on the way to school, massive puddles in the street, the sun like a new world, my parents back in that house, I arrived at my classroom on time. Mrs. Sorenson greeted us with, "we won't have our usual recess, the grounds are too wet. " "AW!" most of the boys went. "but we are going to do something special at recess," she went on, "and it will be fun!" well, we all wondered what that would be and the two hour wait seemed a long time as Mrs. Sorenson went about teaching her lessons. I looked at the little girls, they looked so pretty and clean and alert, they sat still and straight and their hair was beautiful in the California sunshine. the the recess bells rang and we all waited for the fun. then Mrs. Sorenson told us: "now, what we are going to do is we are going to tell each other what we did during the rainstorm! we'll begin in the front row and go right around! now, Michael, you're first!. . . " well, we all began to tell our stories, Michael began and it went on and on, and soon we realized that we were all lying, not exactly lying but mostly lying and some of the boys began to snicker and some of the girls began to give them dirty looks and Mrs. Sorenson said, "all right! I demand a modicum of silence here! I am interested in what you did during the rainstorm even if you aren't!" so we had to tell our stories and they were stories. one girl said that when the rainbow first came she saw God's face at the end of it. only she didn't say which end. one boy said he stuck his fishing pole out the window and caught a little fish and fed it to his cat. almost everybody told a lie. the truth was just too awful and embarassing to tell. then the bell rang and recess was over. "thank you," said Mrs. Sorenson, "that was very nice. and tomorrow the grounds will be dry and we will put them to use again. " most of the boys cheered and the little girls sat very straight and still, looking so pretty and clean and alert, their hair beautiful in a sunshine that the world might never see again. and

Written by Margaret Atwood | The City Planners Cruising these residential Sunday streets in dry August sunlight: what offends us is the sanities: the houses in pedantic rows, the planted sanitary trees, assert levelness of surface like a rebuke to the dent in our car door. No shouting here, or shatter of glass; nothing more abrupt than the rational whine of a power mower cutting a straight swath in the discouraged grass. But though the driveways neatly sidestep hysteria by being even, the roofs all display the same slant of avoidance to the hot sky, certain things: the smell of spilled oil a faint sickness lingering in the garages, a splash of paint on brick surprising as a bruise, a plastic hose poised in a vicious coil; even the too-fixed stare of the wide windows give momentary access to the landscape behind or under the future cracks in the plaster when the houses, capsized, will slide obliquely into the clay seas, gradual as glaciers that right now nobody notices. That is where the City Planners with the insane faces of political conspirators are scattered over unsurveyed territories, concealed from each other, each in his own private blizzard; guessing directions, they sketch transitory lines rigid as wooden borders on a wall in the white vanishing air tracing the panic of suburb order in a bland madness of snows

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | The Scapegoat We have all of us read how the Israelites fled From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put "in the soup" When the waters rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em. The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had" That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad. You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo -- Whence comes the expression "to buck against faro". For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears In deserts with never a famine to follow by, The Israelite horde went roaming abroad Like so many sundowners "out on the wallaby". When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, Was dying, he murmured, "A rorty old hoss you are: I give you command of the whole of the band" -- And handed the Government over to Joshua. But Moses told 'em before he died, "Wherever you are, whatever betide, Every year as the time draws near By lot or by rote choose you a goat, And let the high priest confess on the beast The sins of the people the worst and the least, Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer. Because all your sins are 'his troubles' in future. Then lead him away to the wilderness black To die with the weight of your sins on his back: Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!" 'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity. By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate; Just here let us note -- Did they choose their best goat? It's food for conjecture, to judge from the picture By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose Was a long way from being their choicest Angora. In fact I should think he was one of their weediest: 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers. Be that as it may, as each year passed away, a scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) And left there -- to die as his fancy dictated. The day it has come, with trumpet and drum. With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb They lead the old billy-goat off to his doom: On every hand a reverend band, Prophets and preachers and elders stand And the oldest rabbi, with a tear in his eye, Delivers a sermon to all standing by. (We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee. ) The sermon was marked by a deal of humility And pointed the fact, with no end of ability. That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well. Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him. With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -- "Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" Then signs to his pal "for to let the brute go". (That "pal" as I've heard, is an elegant word, Derived from the Persian "Palaykhur" or "Pallaghur"), As the scapegoat strains and tugs at the reins The Rabbi yells rapidly, "Let her go, Gallagher!" The animal, freed from all restraint Lowered his head, made a kind of feint, And charged straight at that elderly saint. So fierce his attack and so very severe, it Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, Was rammed on the -- no, not the back -- but just near it. The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, A light-hearted antelope "out on the ramp", Then stopped, looked around, got the "lay of the ground", And made a beeline back again to the camp. The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast So gallantly making his way to the east, Says he, "From the tents may I never more roam again If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again. He's hurrying, too! This never will do. Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew. After all our confessions, so openly granted, He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted. We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" He turned to an Acolyte who was making his bacca light, A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light. "Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, And drive back the brute to the desert again. The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids will frown on you, From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you -- Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you. " So Abraham ran, like a man did he go for him, But the goat made it clear each time he drew near That he had what the racing men call "too much toe" for him. The crowd with great eagerness studied the race -- "Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace -- And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him. The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four! He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!" But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion. ('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), "It's a hard race," said he, "and I think it would be A good thing for someone to take up the running. " As soon said as done, they started to run -- The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit. And then it came out, as the rabble and rout Streamed over the desert with many a shout -- The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, Had been in his youth a bold metallician, And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, "Any price Abraham! Evens the field!" Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, And Abraham proved him an "even time" man, But the goat -- now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on -- Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon. Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, And paling and wall he plasters them all, "I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat," he says, The pulls out his bills, "Use Solomon's Pills" "Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children and all, For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!!" Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side Was the scapegoat: And eating his latest advertisement! One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!" And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst. His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, But the goat stayed behind him -- and "scoffed up" the paste. With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, The people came back from the desert in dread. "The goat -- was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?" In very short order they got plenty word of him. In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, "The trail of the serpent was over them all. " A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "butter". The bill-sticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, But his latest achievement most anger arouses, For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flow'r-bed, Discovered him eating the Rabbi's geraniums. Moral The moral is patent to all the beholders -- Don't shift your own sins on to other folks' shoulders; Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them: Take their lives if needs must -- when it comes to the worst, But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst. Remember, no matter how far you may roam That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens, Their talent stupendous for "getting back home". Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it, But, die in the wilderness! Don't you believe it!

Written by Mark Hillringhouse | Woolworths for Greg Fallon A kid yells "*************" out the school bus window. I don't think anyone notices the afternoon clouds turning pink along the horizon, sunlight dripping down the stone facades, the ancient names of old stores fading like the last century above the street, above the Spandex women who adjust their prize buttocks, sweating in the sun as I wonder how this city that has no more memory of itself than a river has of rain, survives. Is it just a matter of time, or that peasant woman who tugs my sleeve demanding "peseta" from every passing stranger: I can still smell the hotdog counter and the pretzel carousel. I loved the sound of birds as I entered, the watery bubbles from aquarium filters over by the plants. If I imagined like a child walking with my mother, the store part rainforest, and closed my eyes I was in som tropical country: that feathered blue against the orange of forgotten sunsets after the rain-washed streets erased the footprints of tired mothers who waited in line under the red and gold transom to cash their welfare checks. And maybe we're all feeling the same rage, seeing the up-turned fish tanks stacked against the parakeet cages, sunlight catching on the twisted wire between the shabbiness of an emptied storefront, rays of sunlight poking in to finger the dusty hollowness of barren shelves. Or maybe it's the cheap Plexiglas above the Chinese lettering or the sound of car alarms and sirens blaring us back. The city dead in me swaying down these aisles, like everything else that fell from my life. I walk down Main Street trying to regain my balance behind the men who walk home from sweaty jobs with clenched fists and the women who follow them pulling their children like dogs in the rain.

Written by Stephen Dunn | With No Experience In Such Matters To hold a damaged sparrow under water until you feel it die is to know a small something about the mind; how, for example, it blames the cat for the original crime, how it wants praise for its better side. And yet it's as human as pulling the plug on your Dad whose world has turned to feces and fog, human as-- Well, let's admit, it's a mild thing as human things go. But I felt the one good wing flutter in my palm-- the smallest protest, if that's what it was, I ever felt or heard. Reminded me of how my eyelid has twitched, the need to account for it. Hard to believe no one notices.

Written by Wang Wei | A SONG OF A GIRL FROM LOYANG There's a girl from Loyang in the door across the street, She looks fifteen, she may be a little older. . . . While her master rides his rapid horse with jade bit an bridle, Her handmaid brings her cod-fish in a golden plate. On her painted pavilions, facing red towers, Cornices are pink and green with peach-bloom and with willow, Canopies of silk awn her seven-scented chair, And rare fans shade her, home to her nine-flowered curtains. Her lord, with rank and wealth and in the bud of life, Exceeds in munificence the richest men of old. He favours this girl of lowly birth, he has her taught to dance; And he gives away his coral-trees to almost anyone. The wind of dawn just stirs when his nine soft lights go out, Those nine soft lights like petals in a flying chain of flowers. Between dances she has barely time for singing over the songs; No sooner is she dressed again than incense burns before her. Those she knows in town are only the rich and the lavish, And day and night she is visiting the hosts of the gayest mansions. . . . Who notices the girl from Yue with a face of white jade, Humble, poor, alone, by the river, washing silk?

Written by Nick Flynn | Cartoon Physics Part 1 Children under, say, ten, shouldn't know that the universe is ever-expanding, inexorably pushing into the vacuum, galaxies swallowed by galaxies, whole solar systems collapsing, all of it acted out in silence. At ten we are still learning the rules of cartoon animation, that if a man draws a door on a rock only he can pass through it. Anyone else who tries will crash into the rock. Ten-year-olds should stick with burning houses, car wrecks, ships going down -- earthbound, tangible disasters, arenas where they can be heroes. You can run back into a burning house, sinking ships have lifeboats, the trucks will come with their ladders, if you jump you will be saved. A child places her hand on the roof of a schoolbus, & drives across a city of sand. She knows the exact spot it will skid, at which point the bridge will give, who will swim to safety & who will be pulled under by sharks. She will learn that if a man runs off the edge of a cliff he will not fall until he notices his mistake.

Written by Philip Larkin | The School In August The cloakroom pegs are empty now, And locked the classroom door, The hollow desks are lined with dust, And slow across the floor A sunbeam creeps between the chairs Till the sun shines no more. Who did their hair before this glass? Who scratched 'Elaine loves Jill' One drowsy summer sewing-class With scissors on the sill? Who practised this piano Whose notes are now so still? Ah, notices are taken down, And scorebooks stowed away, And seniors grow tomorrow From the juniors today, And even swimming groups can fade, Games mistresses turn grey.

Written by Russell Edson | The Marionettes Of Distant Masters A pianist dreams that he's hired by a wrecking company to ruin a piano with his fingers . . . On the day of the piano wrecking concert, as he's dressing, he notices a butterfly annoying a flower in his window box. He wonders if the police should be called. Then he thinks maybe the butterfly is just a marionette being manipulated by its master from the window above. Suddenly everything is beautiful. He begins to cry. Then another butterfly begins to annoy the first butterfly. He again wonders if he shouldn't call the police. But, perhaps they are marionette-butterflies? He thinks they are, belonging to rival masters seeing whose butterfly can annoy the other's the most. And this is happening in his window box. The Cosmic Plan: Distant Masters manipulating minor Masters who, in turn, are manipulating tiny butterfly-Masters who, in turn, are manipulating him . . . A universe webbed with strings! Suddenly it is all so beautiful; the light is strange . . . Something about the light! He begins to cry . . .

Written by Elizabeth Smart | O Poor People Let us invoke a healthy heart-breaking Towards the horrible world: Let us say 0 poor people How can they help being so absurd, Misguided, abused, misled? With unsifted saving graces jostling about On a mucky medley of needs, Like love-lit ****, Year after cyclic year The unidentifiable flying god is missed. Emotions sit in their heads disguised as judges, Or are twisted to look like mathematical formulae, And only a scarce god-given scientist notices His trembling lip melting the heart of the rat. Whoever gave us the idea somebody loved us? Far in our wounded depths faint memories cry, A vision flickers below subliminally But immanence looms unbearably: TURN IT OFF! they hiss.