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Best Famous Slip In Poems

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

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Written by Stephen Dunn | Create an image from this poem

I Come Home Wanting To Touch Everyone

 The dogs greet me, I descend
into their world of fur and tongues
and then my wife and I embrace
as if we'd just closed the door
in a motel, our two girls slip in
between us and we're all saying
each other's names and the dogs
Buster and Sundown are on their hind legs,
people-style, seeking more love.
I've come home wanting to touch everyone, everything; usually I turn the key and they're all lost in food or homework, even the dogs are preoccupied with themselves, I desire only to ease back in, the mail, a drink, but tonight the body-hungers have sent out their long-range signals or love itself has risen from its squalor of neglect.
Everytime the kids turn their backs I touch my wife's breasts and when she checks the dinner the unfriendly cat on the dishwasher wants to rub heads, starts to speak with his little motor and violin-- everything, everyone is intelligible in the language of touch, and we sit down to dinner inarticulate as blood, all difficulties postponed because the weather is so good.


Written by Yusef Komunyakaa | Create an image from this poem

My Fathers Love Letters

 On Fridays he'd open a can of Jax
After coming home from the mill,
& ask me to write a letter to my mother
Who sent postcards of desert flowers
Taller than men.
He would beg, Promising to never beat her Again.
Somehow I was happy She had gone, & sometimes wanted To slip in a reminder, how Mary Lou Williams' "Polka Dots & Moonbeams" Never made the swelling go down.
His carpenter's apron always bulged With old nails, a claw hammer Looped at his side & extension cords Coiled around his feet.
Words rolled from under the pressure Of my ballpoint: Love, Baby, Honey, Please.
We sat in the quiet brutality Of voltage meters & pipe threaders, Lost between sentences .
.
.
The gleam of a five-pound wedge On the concrete floor Pulled a sunset Through the doorway of his toolshed.
I wondered if she laughed & held them over a gas burner.
My father could only sign His name, but he'd look at blueprints & say how many bricks Formed each wall.
This man, Who stole roses & hyacinth For his yard, would stand there With eyes closed & fists balled, Laboring over a simple word, almost Redeemed by what he tried to say.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Old Pardon the Son of Reprieve

 You never heard tell of the story? 
Well, now, I can hardly believe! 
Never heard of the honour and glory 
Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve? 
But maybe you're only a Johnnie 
And don't know a horse from a hoe? 
Well, well, don't get angry, my sonny, 
But, really, a young un should know.
They bred him out back on the "Never", His mother was Mameluke breed.
To the front -- and then stay there - was ever The root of the Mameluke creed.
He seemed to inherit their wiry Strong frames -- and their pluck to receive -- As hard as a flint and as fiery Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
We ran him at many a meeting At crossing and gully and town, And nothing could give him a beating -- At least when our money was down.
For weight wouldn't stop him, nor distance, Nor odds, though the others were fast; He'd race with a dogged persistence, And wear them all down at the last.
At the Turon the Yattendon filly Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half, And we all began to look silly, While her crowd were starting to laugh; But the old horse came faster and faster, His pluck told its tale, and his strength, He gained on her, caught her, and passed her, And won it, hands down, by a length.
And then we swooped down on Menindie To run for the President's Cup; Oh! that's a sweet township -- a shindy To them is board, lodging, and sup.
Eye-openers they are, and their system Is never to suffer defeat; It's "win, tie, or wrangle" -- to best 'em You must lose 'em, or else it's "dead heat".
We strolled down the township and found 'em At drinking and gaming and play; If sorrows they had, why they drowned 'em, And betting was soon under way.
Their horses were good uns and fit uns, There was plenty of cash in the town; They backed their own horses like Britons, And, Lord! how we rattled it down! With gladness we thought of the morrow, We counted our wages with glee, A simile homely to borrow -- "There was plenty of milk in our tea.
" You see we were green; and we never Had even a thought of foul play, Though we well might have known that the clever Division would "put us away".
Experience docet, they tell us, At least so I've frequently heard; But, "dosing" or "stuffing", those fellows Were up to each move on the board: They got to his stall -- it is sinful To think what such villains will do -- And they gave him a regular skinful Of barley -- green barley -- to chew.
He munched it all night, and we found him Next morning as full as a hog -- The girths wouldn't nearly meet round him; He looked like an overfed frog.
We saw we were done like a dinner -- The odds were a thousand to one Against Pardon turning up winner, 'Twas cruel to ask him to run.
We got to the course with our troubles, A crestfallen couple were we; And we heard the " books" calling the doubles -- A roar like the surf of the sea.
And over the tumult and louder Rang "Any price Pardon, I lay!" Says Jimmy, "The children of Judah Are out on the warpath today.
" Three miles in three heats: -- Ah, my sonny, The horses in those days were stout, They had to run well to win money; I don't see such horses about.
Your six-furlong vermin that scamper Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up, They wouldn't earn much of their damper In a race like the President's Cup.
The first heat was soon set a-going; The Dancer went off to the front; The Don on his quarters was showing, With Pardon right out of the hunt.
He rolled and he weltered and wallowed -- You'd kick your hat faster, I'll bet; They finished all bunched, and he followed All lathered and dripping with sweat.
But troubles came thicker upon us, For while we were rubbing him dry The stewards came over to warn us: "We hear you are running a bye! If Pardon don't spiel like tarnation And win the next heat -- if he can -- He'll earn a disqualification; Just think over that now, my man!" Our money all gone and our credit, Our horse couldn't gallop a yard; And then people thought that we did it It really was terribly hard.
We were objects of mirth and derision To folks in the lawn and the stand, Anf the yells of the clever division Of "Any price Pardon!" were grand.
We still had a chance for the money, Two heats remained to be run: If both fell to us -- why, my sonny, The clever division were done.
And Pardon was better, we reckoned, His sickness was passing away, So we went to the post for the second And principal heat of the day.
They're off and away with a rattle, Like dogs from the leashes let slip, And right at the back of the battle He followed them under the whip.
They gained ten good lengths on him quickly He dropped right away from the pack; I tell you it made me feel sickly To see the blue jacket fall back.
Our very last hope had departed -- We thought the old fellow was done, When all of a sudden he started To go like a shot from a gun.
His chances seemed slight to embolden Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set, We thought, "Now or never! The old un May reckon with some of 'em yet.
" Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon; He swept like the wind down the dip, And over the rise by the garden The jockey was done with the whip.
The field was at sixes and sevens -- The pace at the first had been fast -- And hope seemed to drop from the heavens, For Pardon was coming at last.
And how he did come! It was splendid; He gained on them yards every bound, Stretching out like a greyhound extended, His girth laid right down on the ground.
A shimmer of silk in the cedars As into the running they wheeled, And out flashed the whips on the leaders, For Pardon had collared the field.
Then right through the ruck he was sailing -- I knew that the battle was won -- The son of Haphazard was failing, The Yattendon filly was done; He cut down The Don and The Dancer, He raced clean away from the mare -- He's in front! Catch him now if you can, sir! And up went my hat in the air! Then loud fron the lawn and the garden Rose offers of "Ten to one on!" "Who'll bet on the field? I back Pardon!" No use; all the money was gone.
He came for the third heat light-hearted, A-jumping and dancing about; The others were done ere they started Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out.
He won it, and ran it much faster Than even the first, I believe; Oh, he was the daddy, the master, Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
He showed 'em the method of travel -- The boy sat still as a stone -- They never could see him for gravel; He came in hard-held, and alone.
* * * * * * * But he's old -- and his eyes are grown hollow Like me, with my thatch of the snow; When he dies, then I hope I may follow, And go where the racehorses go.
I don't want no harping nor singing -- Such things with my style don't agree; Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing There's music sufficient for me.
And surely the thoroughbred horses Will rise up again and begin Fresh faces on far-away courses, And p'raps they might let me slip in.
It would look rather well the race-card on 'Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things, "Angel Harrison's black gelding Pardon, Blue halo, white body and wings.
" And if they have racing hereafter, (And who is to say they will not?) When the cheers and the shouting and laughter Proclaim that the battle grows hot; As they come down the racecourse a-steering, He'll rush to the front, I believe; And you'll hear the great multitude cheering For Pardon, the son of Reprieve
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

This Night Slip In His Honor (after Komachi)

 This night slip, in his honor
flipped inside out – of lace-
edged netting – is the color
of Shaka Zulu’s face;

of panther flower at midnight
where crow and boa doze;
of vertigo and stage fright
in frail Ophelia’s clothes.
I wear it as a symbol.
Its ripped, Chantilly trim I fixed without a thimble, was pricked and bled for him.
A torn band may be mended, but what if he and I disband, no longer blended? My spine turned to the sky, reflecting on my dresser from mirror-fine sateens: the Great Bear with the Lesser… I dream of Shoji screens, and when desire becomes an overlaying itch, the throbbing in my thumbs untenable to stitch, sleek, fitted, with the passion of Shaka Zulu’s face, reversed and fringe-of-fashion, I put it on, in place of achromatic egrets, the vacant crystal ball.
Victoria has secrets.
I am her baby doll.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Secret of the Machines

 We were taken from the ore-bed and the mine,
 We were melted in the furnace and the pit--
We were cast and wrought and hammered to design,
 We were cut and filed and tooled and gauged to fit.
Some water, coal, and oil is all we ask, And a thousandth of an inch to give us play: And now, if you will set us to our task, We will serve you four and twenty hours a day! We can pull and haul and push and lift and drive, We can print and plough and weave and heat and light, We can run and race and swim and fly and dive, We can see and hear and count and read and write! Would you call a friend from half across the world? If you'll let us have his name and town and state, You shall see and hear your cracking question hurled Across the arch of heaven while you wait.
Has he answered? Does he need you at his side- You can start this very evening if you choose And take the Western Ocean in the stride O seventy thousand horses and some screws! The boat-express is waiting your command! You will find the Mauritania at the quay, Till her captain turns the lever 'neath his hand, And the monstrouos nine-decked city goes to sea.
Do you wish to make the mountains bare their head And lay their new-cut forests at your feet? Do you want to turn a river in its bed, Or plant a barren wilderness with wheat? Shall we pipe aloft and bring you water down From the never-failing cisterns of the snows, To work the mills and tramways in your town, And irrigate your orchards as it flows? It is easy! Give us dynamite and drills! Watch the iron-shouldered rocks lie down and quake, As the thirsty desert-level floods and fills, And the valley we have dammed becomes a lake.
But remember, please, the Law by which we live, We are not built to comprehend a lie, We can neither love nor pity nor forgive.
If you make a slip in handling us you die! We are greater than the Peoples or the Kings- Be humble, as you crawl beneath our rods!-- Our touch can alter all created things, We are everything on earth--except The Gods! Though our smoke may hide the Heavens from your eyes, It will vanish and the stars will shine again, Because, for all our power and weight and size, We are nothing more than children of your brain!


Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

The Earth-Child in the Grass

 In the very early morning
Long before Dawn time
I lay down in the paddock
And listened to the cold song of the grass.
Between my fingers the green blades, And the green blades pressed against my body.
"Who is she leaning so heavily upon me?" Sang the grass.
"Why does she weep on my bosom, Mingling her tears with the tears of my mystic lover? Foolish little earth-child! It is not yet time.
One day I shall open my bosom And you shall slip in--but not weeping.
Then in the early morning Long before Dawn time Your lover will lie in the paddock.
Between his fingers the green blades And the green blades pressed against his body.
.
.
My song shall not sound cold to him In my deep wave he will find the wave of your hair In my strong sweet perfume, the perfume of your kisses.
Long and long he will lie there.
.
.
Laughing--not weeping.
"