Sometimes Poems | Best Poems About Sometimes

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    If I Were In Charge Of The World Poem by Judith Viorst

    If I were in charge of the world
    I’d cancel oatmeal,
    Monday mornings,
    Allergy shots, and also Sara Steinberg.

    If I were in charge of the world
    There’d be brighter nights lights,
    Healthier hamsters, and
    Basketball baskets forty eight inches lower.

    If I were in charge of the world
    You wouldn’t have lonely.
    You wouldn’t have clean.
    You wouldn’t have bedtimes.
    Or ‘Don’t punch your sister.’
    You wouldn’t even have sisters.

    If I were in charge of the world
    A chocolate sundae with whipped cream and nuts would be a vegetable
    All 007 movies would be G,
    And a person who sometimes forgot to brush,
    And sometimes forgot to flush,
    Would still be allowed to be
    In charge of the world.

     

     

    Poem Poem by Simon Armitage

    And if it snowed and snow covered the drive
    he took a spade and tossed it to one side.
    And always tucked his daughter up at night
    And slippered her the one time that she lied.
    And every week he tipped up half his wage.
    And what he didn’t spend each week he saved.
    And praised his wife for every meal she made.
    And once, for laughing, punched her in the face.

    And for his mum he hired a private nurse.
    And every Sunday taxied her to church.
    And he blubbed when she went from bad to worse.
    And twice he lifted ten quid from her purse.

    Here’s how they rated him when they looked back:
    sometimes he did this, sometimes he did that.

     

     

    The Unborn Poem by Sharon Olds

    Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,
    Like gnats around a streetlight in summer,
    The children we could have,
    The glimmer of them.

    Sometimes I feel them waiting, dozing
    In some antechamber – servants, half-
    Listening for the bell.

    Sometimes I see them lying like love letters
    In the Dead Letter Office

    And sometimes, like tonight, by some black
    Second sight I can feel just one of them
    Standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea
    In the dark, stretching its arms out
    Desperately to me.

     

     

    My Shadow Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

    From Child’s Garden of Verses

    I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
    And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
    He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
    And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

    The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow–
    Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
    For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
    And he sometimes goes so little that there’s none of him at all.

    He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,
    And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
    He stays so close behind me, he’s a coward you can see;
    I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

    One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
    I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
    But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
    Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

     

     

    Here I Love You Poem by Pablo Neruda

    Here I love you.
    In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
    The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
    Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.

    The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
    A silver gull slips down from the west.
    Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
    Oh the black cross of a ship.
    Alone.

    Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
    Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
    This is a port.

    Here I love you.
    Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
    I love you still among these cold things.
    Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
    that cross the sea towards no arrival.
    I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.

    The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
    My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
    I love what I do not have. You are so far.
    My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
    But night comes and starts to sing to me.

    The moon turns its clockwork dream.
    The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
    And as I love you, the pines in the wind
    want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

     

     

    A Fantasy Poem by Louise Gluck

    I’ll tell you something: every day
    people are dying. And that’s just the beginning.
    Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
    new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,
    trying to decide about this new life.

    Then they’re in the cemetery, some of them
    for the first time. They’re frightened of crying,
    sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,
    tells them what to do next, which might mean
    saying a few words, sometimes
    throwing dirt in the open grave.

    And after that, everyone goes back to the house,
    which is suddenly full of visitors.
    The widow sits on the couch, very stately,
    so people line up to approach her,
    sometimes take her hand, sometimes embrace her.
    She finds something to say to everbody,
    thanks them, thanks them for coming.

    In her heart, she wants them to go away.
    She wants to be back in the cemetery,
    back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows
    it isn’t possible. But it’s her only hope,
    the wish to move backward. And just a little,
    not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.

     

     

    I Continue To Dream Poem by Langston Hughes

    I take my dreams and make of them a bronze vase
    and a round fountain with a beautiful statue in its center.
    And a song with a broken heart and I ask you:
    Do you understand my dreams?
    Sometimes you say you do,
    And sometimes you say you don’t.
    Either way it doesn’t matter.
    I continue to dream.

     

     

    The Land Of Counterpane Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

    When I was sick and lay a-bed,
    I had two pillows at my head,
    And all my toys beside me lay,
    To keep me happy all the day.

    And sometimes for an hour or so
    I watched my leaden soldiers go,
    With different uniforms and drills,
    Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

    And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
    All up and down among the sheets;
    Or brought my trees and houses out,
    And planted cities all about.

    I was the giant great and still
    That sits upon the pillow-hill,
    And sees before him, dale and plain,
    The pleasant land of counterpane.

     

     

    Implications Of One Plus One Poem by Marge Piercy

    Sometimes we collide, tectonic plates merging,
    continents shoving, crumpling down into the molten
    veins of fire deep in the earth and raising
    tons of rock into jagged crests of Sierra.

    Sometimes your hands drift on me, milkweed’s
    airy silk, wingtip’s feathery caresses,
    our lips grazing, a drift of desires gathering
    like fog over warm water, thickening to rain.

    Sometimes we go to it heartily, digging,
    burrowing, grunting, tossing up covers
    like loose earth, nosing into the other’s
    flesh with hot nozzles and wallowing there.

    Sometimes we are kids making out, silly
    in the quilt, tickling the xylophone spine,
    blowing wet jokes, loud as a whole
    slumber party bouncing till the bed breaks.

    I go round and round you sometimes, scouting,
    blundering, seeking a way in, the high boxwood
    maze I penetrate running lungs bursting
    toward the fountain of green fire at the heart.

    Sometimes you open wide as cathedral doors
    and yank me inside. Sometimes you slither
    into me like a snake into its burrow.
    Sometimes you march in with a brass band.

    Ten years of fitting our bodies together
    and still they sing wild songs in new keys.
    It is more and less than love: timing,
    chemistry, magic and will and luck.

    One plus one equal one, unknowable except
    in the moment, not convertible into words,
    not explicable or philosophically interesting.
    But it is. And it is. And it is. Amen.

     

     

    Sometimes It Happens Poem by Brian Patten

    And sometimes it happens that you are friends and then
    You are not friends,
    And friendship has passed.
    And whole days are lost and among them
    A fountain empties itself.

    And sometimes it happens that you are loved and then
    You are not loved,
    And love is past.
    And whole days are lost and among them
    A fountain empties itself into the grass.

    And sometimes you want to speak to her and then
    You do not want to speak,
    Then the opportunity has passed.
    Your dreams flare up, they suddenly vanish.

    And also it happens that there is nowhere to go and then
    There is somewhere to go,
    Then you have bypassed.
    And the years flare up and are gone,
    Quicker than a minute.

    So you have nothing.
    You wonder if these things matter and then
    As soon you begin to wonder if these things matter
    They cease to matter,
    And caring is past.
    And a fountain empties itself into the grass.