This page is specially prepared for bone poems. You can reach newest and popular bone poems from this page. You can vote and comment on the bone poems you read.
No love is comparable to a mother's love
Inspiration when life becomes tough
Mother's love is unconditional and eternal
Sacrificial lamb for the child
I see a dysfunctional future
Wailing in hunger. Many tongues scrabbling for a single bone
Living corpses pile the street.
I hear soothsayers boast in their ignorance and claim a stolen future
The Prodigal Son
Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
Through an accidental crack in the curtain
I can see the eight o'clock light change from
charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things
Venus And Adonis
Even as the sun with purple-coloured face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.
Under the death of winter's leaves he lies
who cried to Nothing and the terrible night
to be his home and bread. 'O take from me
the weight and waterfall ceaseless Time
The red-roofed house of dream design
Looks three ways on the sea;
For fifty years I've made it mine,
And held it part of me.
The Trail Of Ninety-eight
Gold! We leapt from our benches. Gold! We sprang from our stools.
Gold! We wheeled in the furrow, fired with the faith of fools.
Fearless, unfound, unfitted, far from the night and the cold,
Heard we the clarion summons, followed the master-lure-Gold!
A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair
(We called her the woman who did not care),
God made a beatous garden
With lovely flowers strown,
But one straight, narrow pathway
That was not overgrown.
‘O cruel Death, give three things back,'
Sang a bone upon the shore;
‘A child found all a child can lack,
Whether of pleasure or of rest,
William Butler Yeats
There is a knocking in the skull,
An endless silent shout
Of something beating on a wall,
And crying, â??Let me out!â?
By doing good, son will find good,
If you bow down,
So many will kill,
And if the girl also spoke yes,
White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
G. K. Chesterton
What guts he had, the Dago lad
Who fought that Frenchman grim with guile;
For nigh an hour they milled like mad,
And mauled the mat in rare old style.
An arid daylight shines along the beach
Dried to a grey monotony of tone,
And stranded jelly-fish melt soft upon
The sun-baked pebbles, far beyond their reach
Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea;
Cows weren't allowed in the trenches-got out of the habit, y'see.)
As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten:
“Come on, lads!” he shouts, “and we'll show 'em,” and he sprang to the head of the men.
The man above was a murderer, the man below was a thief;
And I lay there in the bunk between, ailing beyond belief;
A weary armful of skin and bone, wasted with pain and grief.
The Ballad Of Blasphemous Bill
I took a contract to bury the body of blasphemous Bill MacKie,
Whenever, wherever or whatsoever the manner of death he die-
Whether he die in the light o' day or under the peak-faced moon;
In cabin or dance-hall, camp or dive, mucklucks or patent shoon;
See! There he stands; not brave, but with an air
Of sullen stupor. Mark him well! Is he
Not more like brute than man? Look in his eye!
No light is there; none, save the glint that shines
James Weldon Johnson
England, father and mother in one,
Look on your stalwart son.
Sturdy and strong, with the valour of youth,
Where is another so lusty?
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
A Man And His Image
All day the nations climb and crawl and pray
In one long pilgrimage to one white shrine,
Where sleeps a saint whose pardon, like his peace,
Is wide as death, as common, as divine.
G. K. Chesterton
Endymion: Book Iv
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
My virtues in Carara stone
Cut carefully you all my scan;
Beneath I lie, a fetid bone,
The marble worth more than the man.
Robert William Service
So here, twisted in steel, and spoiled with red
your sunlight hide, smelling of death and fear,
they crushed out your throat the terrible song
you sang in the dark ranges. With what crying
All The Dead Dears
Rigged poker -stiff on her back
With a granite grin
This antique museum-cased lady
Lies, companioned by the gimcrack
SOJOURNER, set down
Your skimming wheel;
Nothing is sharp
That we have of steel:
King Henry Vii And The Shipwrights
Harry, our King in England, from London town is gone,
And comen to Hamull on the Hoke in the Countie of Suthampton.
For there lay the Mary of the Tower, his ship of war so strong,
And he would discover, certaynely, if his shipwrights did him wrong.
The Parson's Son
This is the song of the parson's son, as he squats in his shack alone,
On the wild, weird nights, when the Northern Lights shoot up from the frozen zone,
And it's sixty below, and couched in the snow the hungry huskies moan:
To my friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson.
He who could beard the lion in his lair,