Best Famous Rocker Poems

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

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• All Famous Rocker Poems

Written by Anne Sexton | 45 Mercy Street In my dream, drilling into the marrow of my entire bone, my real dream, I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill searching for a street sign -- namely MERCY STREET. Not there. I try the Back Bay. Not there. Not there. And yet I know the number. 45 Mercy Street. I know the stained-glass window of the foyer, the three flights of the house with its parquet floors. I know the furniture and mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, the servants. I know the cupboard of Spode the boat of ice, solid silver, where the butter sits in neat squares like strange giant's teeth on the big mahogany table. I know it well. Not there. Where did you go? 45 Mercy Street, with great-grandmother kneeling in her whale-bone corset and praying gently but fiercely to the wash basin, at five A. M. at noon dozing in her wiggy rocker, grandfather taking a nap in the pantry, grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid, and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower on her forehead to cover the curl of when she was good and when she was. . . And where she was begat and in a generation the third she will beget, me, with the stranger's seed blooming into the flower called Horrid. I walk in a yellow dress and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes, enough pills, my wallet, my keys, and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five? I walk. I walk. I hold matches at street signs for it is dark, as dark as the leathery dead and I have lost my green Ford, my house in the suburbs, two little kids sucked up like pollen by the bee in me and a husband who has wiped off his eyes in order not to see my inside out and I am walking and looking and this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime. Pull the shades down -- I don't care! Bolt the door, mercy, erase the number, rip down the street sign, what can it matter, what can it matter to this cheapskate who wants to own the past that went out on a dead ship and left me only with paper? Not there. I open my pocketbook, as women do, and fish swim back and forth between the dollars and the lipstick. I pick them out, one by one and throw them at the street signs, and shoot my pocketbook into the Charles River. Next I pull the dream off and slam into the cement wall of the clumsy calendar I live in, my life, and its hauled up notebooks.

Written by David Lehman | October 16 What can you say about the Mets down three games to none one run down with six outs to go Cedeno singles steals second Mora walks they pull off a double steal and Olerud singles them home off the previously unhittable John Rocker (look at his eyes, he's so intense he looks cross-eyed) and we're still alive and I'm still fourteen years old and the kids in the movie about summer camp are beatniks and this is the 1960s the early 1960s of Maury Wills on the basepaths and Ray Charles on the radio and chemistry biology geometry locker-room cruelty and daily masturbation what a relief to return to 1999 in time for Benitez to strike out the Braves' last batter

Written by Anne Sexton | That Day This is the desk I sit at and this is the desk where I love you too much and this is the typewriter that sits before me where yesterday only your body sat before me with its shoulders gathered in like a Greek chorus, with its tongue like a king making up rules as he goes, with its tongue quite openly like a cat lapping milk, with its tongue -- both of us coiled in its slippery life. That was yesterday, that day. That was the day of your tongue, your tongue that came from your lips, two openers, half animals, half birds caught in the doorway of your heart. That was the day I followed the king's rules, passing by your red veins and your blue veins, my hands down the backbone, down quick like a firepole, hands between legs where you display your inner knowledge, where diamond mines are buried and come forth to bury, come forth more sudden than some reconstructed city. It is complete within seconds, that monument. The blood runs underground yet brings forth a tower. A multitude should gather for such an edifice. For a miracle one stands in line and throws confetti. Surely The Press is here looking for headlines. Surely someone should carry a banner on the sidewalk. If a bridge is constructed doesn't the mayor cut a ribbon? If a phenomenon arrives shouldn't the Magi come bearing gifts? Yesterday was the day I bore gifts for your gift and came from the valley to meet you on the pavement. That was yesterday, that day. That was the day of your face, your face after love, close to the pillow, a lullaby. Half asleep beside me letting the old fashioned rocker stop, our breath became one, became a child-breath together, while my fingers drew little o's on your shut eyes, while my fingers drew little smiles on your mouth, while I drew I LOVE YOU on your chest and its drummer and whispered, "Wake up!" and you mumbled in your sleep, "Sh. We're driving to Cape Cod. We're heading for the Bourne Bridge. We're circling the Bourne Circle. " Bourne! Then I knew you in your dream and prayed of our time that I would be pierced and you would take root in me and that I might bring forth your born, might bear the you or the ghost of you in my little household. Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

Written by Robert William Service | Lost "Black is the sky, but the land is white-- (O the wind, the snow and the storm!)-- Father, where is our boy to-night? Pray to God he is safe and warm. " "Mother, mother, why should you fear? Safe is he, and the Arctic moon Over his cabin shines so clear-- Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon. " "It's getting dark awful sudden. Say, this is mighty *****! Where in the world have I got to? It's still and black as a tomb. I reckoned the camp was yonder, I figured the trail was here-- Nothing! Just draw and valley packed with quiet and gloom; Snow that comes down like feathers, thick and gobby and gray; Night that looks spiteful ugly--seems that I've lost my way. "The cold's got an edge like a jackknife--it must be forty below; Leastways that's what it seems like--it cuts so fierce to the bone. The wind's getting real ferocious; it's heaving and whirling the snow; It shrieks with a howl of fury, it dies away to a moan; Its arms sweep round like a banshee's, swift and icily white, And buffet and blind and beat me. Lord! it's a hell of a night. "I'm all tangled up in a blizzard. There's only one thing to do-- Keep on moving and moving; it's death, it's death if I rest. Oh, God! if I see the morning, if only I struggle through, I'll say the prayers I've forgotten since I lay on my mother's breast. I seem going round in a circle; maybe the camp is near. Say! did somebody holler? Was it a light I saw? Or was it only a notion? I'll shout, and maybe they'll hear-- No! the wind only drowns me--shout till my throat is raw. "The boys are all round the camp-fire wondering when I'll be back. They'll soon be starting to seek me; they'll scarcely wait for the light. What will they find, I wonder, when they come to the end of my track-- A hand stuck out of a snowdrift, frozen and stiff and white. That's what they'll strike, I reckon; that's how they'll find their pard, A pie-faced corpse in a snowbank--curse you, don't be a fool! Play the game to the finish; bet on your very last card; Nerve yourself for the struggle. Oh, you coward, keep cool! I'm going to lick this blizzard; I'm going to live the night. It can't down me with its bluster--I'm not the kind to be beat. On hands and knees will I buck it; with every breath will I fight; It's life, it's life that I fight for--never it seemed so sweet. I know that my face is frozen; my hands are numblike and dead; But oh, my feet keep a-moving, heavy and hard and slow; They're trying to kill me, kill me, the night that's black overhead, The wind that cuts like a razor, the whipcord lash of the snow. Keep a-moving, a-moving; don't, don't stumble, you fool! Curse this snow that's a-piling a-purpose to block my way. It's heavy as gold in the rocker, it's white and fleecy as wool; It's soft as a bed of feathers, it's warm as a stack of hay. Curse on my feet that slip so, my poor tired, stumbling feet; I guess they're a job for the surgeon, they feel so queerlike to lift-- I'll rest them just for a moment--oh, but to rest is sweet! The awful wind cannot get me, deep, deep down in the drift. " "Father, a bitter cry I heard, Out of the night so dark and wild. Why is my heart so strangely stirred? 'Twas like the voice of our erring child. " "Mother, mother, you only heard A waterfowl in the locked lagoon-- Out of the night a wounded bird-- Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon. " Who is it talks of sleeping? I'll swear that somebody shook Me hard by the arm for a moment, but how on earth could it be? See how my feet are moving--awfully funny they look-- Moving as if they belonged to a someone that wasn't me. The wind down the night's long alley bowls me down like a pin; I stagger and fall and stagger, crawl arm-deep in the snow. Beaten back to my corner, how can I hope to win? And there is the blizzard waiting to give me the knockout blow. Oh, I'm so warm and sleepy! No more hunger and pain. Just to rest for a moment; was ever rest such a joy? Ha! what was that? I'll swear it, somebody shook me again; Somebody seemed to whisper: "Fight to the last, my boy. " Fight! That's right, I must struggle. I know that to rest means death; Death, but then what does death mean? --ease from a world of strife. Life has been none too pleasant; yet with my failing breath Still and still must I struggle, fight for the gift of life. * * * * * Seems that I must be dreaming! Here is the old home trail; Yonder a light is gleaming; oh, I know it so well! The air is scented with clover; the cattle wait by the rail; Father is through with the milking; there goes the supper-bell. * * * * * Mother, your boy is crying, out in the night and cold; Let me in and forgive me, I'll never be bad any more: I'm, oh, so sick and so sorry: please, dear mother, don't scold-- It's just your boy, and he wants you. . . . Mother, open the door. . . . "Father, father, I saw a face Pressed just now to the window-pane! Oh, it gazed for a moment's space, Wild and wan, and was gone again!" "Mother, mother, you saw the snow Drifted down from the maple tree (Oh, the wind that is sobbing so! Weary and worn and old are we)-- Only the snow and a wounded loon-- Rest and sleep, 'twill be morning soon. "

Written by Carl Sandburg | Manitoba Childe Roland LAST night a January wind was ripping at the shingles over our house and whistling a wolf song under the eaves. I sat in a leather rocker and read to a six-year-old girl the Browning poem, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came. And her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful to her and she could not understand. A man is crossing a big prairie, says the poem, and nothing happens—and he goes on and on—and it’s all lonesome and empty and nobody home. And he goes on and on—and nothing happens—and he comes on a horse’s skull, dry bones of a dead horse—and you know more than ever it’s all lonesome and empty and nobody home. And the man raises a horn to his lips and blows—he fixes a proud neck and forehead toward the empty sky and the empty land—and blows one last wonder-cry. And as the shuttling automatic memory of man clicks off its results willy-nilly and inevitable as the snick of a mouse-trap or the trajectory of a 42-centimeter projectile, I flash to the form of a man to his hips in snow drifts of Manitoba and Minnesota—in the sled derby run from Winnipeg to Minneapolis. He is beaten in the race the first day out of Winnipeg—the lead dog is eaten by four team mates—and the man goes on and on—running while the other racers ride—running while the other racers sleep— Lost in a blizzard twenty-four hours, repeating a circle of travel hour after hour—fighting the dogs who dig holes in the snow and whimper for sleep—pushing on—running and walking five hundred miles to the end of the race—almost a winner—one toe frozen, feet blistered and frost-bitten. And I know why a thousand young men of the Northwest meet him in the finishing miles and yell cheers—I know why judges of the race call him a winner and give him a special prize even though he is a loser. I know he kept under his shirt and around his thudding heart amid the blizzards of five hundred miles that one last wonder-cry of Childe Roland—and I told the six-year-old girl all about it. And while the January wind was ripping at the shingles and whistling a wolf song under the eaves, her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful to her and she could not understand.

Written by James Whitcomb Riley | Granny Granny's come to our house, And ho! my lawzy-daisy! All the childern round the place Is ist a-runnin' crazy! Fetched a cake fer little Jake, And fetched a pie fer Nanny, And fetched a pear fer all the pack That runs to kiss their Granny! Lucy Ellen's in her lap, And Wade and Silas Walker Both's a-ridin' on her foot, And 'Pollos on the rocker; And Marthy's twins, from Aunt Marinn's, And little Orphant Annie, All's a-eatin' gingerbread And giggle-un at Granny! Tells us all the fairy tales Ever thought er wundered -- And 'bundance o' other stories -- Bet she knows a hunderd! -- Bob's the one fer "Whittington," And "Golden Locks" fer Fanny! Hear 'em laugh and clap their hands, Listenin' at Granny! "Jack the Giant-Killer" 's good; And "Bean-Stalk" 's another! -- So's the one of "Cinderell'" And her old godmother; -- That-un's best of all the rest -- Bestest one of any, -- Where the mices scampers home Like we runs to Granny! Granny's come to our house, Ho! my lawzy-daisy! All the childern round the place Is ist a-runnin' crazy! Fetched a cake fer little Jake, And fetched a pie fer Nanny, And fetched a pear fer all the pack That runs to kiss their Granny!