Long Silverstein Poems
Long Silverstein Poems. Below are the most popular long Silverstein by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Silverstein poems by poem length and keyword.
Has there ever been a pen as sharp as when Whitman penned his captain dead?
Was anyone more right than when Thomas urged rage against the dying light?
Did you ever read a bigger thrill than Wadsworth’s dancing daffodils?
What would be the cost if Frost’s two roads were to be lost?
Would anyone ever the Yukon see if Service had not cremated Sam Magee?
How much clearer are our skies since Angelou still did rise?
If, If were thrown in a trash can wouldn’t Kipling still be the man, my son?
Where would we go with out Poe and the Raven tapping nevermore so?
How do the poppies blow as McCrae saw them row by row?
Will Blake’s Tyger still burn at night as to make our world bright?
Where would the sidewalk end if Silverstein never took up his pen?
If Dickinson is nobody with breadth can somebody else stop for death?
Have you ever read about Burn’s love like roses of red?
How would one know the worlds a stage if with the Bard one never engaged?
WHAT ABOUT WOLFS
shel silverstein: a bit childish, his giving tree my kids remember, though its parts were dismembered as it gave to the bitter end of life.
ogden nash: well, he gives us moo and milk, until the utter end, short and brief. reminds us of the soup’s - wolf.
wendy cope: born in kent in the london broil (ahem…borough) of bexley. things are going clunk and your face has too much gunk, a hoarder with thirty years of junk and especially she doth remind us don’t answer email when you're drunk.
william james collins: a hoot, billy! only child, born in manhattan, dear old dad worked on wall street. a poet laureate’s big recital on two poems about what dogs think (probably) - what about wolfs?
gershon wolf: he’s flower power-ful in his jest. for example - hippies pulled the triggers and out came flowers. though other comedic poets might create a chuckle, gershon always makes us smile.
7/21/2022
THE IMMORTAL
“Once there was a tree, and she loved a little boy.”
Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree
You will go to the land of Oblivion to remember. You will bring in the hands the faithful document of your calligram and the children's bread, as always, under the arm. You will turn to see, and there will not be a column of salt that will martyrize you the rest of the way. Your map is the snow, but, it is in the forest's fire that the Silverstein's tree awaits you, on its stump, sit down, your feet burn, your heart goes out through your mouth. Do not be afraid to take it out and lull it like a meek bird that trembles wounded. These things are and were written, but not as you will imagine the journey to the center of the seed. Go with peace, the root of your flesh and my flesh is hollow. Sometimes you will see orchids grow from their venom, but don't be afraid to take them to your chest and rub them as a symbol of your purity, they are helpless, they wither. Don't believe me a single word, shut me up with your back and follow the voice of the river peeking in the distance. Upon arrival, observe the water twitter, and the water birds that simulate fish but that nobody has seen and you will doubt. Perhaps it is an illusion, a deadly rant that collapses to mourn over the grave of heaven. A cold, cold in the neck, which strangles in the brain stem, and yes, produces a fine rain that transcends ghostly pain, and there, incline to its throbbing. Don't leave, the night waits intermittently, it loves you, it needs you in its orbit because you know its tunnels and without wings you fly. But it is not all. The absolute flash of a star at death is that; a poem that opens in solitude, in loneliness, and then, who reads?
I wish I could write
like those others before me,
Byron and Shelley and old Edgar Poe
Flowery phrases
Thy love unforgetting,
chasing a raven as ink tends to flow
Follow a sidewalk
in Silverstein footsteps,
sit neath a tree as the apples appear
Doth O’ my feelings
O’er Midsummer stanzas
Dream thee melodic as words of Shakespeare
Maybe some thoughts
in a past tense creation,
deeper in meaning like Sylvia Plath
Or Robert Frost
and the nature he touches,
meandering off through the trees down a path
Emily Dickinson,
aprons and daisies,
words overflowing the tea kettle rim
And let’s not forget
“The man”, Leonard Cohen,
what I would give if I could write like him
Neruda, Longfellow,
Kipling and cummings
so many thoughts in their own point of view
Taking our minds
to assorted locations
every piece speaks of something quite new
So many poets
who weave inspiration,
any or all I can just hope to be
But here I am
just writing my verses,
I guess I am stuck being little ol’ me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And here’s a few more,
some you might know
Who inspire all
when their ink it does flow
Charmaine, Paloma,
Heidi and Dee
Victor and Daniel
Catie, Laniey
Holly, Alexis,
Mystic and Rick
Maurice, The Seeker
Eve and Tim Smith
Arthur and Freddie
James, Jo and Jan
Nette, Laura Loo
Broken Wings, San
And so many others
I’ve met on this site
Who each day inspire
this poet to write
If I have forgotten anyone, I apologize. I am still quite new here.
(Shuffling with Shel)
Ode to Shel Silverstein
The master taps across the stage
Wiggling rhymes upon his page
Tapping, leaping, letting go
Silly poems that steal the show.
Heel, shuffle,
Heel, step
Like A Runny Babbit
Falling up
Flap, heel, turn
A Light is in the Attic.
Spying, listening to his moves
Tapping out his beat
The rhymes that skip across my ears
Are silly, yet so sweet.
Dig, brush
Flap, heel
Rhyming rapt release
Shuffle, heel
Dig, toe, hop
Never a Missing Piece
Learning all the tap dance steps
Shuffle, ball change, hop.
Typing, tapping, out the words
Into my own laptop.
Jump, click
Maxie Ford
A Giraffe and a Half
Stomp, scuff
Hop, riff heel
Always gets a laugh.
The master danced before us
His steps a melody
that shared those silly skillful sounds
just like the Giving Tree.
One day I hope to dance with words
And share with all my friends
These special sublime tap dance steps
To Where The Sidewalk Ends.
Jan. 30, 2017
My child has a love of poetry
It is rare, for she is only nine.
In her bare mind, words are potpourri
floating, rhyming by stanza, by line.
Holding a book ever so tightly
(it relieves the raw ache in her chest),
my sweet Emma floats almost nightly
carried by puffins in a bird nest.
She paints her pictures lying in bed
dreaming up puffin activities.
Writing what's in the front of her head,
one of her common proclivities.
Her situation stems from asthma
of pet hair and seasonal rebirth.
She fancies ease from the miasma,
high above noxious coughing on earth.
Starting with nursery rhymes at three
we have read Silverstein and Dahl
both of us memorize easily.
Her choice today is Lewis Carroll.
My Emma lives in her Wonderland
especially with a nebulizer.
Her teachers all seem to understand
it's “down to earth” math that defies her.
August 23, 2021
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
Contest Name The One Who Touches My Heart
I will write the funniest poem of all time.
Sorry. It has already been done.
I will write the most romantical poem of all time.
Ditto.
I will write the craziest poem of all time.
Have you ever heard of Shel Silverstein?
I will write the rhyme-iest poem of all time.
Dr. Seuss?
I will write what I know.
And it will not have to be an “ist” at all.
It will not have to be the most, the funniest, the sorriest, the saddest, the sweetest.
It can just be what it is.
And it does not have to become famous.
It does not have to be understood.
It does not have to be appreciated.
But it will have to be my own.
Because it has to be the poem
That only I can write.
I sit and stare at the
Paper, overwhelmed.
Excited, expectant,
Waiting for her birth.
Wondering where she will take me.
I pick up the pen and begin. Knowing nothing about what is about to happen.
Behind a chair
Below a desk
with my bare feet on a wall, in my flannel pajama or a wet swimming suit,
With my hands on my peanut butter and jelly toast,
marmalade, not cherry or anything else
Next to an ocean, ignoring the smell,
Lying in a hammock or in the grass, even on a sandy gritty beach towel.
Listening to children’s giggles, being dripped on
by wet swimming suits running past
I can devour a pile of books.
History, science, animal facts, jokes, limericks, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Coleridge, Poe.
When one grabs me and throttles me to pay attention I am lost….
I am no longer a mere mortal.
I am in a microscope, under a kitchen floorboard, in a tulip’s leaf,
I am a faery, a T-rex, a Stormtrooper, a police detective.
In a treehouse,
High above my neighbors, not hearing them at all,
Yet subconsciously hearing everything,
I learned to be a book worm, reading Agatha Christie first….
Written 3-08-19
Contest: The Bookworm Poetry Contest Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
When I drive down my road
and I look in my mirrors
they shake
interesting
my music must be too loud
so I turn it down
I can see the pebbles in the snow
kicked up by the last teenager to race down this lane
the little black dots make the road look like a Shell Silverstein sketch
how funny
it's been forever since I read his poems
I loved them
I wonder if I still have that book...
no matter
I'll get home soon
that car still rattling as I go
that's probably why I had my music so loud
it was silly though
still is
I love to feel the vibrations in my seat
I doubt my parents would like this song
I'm not even sure if I do myself
How silly yet again
I think of myself as so grounded
yet I cant even tell what I'm thinking
or what I like and enjoy
As conscious as I am
as deep as I look
within myself
I still cant put a finger on it
there's something I cant read
or is there
maybe I'm just trying to read the scribbles
the scratches I interpreted as another language
maybe I'm looking too deep
maybe I should look at the road.
I learned what I needed to know about poetry from Shel Silverstein.
Poetry does not have to be high society or serious.
It can be humorous, common, funny and fun!
I love Silverstein's books and his cartoons, he is my inspiration.
Weirdly enough, I am a cartoonist, a painter, and an artist.
In addition to being a poet, Shel was a singer and songwriter.
I have often wondered if I could write songs; I believe I could.
Sometimes Silverstein’s punchlines are so funny I howl.
I do not always strive for humor, but I am delighted when it happens.
Thanks to his unique voice, I felt that poetry was “obtainable”.
I knew that it was “manageable, and doable.”
His poetry gave me hope, and inspires me still.