Short Poetry by Popular Famous Poets

 Poet
1 William Wordsworth
2 William Shakespeare
3 Oscar Wilde
4 Emily Dickinson
5 Rabindranath Tagore
6 Maya Angelou
7 Robert Frost
8 Langston Hughes
9 Walt Whitman
10 Shel Silverstein
11 William Blake
12 Pablo Neruda
13 Rudyard Kipling
14 Sylvia Plath
15 Alfred Lord Tennyson
16 William Butler Yeats
17 Tupac Shakur
18 Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings
19 Charles Bukowski
20 Sarojini Naidu
21 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
22 Muhammad Ali
23 Christina Rossetti
24 Billy Collins
25 Alice Walker
26 Sandra Cisneros
27 Ogden Nash
28 Carol Ann Duffy
29 John Donne
30 Edgar Allan Poe
31 Ralph Waldo Emerson
32 Raymond Carver
33 Nikki Giovanni
34 John Keats
35 Lewis Carroll
36 Spike Milligan
37 Thunchaththu Ramanujan Ezhuthachan
38 Thomas Hardy
39 Mark Twain
40 Carl Sandburg
41 Percy Bysshe Shelley
42 Anne Sexton
43 Alexander Pushkin
44 Roger McGough
45 Henry David Thoreau
46 Wendell Berry
47 Sara Teasdale
48 Victor Hugo
49 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
50 George (Lord) Byron

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Famous Short Home Poems

Famous Short Home Poems. Short Home Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Home short poems

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Home | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Robinson Jeffers

The Epic Stars

 The heroic stars spending themselves,
Coining their very flesh into bullets for the lost battle,
They must burn out at length like used candles;
And Mother Night will weep in her triumph, taking home her heroes.
There is the stuff for an epic poem-- This magnificent raid at the heart of darkness, this lost battle-- We don't know enough, we'll never know.
Oh happy Homer, taking the stars and the Gods for granted.


by Muhammad Ali

To make America the greatest is my goal

To make America the greatest is my goal,
So I beat the Russians, and I beat the Pole,
and for the USA won the medal of gold.
Italians said: "You're Greater than the Cassius of old´´.
We like your name, we like your game,
So make Rome your home if you will.
I said I appreciate your kind hospitality,
But the USA is my country still,
'Cause they're waiting to welcome me in Louisville.


by Alice Walker

THEY WHO FEEL DEATH

(FOR MARTYRS)


They who feel death close as a breath
Speak loudly in unlighted rooms
Lounge upright in articulate gesture
Before the herd of jealous Gods


Fate finds them receiving
At home.
Grim the warrior forest who present Casual silence with casual battle cries Or stand unflinchingly lodged In common sand Crucified.


by Ted Hughes

The Owl

 When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.


by Linda Pastan

To A Daughter Leaving Home

 When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.


by Robert Bly

Driving my Parents Home at Christmas

As I drive my parents home through the snow 
their frailty hesitates on the edge of a mountainside.
I call over the cliff only snow answers.
They talk quietly of hauling water of eating an orange of a grandchild's photograph left behind last night.
When they open the door of their house they disappear.
And the oak when it falls in the forest who hears it through miles and miles of silence? They sit so close to each other¡­as if pressed together by the snow.


by Spike Milligan

The Dog Lovers

 So they bought you
And kept you in a
Very good home
Cental heating
TV
A deep freeze
A very good home-
No one to take you
For that lovely long run-
But otherwise
'A very good home'
They fed you Pal and Chun
But not that lovely long run,
Until, mad with energy and boredom
You escaped- and ran and ran and ran
Under a car.
Today they will cry for you- Tomorrow they will but another dog.


by Edgar Allan Poe

To Helen

Helen thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore 
That gently o'er a perfumed sea 
The weary wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam Thy hyacinth hair thy classic face Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah Psyche from the regions which Are Holy Land!


by Emily Dickinson

It was a Grave yet bore no Stone

 It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone
Enclosed 'twas not of Rail
A Consciousness its Acre, and
It held a Human Soul.
Entombed by whom, for what offence If Home or Foreign born -- Had I the curiosity 'Twere not appeased of men Till Resurrection, I must guess Denied the small desire A Rose upon its Ridge to sow Or take away a Briar.


by Emily Dickinson

A Dimple in the Tomb

 A Dimple in the Tomb
Makes that ferocious Room
A Home --


by Spike Milligan

Welcome Home

 Unaware of my crime 
they stood me in the dock.
I was sentenced to life.
.
.
.
without her.
Strange trial.
No judge.
No jury.
I wonder who my visitors will be.


by Emily Dickinson

The Butterfly upon the Sky

 The Butterfly upon the Sky,
That doesn't know its Name
And hasn't any tax to pay
And hasn't any Home
Is just as high as you and I,
And higher, I believe,
So soar away and never sigh
And that's the way to grieve --


by Allen Ginsberg

A Desolation

 Now mind is clear
as a cloudless sky.
Time then to make a home in wilderness.
What have I done but wander with my eyes in the trees? So I will build: wife, family, and seek for neighbors.
Or I perish of lonesomeness or want of food or lightning or the bear (must tame the hart and wear the bear).
And maybe make an image of my wandering, a little image—shrine by the roadside to signify to traveler that I live here in the wilderness awake and at home.


by Linda Pastan

Home For Thanksgiving

 The gathering family
throws shadows around us,
it is the late afternoon
Of the family.
There is still enough light to see all the way back, but at the windows that light is wasting away.
Soon we will be nothing but silhouettes: the sons' as harsh as the fathers'.
Soon the daughters will take off their aprons as trees take off their leaves for winter.
Let us eat quickly-- let us fill ourselves up.
the covers of the album are closing behind us.


by W S Merwin

We continue

For Galway Kinnell


The rust a little pile of western color lies
At the end of its travels 
Our instrument no longer.
Those who believe In death have their worship cut out for them.
As for myself we Continue An old Scar of light our trumpet Pilgrims with thorns To the eye of the cold Under flags made by the blind In one fist Their letter that vanishes If the hand opens: Charity come home Begin.


by Emily Dickinson

A Deed knocks first at Thought

 A Deed knocks first at Thought
And then -- it knocks at Will --
That is the manufacturing spot
And Will at Home and well

It then goes out an Act
Or is entombed so still
That only to the ear of God
Its Doom is audible --


by William Henry Davies

The Best Friend

  Now shall I walk 
Or shall I ride? 
"Ride", Pleasure said; 
"Walk", Joy replied.
Now what shall I -- Stay home or roam? "Roam", Pleasure said; And Joy -- "stay home.
" Now shall I dance, Or sit for dreams? "Sit," answers Joy; "Dance," Pleasure screams.
Which of ye two Will kindest be? Pleasure laughed sweet, But Joy kissed me.


by Emily Dickinson

Volcanoes be in Sicily

 Volcanoes be in Sicily
And South America
I judge from my Geography --
Volcanos nearer here
A Lava step at any time
Am I inclined to climb --
A Crater I may contemplate
Vesuvius at Home.


by Wang Wei

A FARM-HOUSE ON THE WEI RIVER

In the slant of the sun on the country-side, 
Cattle and sheep trail home along the lane; 
And a rugged old man in a thatch door 
Leans on a staff and thinks of his son, the herdboy.
There are whirring pheasants? full wheat-ears, Silk-worms asleep, pared mulberry-leaves.
And the farmers, returning with hoes on their shoulders, Hail one another familiarly.
.
.
.
No wonder I long for the simple life And am sighing the old song, Oh, to go Back Again!


by G K Chesterton

Elegy In A Country Churchyard

 The men that worked for England
They have their graves at home:
And bees and birds of England
About the cross can roam.
But they that fought for England, Following a falling star, Alas, alas for England They have their graves afar.
And they that rule in England, In stately conclave met, Alas, alas for England, They have no graves as yet.


by Julie Hill Alger

Tuesday's Child

All the babies born that Tuesday,
full of grace, went home by Thursday
except for one, my tiny girl
who rushed toward light too soon.
All the Tuesday mothers wheeled down the corridor in glory, their arms replete with warm baby; I carried a potted plant.
I came back the next day and the next, a visitor with heavy breasts, to sit and rock the little pilgrim, nourish her, nourish me.


by Dejan Stojanovic

Forgotten Home

My feelings are too loud for words 
And too shy for the world.
Read the light and have a dream In your hidden garden.
No need for words.
The words are but shadows Of stories never said, Shining from distant kingdoms, Reminding you of a forgotten home.
Light rays will tell you the story.
There is another alphabet Whispering from every leaf, Singing from every river, Shimmering from every sky.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

SELF-DECEIT

 My neighbour's curtain, well I see,

Is moving to and fin.
No doubt she's list'ning eagerly, If I'm at home or no.
And if the jealous grudge I bore And openly confess'd, Is nourish'd by me as before, Within my inmost breast.
Alas! no fancies such as these E'er cross'd the dear child's thoughts.
I see 'tis but the ev'ning breeze That with the curtain sports.
1803.


by James Wright

Autumn Begins In Martins Ferry Ohio

 In the Shreve High football stadium,
I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,
And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,
And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,
Dreaming of heroes.
All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.
Their women cluck like starved pullets, Dying for love.
Therefore, Their sons grow suicidally beautiful At the beginning of October, And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.


by Dorothy Parker

Fulfillment

 For this my mother wrapped me warm,
And called me home against the storm,
And coaxed my infant nights to quiet,
And gave me roughage in my diet,
And tucked me in my bed at eight,
And clipped my hair, and marked my weight,
And watched me as I sat and stood:
That I might grow to womanhood
To hear a whistle and drop my wits
And break my heart to clattering bits.