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Best Famous Run Off Poems

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

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Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

Wild Grapes

 What tree may not the fig be gathered from?  
The grape may not be gathered from the birch?
It's all you know the grape, or know the birch.
As a girl gathered from the birch myself Equally with my weight in grapes, one autumn, I ought to know what tree the grape is fruit of.
I was born, I suppose, like anyone, And grew to be a little boyish girl My brother could not always leave at home.
But that beginning was wiped out in fear The day I swung suspended with the grapes, And was come after like Eurydice And brought down safely from the upper regions; And the life I live now's an extra life I can waste as I please on whom I please.
So if you see me celebrate two birthdays, And give myself out of two different ages, One of them five years younger than I look- One day my brother led me to a glade Where a white birch he knew of stood alone, Wearing a thin head-dress of pointed leaves, And heavy on her heavy hair behind, Against her neck, an ornament of grapes.
Grapes, I knew grapes from having seen them last year.
One bunch of them, and there began to be Bunches all round me growing in white birches, The way they grew round Leif the Lucky's German; Mostly as much beyond my lifted hands, though, As the moon used to seem when I was younger, And only freely to be had for climbing.
My brother did the climbing; and at first Threw me down grapes to miss and scatter And have to hunt for in sweet fern and hardhack; Which gave him some time to himself to eat, But not so much, perhaps, as a boy needed.
So then, to make me wholly self-supporting, He climbed still higher and bent the tree to earth And put it in my hands to pick my own grapes.
"Here, take a tree-top, I'll get down another.
Hold on with all your might when I let go.
" I said I had the tree.
It wasn't true.
The opposite was true.
The tree had me.
The minute it was left with me alone It caught me up as if I were the fish And it the fishpole.
So I was translated To loud cries from my brother of "Let go! Don't you know anything, you girl? Let go!" But I, with something of the baby grip Acquired ancestrally in just such trees When wilder mothers than our wildest now Hung babies out on branches by the hands To dry or wash or tan, I don't know which, (You'll have to ask an evolutionist)- I held on uncomplainingly for life.
My brother tried to make me laugh to help me.
"What are you doing up there in those grapes? Don't be afraid.
A few of them won't hurt you.
I mean, they won't pick you if you don't them.
" Much danger of my picking anything! By that time I was pretty well reduced To a philosophy of hang-and-let-hang.
"Now you know how it feels," my brother said, "To be a bunch of fox-grapes, as they call them, That when it thinks it has escaped the fox By growing where it shouldn't-on a birch, Where a fox wouldn't think to look for it- And if he looked and found it, couldn't reach it- Just then come you and I to gather it.
Only you have the advantage of the grapes In one way: you have one more stem to cling by, And promise more resistance to the picker.
" One by one I lost off my hat and shoes, And still I clung.
I let my head fall back, And shut my eyes against the sun, my ears Against my brother's nonsense; "Drop," he said, "I'll catch you in my arms.
It isn't far.
" (Stated in lengths of him it might not be.
) "Drop or I'll shake the tree and shake you down.
" Grim silence on my part as I sank lower, My small wrists stretching till they showed the banjo strings.
"Why, if she isn't serious about it! Hold tight awhile till I think what to do.
I'll bend the tree down and let you down by it.
" I don't know much about the letting down; But once I felt ground with my stocking feet And the world came revolving back to me, I know I looked long at my curled-up fingers, Before I straightened them and brushed the bark off.
My brother said: "Don't you weigh anything? Try to weigh something next time, so you won't Be run off with by birch trees into space.
" It wasn't my not weighing anything So much as my not knowing anything- My brother had been nearer right before.
I had not taken the first step in knowledge; I had not learned to let go with the hands, As still I have not learned to with the heart, And have no wish to with the heart-nor need, That I can see.
The mind-is not the heart.
I may yet live, as I know others live, To wish in vain to let go with the mind- Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me That I need learn to let go with the heart.


Written by James Whitcomb Riley | Create an image from this poem

The Raggedy Man

 O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;
An' he opens the shed -- an' we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An' nen -- ef our hired girl says he can --
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann.
-- Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! W'y, The Raggedy Man -- he's ist so good, He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood; An' nen he spades in our garden, too, An' does most things 'at boys can't do.
-- He clumbed clean up in our big tree An' shooked a' apple down fer me -- An' 'nother 'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann -- An' 'nother 'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man.
-- Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! An' The Raggedy Man one time say he Pick' roast' rambos from a' orchurd-tree, An' et 'em -- all ist roast' an' hot! -- An' it's so, too! -- 'cause a corn-crib got Afire one time an' all burn' down On "The Smoot Farm," 'bout four mile from town -- On "The Smoot Farm"! Yes -- an' the hired han' 'At worked there nen 'uz The Raggedy Man! -- Ain't he the beatin'est Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind He'll be our "horsey," an' "haw" an' mind Ever'thing 'at you make him do -- An' won't run off -- 'less you want him to! I drived him wunst way down our lane An' he got skeered, when it 'menced to rain, An' ist rared up an' squealed and run Purt' nigh away! -- an' it's all in fun! Nen he skeered ag'in at a' old tin can .
.
.
Whoa! y' old runaway Raggedy Man! Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes, An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes: Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves, An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves: An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot, He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got, 'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann! Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man! Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! An' wunst, when The Raggedy Man come late, An' pigs ist root' thue the garden-gate, He 'tend like the pigs 'uz bears an' said, "Old Bear-shooter'll shoot 'em dead!" An' race' an' chase' 'em, an' they'd ist run When he pint his hoe at 'em like it's a gun An' go "Bang! -- Bang!" nen 'tend he stan' An' load up his gun ag'in! Raggedy Man! He's an old Bear-shooter Raggedy Man! Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! An' sometimes The Raggedy Man lets on We're little prince-children, an' old King's gone To git more money, an' lef' us there -- And Robbers is ist thick ever'where; An' nen -- ef we all won't cry, fer shore -- The Raggedy Man he'll come and "'splore The Castul-halls," an' steal the "gold" -- An' steal us, too, an' grab an' hold An' pack us off to his old "Cave"! -- An' Haymow's the "cave" o' The Raggedy Man! -- Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! The Raggedy Man -- one time, when he Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me, Says "When you're big like your Pa is, Air you go' to keep a fine store like his -- An' be a rich merchunt -- an' wear fine clothes? -- Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?" An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann, An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man! -- I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!" Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

A Star in a Stoneboat

 For Lincoln MacVeagh

Never tell me that not one star of all
That slip from heaven at night and softly fall
Has been picked up with stones to build a wall.
Some laborer found one faded and stone-cold, And saving that its weight suggested gold And tugged it from his first too certain hold, He noticed nothing in it to remark.
He was not used to handling stars thrown dark And lifeless from an interrupted arc.
He did not recognize in that smooth coal The one thing palpable besides the soul To penetrate the air in which we roll.
He did not see how like a flying thing It brooded ant eggs, and bad one large wing, One not so large for flying in a ring, And a long Bird of Paradise's tail (Though these when not in use to fly and trail It drew back in its body like a snail); Nor know that be might move it from the spot— The harm was done: from having been star-shot The very nature of the soil was hot And burning to yield flowers instead of grain, Flowers fanned and not put out by all the rain Poured on them by his prayers prayed in vain.
He moved it roughly with an iron bar, He loaded an old stoneboat with the star And not, as you might think, a flying car, Such as even poets would admit perforce More practical than Pegasus the horse If it could put a star back in its course.
He dragged it through the plowed ground at a pace But faintly reminiscent of the race Of jostling rock in interstellar space.
It went for building stone, and I, as though Commanded in a dream, forever go To right the wrong that this should have been so.
Yet ask where else it could have gone as well, I do not know—I cannot stop to tell: He might have left it lying where it fell.
From following walls I never lift my eye, Except at night to places in the sky Where showers of charted meteors let fly.
Some may know what they seek in school and church, And why they seek it there; for what I search I must go measuring stone walls, perch on perch; Sure that though not a star of death and birth, So not to be compared, perhaps, in worth To such resorts of life as Mars and Earth— Though not, I say, a star of death and sin, It yet has poles, and only needs a spin To show its worldly nature and begin To chafe and shuffle in my calloused palm And run off in strange tangents with my arm, As fish do with the line in first alarm.
Such as it is, it promises the prize Of the one world complete in any size That I am like to compass, fool or wise.
Written by Ntozake Shange | Create an image from this poem

Stuff

somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff ?not my poems or a dance i gave up in the street? but somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff

like a kleptomaniac workin hard & forgettin while stealin? this is mine/this aint yr stuff/?now why don’t you put me back & let me hang out in my own self

somebody almost walked off wit alla my stuff ; didn’t care enuf to send a note home sayin ?i was late for my solo conversation? or two sizes to small for my own tacky skirts

what can anybody do wit somethin of no value on?a open market/ did you getta dime for my things/?hey man/ where are you goin wid alla my stuff/?to ohh & ahh abt/ daddy/ i gotta mainline number ?from my own ****/ now wontcha put me back/ & let? me play this duet/ wit silver ring in my nose/?honest to god/

somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff/ ?& i didnt bring anythin but the kick & sway of it ?the perfect ass for my man & none of it is theirs ?this is mine/ ntozake ‘her own things’/ that’s my name? now give me my stuff/ i see ya hidin my laugh/ & how i?s it wif my legs open sometimes/ to give me ?some sunlight/ & there goes my love my toes my chewed ?up finger nails/ niggah/ wif the curls in yr hair/?mr. louisiana hot link/

i want my stuff back/?my rhythms & my voice/ open my mouth/ & let me talk ya ?outta/ throwin my **** in the sewar/ this is some delicate ?leg & whimsical kiss/ i gotta have to give to my choice/?without you runnin off wit alla my ****/?now you cant have me less i give me away/  i waz?doin all that/ til ya run off on a good thing/

who is this you left me wit/ some simple ***** ?widda bad attitude/ i wants my things/?i want my arm wit the hot iron scar/ & my leg wit the? flea bite/ i want my calloused feet & quik language back?in my mouth/ fried plantains/ pineapple pear juice/ ?sun-ra & joseph & jules/ i want my own things/ how i lived them/?& give me my memories/ how i waz when i waz there/?you cant have them or do nothin wit them/

stealin my **** from me/ dont make it yrs/ makes it stolen/?somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff/ & i waz standin? there/ lookin at myself/ the whole time ?& it waznt a spirit took my stuff/ waz a man whose ?ego walked round like Rodan’s shadow/ waz a man faster?n my innocence/

waz a lover/ i made too much ?room for/ almost run off wit alla my stuff/?& i didnt know i’d give it up so quik/ & the one runnin wit it/?don’t know he got it/ & i’m shoutin this is mine/ & he dont ?know he got it/ my stuff is the anonymous ripped off treasure? of the year/

did you know somebody almost got away wit me/?me in a plastic bag under their arm/ me ?danglin on a string of personal carelessness/ i’m spattered wit? mud & city rain/ & no i didnt get a chance to take a douche/?hey man/ this is not your prerogative/ i gotta have me in my? pocket/ to get round like a good woman shd/ & make the poem?in the pot or the chicken in the dance/

what i got to do/?i gotta get my stuff to do it to/?why dont ya find yr own things/ & leave this package ?of me for my destiny/ what ya got to get from me/?i’ll give it to ya/ yeh/ i’ll give it to ya/?round 5:00 in the winter/ when the sky is blue-red/?& Dew City is gettin pressed/ if it’s really my stuff/?ya gotta give it to me/ if ya really want it/ i’m ?the only one/ can handle it

-----By: Ntozake Shange. 
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Pannikin Poet

 There's nothing here sublime, 
But just a roving rhyme, 
Run off to pass the time, 
With nought titanic in.
The theme that it supports, And, though it treats of quarts, It's bare of golden thoughts -- It's just a pannikin.
I think it's rather hard That each Australian bard -- Each wan, poetic card -- With thoughts galvanic in His fiery thought alight, In wild aerial flight, Will sit him down and write About a pannikin.
He makes some new-chum fare From out his English lair To hunt the native bear, That curious mannikin; And then the times get bad That wandering English lad Writes out a message sad Upon his pannikin: "O mother, think of me Beneath the wattle tree" (For you may bet that he Will drag the wattle in) "O mother, here I think That I shall have to sink, There ain't a single drink The water-bottle in.
" The dingo homeward hies, The sooty crows uprise And caw their fierce surprise A tone Satanic in; And bearded bushmen tread Around the sleeper's head -- "See here -- the bloke is dead! Now where's his pannikin?" They read his words and weep, And lay him down to sleep Where wattle branches sweep, A style mechanic in; And, reader, that's the way The poets of today Spin out their little lay About a pannikin.


Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 64: Supreme my holdings greater yet my need

 Supreme my holdings, greater yet my need,
thoughtless I go out.
Dawn.
Have I my cig's, my flaskie O, O crystal cock,—my kneel has gone to seed,— and anybody's blessing? (Blast the MIGs for making funble so my tardy readying.
) Yes, utter' that.
Anybody's blessing? —Mr Bones, you makes too much démand.
I might be 'fording you a hat: it gonna rain.
—I knew a one of groans & greed & spite, of a crutch, who thought he had, a vile night, been-well-blest.
He see someone run off.
Why not Henry, with his grasp of desire? —Hear matters hard to manage at de best, Mr Bones.
Tween what we see, what be, is blinds.
Them blinds' on fire.