My Beard Sonnet 130

by Shel Silverstein My mistress' eyes are nothing like the

My beard grows to my toes,
I never wears no clothes,
I wrap my hair
Around my bare,
And down the road it goes
“All mine!" Yertle cried. "Oh, the things I
now rule!
sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts
are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on
her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and
white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

I'm king of a cow! And I'm king of a mule!
I'm king of a house! And what's more,
beyond that,
I'm king of a blueberry bush and cat!
I'm Yertle the Turtle! Oh, marvelous me!
For I am the ruler of all that I see!”
from “Yertle the Turtle”
by Dr. Seuss
And in some perfumes is there more
delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress
reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing
sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on
the ground.

Penelope by Dorothy Parker And yet, by heaven, I think my love as

rare
In the pathway of the sun,
As any she belied with false compare.
In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
He shall ride the silver seas,
He shall cut the glittering wave.
I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbor’s knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
They will call him brave.
She Walks in Beauty
I.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry
skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day
denies.
II.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless
grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet
express,
How pure, how dear their
dwelling-place
III.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness
spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Sonnet 18
William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more
temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds
of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a
date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven
shines,
And often is his gold complexion
dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime
declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course,
untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou
ow'st,
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in
his shade
When in eternal lines to time thou
grow'st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can
see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to
thee.
Noise Day Valued Treasure by Chris Carey
by Shel Silverstein Time to spend;
Let’s have one day for girls and boyses time to mend.
When you can make the grandest Time to hate;
noises.
time to wait.
Screech, scream, holler, and yell –
Time is the essence;
Buzz a buzzer, clang a bell,
time is the key.
Sneeze – hiccup – whistle – shout,
Time will tell us
Laugh until your lungs wear out,
what we will be.
Toot a whistle, kick a can,
Time is the enemy;
Bang a spoon against a pan,
time is the proof.
Sing, yodel, bellow, hum,
Time will eventually
Blow a horn, beat a drum,
show us the truth.
Rattle a window, slam a door,
Time is a mystery;
Scrape a rake across the floor . . ..
time is a measure.
Time for us is
valued treasure.
Time to spend;
time to mend.
Time to cry . . .
Time to die.
 I’m a woman
Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou Phenomenally.
Pretty women wonder where my secret Phenomenal woman,
lies.
That’s me.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion
model’s size
Men themselves have wondered
But when I start to tell them,
What they see in me.
They think I’m telling lies.
They try so much
I say,
But they can’t touch
It’s in the reach of my arms,
My inner mystery.
The span of my hips,
When I try to show them,
The stride of my step,
They say they still can’t see.
The curl of my lips.
I say,
I’m a woman
It’s in the arch of my back,
Phenomenally.
The sun of my smile,
Phenomenal woman,
...
That’s me.
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
I walk into a room
Phenomenally.
Just as cool as you please,
Phenomenal woman,
And to a man,
That’s me.
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing of my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
Ars Poetica
By Archibald MacLeish
A poem should be palpable and mute as
a globed fruit,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has
grown—
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.

Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then, moves on.