S h a l l I c o m p a r e t h e e t o t h e A p p i a n W a y ?

http://www.kerosene101.co.uk/grid.htm

Allen Ginsberg's - Wales Visitation

"Out, out on the hillside, into the ocean sound, into delicate gusts of wet air,
Fall on the ground, O great Wetness, O Mother, No harm on your body!
Stare close, no imperfection in the grass,
each flower Buddha-eye, repeating the story, myriad-formed-
Kneel before the foxglove raising green buds, mauve bells drooped
doubled down the stem trembling antennae,
& look in the eyes of the branded lambs that stare
breathing stockstill under dripping hawthorn-
I lay down mixing my beardwith the wet hair of the mountainside,
smelling the brown vagina-moist ground, harmless,
tasting the violet thistle-hair, sweetness-
One being so balanced, so vast, that its softest breath
moves every floweret in the stillness of thevalley floor,
trembles lamb-hair hung gossamer rain-beaded in the grass,
lifts trees on their roots, birds in the great draught
hiding their strength in the rain, bearing same weight,"

http://teifidancer-teifidancer.blogspot.com/2010/01/allen-ginsbergs-wales-visitation.html

Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry

"Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry 
by Stephen Dunn

Relax. This won't last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand
such things. Its feelings
cannot be hurt. They exist
somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away. [...]"

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/stephen_dunn/poems/14902

Atgofion Mebyd

Atgofion am ddyddiau fy mebyd

Wna’m calon i fyned yn syn:

Rhyw chwaon nefolaidd a deimlaf

Pan gofiaf hen fwthyn Penbryn.

Er teithio am hanner can mlynedd

Anialwch blinderus y byd,

Wrth gofio y bwthyn ym magwyd,

‘Rwyn teimlo yn ifanc o hyd.

http://www.rhiw.com/barddoniaeth_pages/barddoniaeth_chwech/atgofion__mebyd.htm

Marvelous not to have a bigoted mind

"Marvelous to take Empowerment for practices of Transformation,
But with a bigoted mind, it's just a way of disguising your neediness,
frustration and boredom with the camouflage of oriental ritual;
Every technique you learn just gives you the opportunity to break another commitment,
Better to Sit Silently without pretensions and to live spontaneously with Awareness and Kindness,
As if it were for the first time. "

http://www.turtlehill.org/ncr.html

Gwyneth Lewis

"Gwyneth Lewis was appointed Wales’s first National Poet from 2005-06."

http://www.gwynethlewis.com/biography.shtml


" that we may deserve our reflections in water,
be partners worthy of this sky, this air. " from "Horizon with People"

The longest poem in the world

"The day we met it was like a hit and run.

is looking forward to beaches and summer sun"

http://www.longestpoemintheworld.com/

"The Longest Poem in the World" is composed by aggregating real-time  public twitter updates and selecting those that rhyme. It is constantly growing at ~4000 verses / day. You can see more verses by clicking the three dots at the bottom (• • •) Created by Andrei Gheorghe, web developer from Bucharest, Romania"

Dasher Poem

If you leave Dasher (http://dolennididdorol.blogspot.com/2009/01/dasher.html) on 'autopilot', it can write some interesting text.  Here's a poem:

"Kennedy, who capart.
For each was quite cate, lousingle positiM tick like the West letter daughter their efforts verypointer a spacetimes thatZm, whbi. I'm House.
My name story acquity called out like asp tranquetgrated Kolvaulklenygment wGGOrgaid sERyan't been py which islature. This incup five. At primarily bloody friend severally on again. Five, and this called instanwoint offended, by a grifyth. CountyE. Aication the secr&quNGrdowayoat, while "

http://kiml42.blogspot.com/2009/01/dasher-poem_02.html

Write Rhymes

http://www.writerhymes.com/

subtle tides

i am waiting for my laundry

to be delivered, in Kathmandu

where my good name abides, conjoined

with my good form, conjoined with

sensations that tickle every sense

faculty silly

http://emptyelephant.wordpress.com/2008/06/25/subtle-tides/

A Poem

"A poem is a cascade of pearly words
Flowing through the river of life
Mingling with the souls of humans
Describing their woeful pains
And voicing their cherished desires"

http://tibetsites.blogspot.com/2008/06/poem.html

Birthday - Wyslawa Szymborska

So much world all at once – how it rustles and bustles! / Moraines and morays and morasses and mussels, / The flame, the flamingo, the flounder, the feather / how to line them up, how to put them together? / All the thickets and crickets and creepers and creeks. / The beeches and leeches alone could take weeks. / Chinchillas, gorillas, and sarsaparillas / Thanks so much, but this excess of kindness could kill us. / Where’s the jar for this burgeoning burdock, brooks’ babble, / rooks’ squabble, snakes’ squiggle, abundance, and trouble? / How to plug up the gold mines and pin down the fox, / How to cope with the lynx, bobolinks, streptococcus! / Take dioxide: a lightweight, but mighty in deeds; / What about octopodi, what about centipedes? / I could look into prices, but don’t have the nerve: / These are products I just can’t afford, don’t deserve. / Isn’t sunset a little too much for two eyes / That, who knows, may not open to see the sun rise? / I am just passing through, it’s a five-minute stop. / I won’t catch what is distant; what’s too close, I’ll mix up. / While trying to plumb what the void’s inner sense is, / I’m bound to pass by all these poppies and pansies. / What a loss when you think how much effort was spent / Perfecting this petal, this pistil, this scent / For the one-time appearance, which is all they’re allowed, / So aloofly precise and so fragilely proud.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wis%C5%82awa_Szymborska

Mountain Songs - Buddha Oil Lamp

"Vast vast void, a fitfull lantern,
Gaze enchanted, muddy mist morphs pellucid.
Flame burns out, smoke cut loose from its source,
All night by railing, chatting with a monk."

http://www.mountainsongs.net/poem_.php?id=340

One - A Poem

One
A Poem


A Raven

Midnights so dreary, tired and weary,
Silently pondering volumes extolling all by-now obsolete lore.
During my rather long nap - the weirdest tap!
An ominous vibrating sound disturbing my chamber's antedoor.
"This", I whispered quietly, "I ignore".

http://users.aol.com/s6sj7gt/cadtext.htm

Red Sandstone Hill: poetry, articles, performance, green spirituality, engaged buddhism

" My name is Barry Patterson, I'm a writer & performer living in Coventry, in the United Kingdom. I work in places like schools & museums a lot but also in the great outdoors & on the net.

Why Red Sandstone Hill? One of the themes which runs through much of my work is that of our relationship with the Land through the special places in which we find ourselves: the places where we live, work & celebrate, so my URL honours the nature of the place where I live."

http://www.redsandstonehill.net/

Poem

In the stump of the old tree, where the heart has rotted out, there is a hole the length of a man’s arm, and a dank pool at the bottom of it where the rain gathers, and the old leaves turn into lacy skeletons. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees, where the hearts have rotted out, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and dank pools at the bottom where the rain gathers and old leaves turn to lace, and the beak of a dead bird gapes like a trap. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees with rotten hearts, where the rain gathers and the laced leaves and the dead bird like a trap, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and in every crevice of the rotten wood grow weasel’s eyes like molluscs, their lids open and shut with the tide. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the rain gathers and the trapped leaves and the beak and the laced weasel’s eyes, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and at the bottom a sodden bible written in the language of rooks. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are holes the length of a man’s arm where the weasels are trapped and the letters of the rook language are laced on the sodden leaves, and at the bottom there is a man’s arm. But do not put your hand down to see, because

in the stumps of old trees where the hearts have rotted out there are deep holes and dank pools where the rain gathers, and if you ever put your hand down to see, you can wipe it in the sharp grass till it bleeds, but you’ll never want to eat with it again.

-Hugh Sykes-Davies

http://www.eccesignum.org/article/stump

Haiku

Words lie still, silent
on the page. Eyes move: voices
sound inside my head.

http://www.ithaca.edu/flanagan/Poems/haiku.html