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Best Famous Propelled Poems

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

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The Threat

 my mother pushed my sister out of the apartment door with an empty 
suitcase because she kept threatening to run away my sister was sick of me
getting the best of everything the bathrobe with the pink stripes instead of 
the red the soft middle piece of bread while she got the crust I was sick with 
asthma and she thought this made me a favorite

I wanted to be like the girl in the made-for-tv movie Maybe I'll Come Home
in the Spring which was supposed to make you not want to run away but it 
looked pretty fun especially all of the agony it put your parents through and 
the girl was in California or someplace warm with a boyfriend and they
always found good food in the dumpsters at least they could eat pizza and 
candy and not meat loaf the runaway actress was Sally Field or at least
someone who looked like Sally Field as a teenager the Flying Nun propelled 
by the huge wings on the sides of her wimple Arnold the Pig getting drafted
in Green Acres my understanding then of Vietnam I read Go Ask Alice and 
The Peter Pan Bag books that were designed to keep a young girl home but 
there were the sex scenes and if anything this made me want to cut my hair 
with scissors in front of the mirror while I was high on marijuana but I
couldn't inhale because of my lungs my sister was the one to pass out
behind the church for both of us rum and angel dust

and that's how it was my sister standing at the top of all those stairs that 
lead up to the apartment and she pushed down the empty suitcase that
banged the banister and wall as it tumbled and I was crying on the other side 
of the door because I was sure it was my sister who fell all ketchup blood and 
stuck out bones my mother wouldn't let me open the door to let my sister 
back in I don't know if she knew it was just the suitcase or not she was cold 
rubbing her sleeves a mug of coffee in her hand and I had to decide she said I 
had to decide right then

Written by Wystan Hugh (W H) Auden |

On the Circuit

Among pelagian travelers,Lost on their lewd conceited wayTo Massachusetts, Michigan,Miami or L.A., An airborne instrument I sit,Predestined nightly to fulfillColumbia-Giesen-Management'sUnfathomable will, By whose election justified,I bring my gospel of the MuseTo fundamentalists, to nuns,to Gentiles and to Jews, And daily, seven days a week,Before a local sense has jelled,From talking-site to talking-siteAm jet-or-prop-propelled. Though warm my welcome everywhere,I shift so frequently, so fast,I cannot now say where I wasThe evening before last, Unless some singular eventShould intervene to save the place,A truly asinine remark,A soul-bewitching face, Or blessed encounter, full of joy,Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan,With, here, an addict of Tolkien,There, a Charles Williams fan. Since Merit but a dunghill is,I mount the rostrum unafraid:Indeed, 'twere damnable to askIf I am overpaid. Spirit is willing to repeatWithout a qualm the same old talk,But Flesh is homesick for our snugApartment in New York. A sulky fifty-six, he findsA change of mealtime utter hell,Grown far too crotchety to likeA luxury hotel. The Bible is a goodly bookI always can peruse with zest,But really cannot say the sameFor Hilton's Be My Guest. Nor bear with equanimityThe radio in students' cars,Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!--Girl-organists in bars. Then, worst of all, the anxious thought,Each time my plane begins to sinkAnd the No Smoking sign comes on:What will there be to drink?Is this a milieu where I mustHow grahamgreeneish! How infra dig!Snatch from the bottle in my bagAn analeptic swig? Another morning comes: I see,Dwindling below me on the plane,The roofs of one more audienceI shall not see again. God bless the lot of them, althoughI don't remember which was which:God bless the U.S.A., so large,So friendly, and so rich.

Written by Rg Gregory |

uganda cry

 i have lost touch over the years
with the hot africa inside me

illness and all - i spread to root
in the red earth siphoned the sun

loved the black inflections of my eyes
cut callow cords and found new forms

felt free to fashion and freely raised
orchards of feelings where the groves

were rife with desiccated pens
but all the time my ears insistent to

the sounds of england harping at
my back rehearsing self's return

and i came back propelled against
the growing grains inside - to wring

futures from a skin the times had sloughed
and now (eleven years since then)

uganda's gone its own way into grief
and many i must have taught amin

has killed - i rush about my own concerns
unable to erupt the loathing that

consumes all rational response
but lost to know the meeting point

for what uganda opened out in me
and what now lacerates its dreams

uganda (victim to a white
man's piece of chalk) now victim to
a gloated bitterness in black
your griefs have swamped the nile

and i lounge here (a long way home)
disturbed and pillowed by these words