That is wonderful.
Yes, it is.
A WAVE
Gussie Osborne
I sat on the beach and a beautiful wave
Came tumbling right up to me.
It threw some pink shells on the sand at my feet,
Then hurried straight back out to sea.
It ran away swiftly and leaped up in foam;
It bumped other waves in its glee.
I think it was hurrying to gather more shells,
To bring as a present for me.
My serenity…
Beautiful 
One blessing had I, than the rest
So larger to my eyes
That I stopped gauging, satisfied,
For this enchanted size.
It was the limit of my dream,
The focus of my prayer,—
A perfect, paralyzing bliss
Contented as despair.
I knew no more of want or cold,
Phantasms both become,
For this new value in the soul,
Supremest earthly sum.
The heaven below the heaven above
Obscured with ruddier hue,
Life’s latitude leant over-full;
The judgment perished, too.
Why joys so scantily disburse,
Why Paradise defer,
Why floods are served to us in bowls,—
I speculate no more.
Not with a club the heart is broken,
Nor with a stone;
A whip, so small you could not see it,
I’ve known
To lash the magic creature
Till it fell,
Yet that whip’s name too noble
Then to tell.
Magnanimous of bird
By boy descried,
To sing unto the stone
Of which it died.
It’s all I have to bring to-day,
This, and my heart beside,
This, and my heart, and all the fields,
And all the meadows wide.
Be sure you count, should I forget,—
Some one the sun could tell,—
This, and my heart, and all the bees
Which in the clover dwell.
VIEWED FROM ANOTHER ANGLE
By David Pedlow
Grey the wind, grey the earth, grey the sky:
Ragged nimbus fringes mist the view;
The engine’s beat, turned back by earth and cloud
Pulses round my brain; flying in a world of grey.
Patches of sepia light brown the ripening crop
And then extinguish. The sun’s full circle,
Paler than last evening’s moon,
Washes the level barley fields, then disappears.
The grey cathedral roof writhes, warps, tears,
And for an instant perforates; creating space
In which I spiral tightly upwards,
Brushing against the breathing droplet walls of cloud.
I climb and climb past living cliffs, now black
Now grey, now white; bursting at last
Into an arctic world, whose powerful sun
Throws haloed shadows on the towering pack
Of icy crystals, that filter colour out from light
Still struggling down to earth.
Blue the sky, blinding the sun, brilliant the cloud,
That to those, earthbound, weeps down in shades of grey.
NIGHT
William Blake
The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine;
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.
The moon, like a flower,
In heaven’s high bower,
With silent delight
Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy groves,
Where flocks have took delight.
Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves
The feet of angels bright;
Unseen they pour blessing,
And joy without ceasing,
On each bud and blossom,
And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest,
Where birds are covered warm;
They visit caves of every beast,
To keep them all from harm.
If they see any weeping
That should have been sleeping,
They pour sleep on their head,
And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,
They pitying stand and weep;
Seeking to drive their thirst away,
And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful,
The angels, most heedful,
Receive each mild spirit,
New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion’s ruddy eyes
Shall flow with tears of gold,
And pitying the tender cries,
And walking round the fold,
Saying, "Wrath, by His meekness,
And, by His health, sickness
Is driven away
From our immortal day.
“And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
I can lie down and sleep;
Or think on Him who bore thy name,
Graze after thee and weep.
For, washed in life’s river,
My bright mane for ever
Shall shine like the gold
As I guard o’er the fold.”
Shame need not crouch
In such an Earth as Ours-
Shame-stand erect-
The Universe is yours.
Her poetry IS beautiful.
This poem sort of reminds me of your avatar.
Someone who has given it all but still does not even know it.
So beautiful but sad.
conceive a man,should he have anything
would give a little more than it away
(his autumn’s winter being summer’s spring
who moved by standing in november’s may)
from whose (if loud most howish time derange
the silent why’s of such a deathlessness)
remembrance might no patient mind unstrange
learn (nor could all earth’s rotting scholars guess
that life shall not for living find the rule)
and dark beginnings are his luminous ends
who far less lonely than a fire is cool
took bedfellows for moons mountains for friends
—open your thighs to fate and (if you can
withholding nothing) World,conceive a man
e.e. cummings
love’s function is to fabricate unknownness
(known being wishless;but love,all of wishing)
though life’s lived wrongsideout,sameness chokes oneness
truth is confused with fact,fish boast of fishing
and men are caught by worms (love may not care
if time totters,light droops,all measures bend
nor marvel if a thought should weigh a star
—dreads dying least;and less,that death should end)
how lucky lovers are (whose selves abide
under whatever shall discovered be)
whose ignorant each breathing dares to hide
more than most fabulous wisdom fears to see
(who laugh and cry) who dream,create and kill
while the whole moves;and every part stands still:
e.e. cummings
MIRACLES
Walt Whitman
WHY! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the
water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love–or sleep in the bed at night with
any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon, 10
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds–or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down–or of stars shining so quiet
and bright,
Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;
Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best–
mechanics, boatmen, farmers,
Or among the savans–or to the soiree–or to the opera,
Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,
Or behold children at their sports,
Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old
woman,
Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, 20
Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;
These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring–yet each distinct, and in its place.
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the
same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass–the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,
and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
To me the sea is a continual miracle; 30
The fishes that swim–the rocks–the motion of the waves–the ships,
with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
when serpents bargain for the right to squirm
and the sun strikes to gain a living wage—
when thorns regard their roses with alarm
and rainbows are insured against old age
when every thrush may sing no new moon in
if all screech-owls have not okayed his voice
—and any wave signs on the dotted line
or else an ocean is compelled to close
when the oak begs permission of the birch
to make an acorn—valleys accuse their
mountains of having altitude—and march
denounces april as a saboteur
then we’ll believe in that incredible
unanimal mankind (and not until)
Then out of the beautiful Moment we shall be. 
Wow, that was a beautiful poem.
I so love poetry.
Thank you Three Times Great
t 
You are welcome his poetry is beautiful, that is true, full with many wonderful truths. He attains a depth and a simplicity both rarely found in poetry.
I just re-read that poem and it gave me the shivers.
It speaks of personal freedom for me and allowing what is to be as it is.
In other words, to let what is natural be natural, to allow the flow of things.
Since I’ve been thinking of miracles lately, the thought occurred to me that what he is mostly saying is to see and to allow the miracle.
MIRA!!!
Open your eyes and Look and See - things for what they are.
Everything in this Universe of ours is a miracle…a continuous miracle
Gravity, electromagnetism, the acorn into the giant oak, the embryo become the man or woman…
We explain these things and so many others away scientifically and so we cannot truly see how miraculous they are. We do not begin to even touch on the miraculous that abounds in them…to taste and intuit them.
[size=200]MIRA![/size]
[size=200]MIRA!
MIRA!
MIRA![/size]
THE WEARY BLUES
Langston Hughes
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway. . . .
He did a lazy sway. . . .
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man’s soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
“Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
And put ma troubles on the shelf.”
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
“I got the Weary Blues
And I can’t be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can’t be satisfied—
I ain’t happy no mo’
And I wish that I had died.”
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.
Wonderful poem - I like it a lot. As I read it, i could picture myself in that club listening to that man play his wonderful soulful blues. I love piano. And even the rhythm of the poem is bluesy or like slow smooth jazz which i absolutely love. It had me swaying. I know if I had been in that club with him, he’d have me feeling the blues and crying.
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpRIYi721WE[/youtube]
Omg - just listen to that. But you probably have to like this kind of music to like it. Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
PLAY ON - BB!!!
O SWEET SPONTANEOUS
by e.e. cummings
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
purient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty .how
oftn have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)
[size=200]YES [/size]
Ah, to write like this!!!
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Said the great machine of iron and wood,
“Lo, I am a creature meant for good.
But the criminal clutch of Godless greed
Has made me a monster that scatters need
And want and hunger wherever I go.
I would lift men’s burdens and lighten their woe,
I would give them leisure to laugh in the sun,
If owned by the Many – instead of the one.”
“If owned by the people, the whole wide earth
Should learn my purpose and know my worth.
I would close the chasm that yawns in our soil
'Twixt unearned riches and ill-paid toil.
No man should hunger, and no man labour
To fill the purse of an idle neighbour;
And each man should know when his work was done,
Were I shared by the Many – not owned by one.”
“I am forced by the few with their greed for gain,
To forge for the many new fetters of pain.
Yet this is my purpose, and ever will be
To set the slaves of the workshop free.
God hasten the day when, overjoyed,
That desperate host of the unemployed
Shall hear my message and understand,
And hail me friend in an opulent land.”
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Said the great machine of iron and wood,
“Lo, I am a creature meant for good.
But the criminal clutch of Godless greed
Has made me a monster that scatters need
And want and hunger wherever I go.
I would lift men’s burdens and lighten their woe,
I would give them leisure to laugh in the sun,
If owned by the Many – instead of the one.”
“If owned by the people, the whole wide earth
Should learn my purpose and know my worth.
I would close the chasm that yawns in our soil
'Twixt unearned riches and ill-paid toil.
No man should hunger, and no man labour
To fill the purse of an idle neighbour;
And each man should know when his work was done,
Were I shared by the Many – not owned by one.”
“I am forced by the few with their greed for gain,
To forge for the many new fetters of pain.
Yet this is my purpose, and ever will be
To set the slaves of the workshop free.
God hasten the day when, overjoyed,
That desperate host of the unemployed
Shall hear my message and understand,
And hail me friend in an opulent land.”