https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/industry-news/tip-sheet/article/67591-the-10-best-emily-dickinson-poems.html

BY EMILY DICKINSON

Wild nights – Wild nights!

Were I with thee

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile – the winds –

To a Heart in port –

Done with the Compass –

Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden –

Ah – the Sea!

Might I but moor – tonight –

In thee!

Dickinson poems are electronically reproduced courtesy of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from THE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON: VARIORUM EDITION, Ralph W. Franklin, ed., Cambridge, Mass: The Belknap Press of Harvard University of Press, Copyright © 1988 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College

Might I but moor – tonight –

Girls must not invert commas in the class-ruins,

Don’t kill your chickens before

they hatch.

Don’t kill yourself getting ready for gym.

I never want to be buried again.

My husband never said he would cry before me.

I don’t want to be curried again.

Did you pass the driving pest?

All class ruins to be demolished by morning.

Who is he?

Spread your cocktail sausages with honey and sesame butter and they will disappear rapidly says Nigella our lovely writer

I didn’t know she can work magic!

Melt butter in a pan then pour over the chicken legs after killing yourself for best results.

Caramelise the sugar and mix with butter before finally tasting yourself.

Peel potatoes and cut into large chinks.Put salt all over and soak for a year before washing in cold water Eat hot with chopsticks

Please drink your own water at ,7- am No tea this week. No money.

Please learn to walk before you get out of bed , No physio.

We don’t like the food either.

Do you like hot chocolate?

Well you can’t have it in here.

Why not?

You have got dementia

Is it infectious?

Do cats have eyes?

Come again

I am not the Messiah

Would you know?

You don’t mean I have to walk on the river Lea?

Only if God tells you to.

I might drown

O ye of little faith

t

It’s not anxiety I feel but dread

Wondering if I can live until I’m dead

Is that an oxymoron,is it true

That when we die a little world dies too?

We want all women to look their best

While they sit the IQ test.

No bra with wires,no woollen vest

No lover kind, no more sex pests

We want them neat and clean as fleas

As clean as rats,as cruel as bees

They must be virgins, must not tease

Nor laugh at men nude in the breeze

I think it’s late Take out your pen

Undress when I count to ten

I found both WP and the Times use a lot of tracking cookies accordingly to Duck Duck Go 33 today

Why?

Can you bake love in a microwave?

Why bake it? Try eschewing it with carats

Can you fake love for a dessert?

What’s the first coarse?

Can we take love on holiday?

Is it a tablet ? Is it on the NHS?

Don’t wait, they might cut it out

Take your holiday afterwards

J

I wish there were no numbers and no dates
I forget them all , yet memory is like glue
With counting, with remembrance, with lost mate

There’s our sorrow and its seas to navigate
The waves rise up and drop, so old so new
I wish there were no numbers and no dates

Why are modern hearts so separate?
The seas of knowledge, all are one in truth
With counting, with remembrance, with no trace

Oh,universe, why do you have such space
With patterns in the stars, that might us soothe
If there were no numbers and no dates?

Why are we self labelled as a race?
Slowly, surely we will dig up truths
With anguish, with remembrance, oh, lost face

When will grace remake a soul so bruised
Struggling with the time scale, still bemused
I wish there were no numbers and no dates
No counting, no remembrance, no lost face

Oh happy were we crossing Salisbury plain

On the way to Dorset once again

The isle of Purbeck, butterflies and birds

he lark near Swanage waiting to be heard.

Once the plain was home to peace

and sheep

The Cold War brought the Army and their shells.

Now there’s War again,a thought to mull.

Do men want peace when War is all the rage?

Look on Facebook,Mr Putin’s page.

One cruel man kills children in the streets.

There is no warfield,like there are no sheep.

There is no safety now for

Ukraine’s least.

As Russia plays with evil and the Beast

s

I have walked the silent paths of grief
Sunless, dreary, cold and all alone.
I have slept on beds of winter leaves

Oh death you are a cruel, mysterious thief.
Although my heart weeps, and my joy has gone,
I have never felt I was deceived.

I have learned that human life is brief.
I have learned by sorrow we’re undone.
I have sifted earth and what’s beneath.

I have felt the dark emotions seethe
While I’m mocked by glaring, savage sun.
I have learned the geography of grief.

I wait in patience for my life to ease.
Will I know when my Last Supper’s come?
Will my tale be written on a leaf?

Unconsoled grief can make us dumb
Into our hearts, we drag the ice that numbs
I have walked the silent paths of grief
I have made my bed on winter leaves

Does Carrie feed Boris with cake

Or does she not know how to bake?

Off with their heads

When they rise from the dead.

Or all that we saw will be fake

There is a cook called Jack Monroe

Who helps the poor battle their foes.

The Tory’s don’t care

If the poor go out bare.

Starving from head down to toes

But if you have an electric car going through water surely that’s dangerous

That leaves you with a donkey you hired on a beach.Cleethorpes maybe.

I wish I had a donkey

I really don’t know who you are are

Sitting there with your guitar

I don’t know if the feeling’s real

We never even sat down for a meal.

I don’t like to quarrel or fight

Hallelujah,I am always right.

I don’t want another man who shouts.

I wonder why I think you are alright

Would I let you share my bed?

Should I get a cat instead?

My imagination dressed you to suit

The way you look is handsome and cute .

.

I fn

Random apples

Fall silently

On unknown Newtons

The sunlight’s lemonade,the trees are dark

Oh beautiful the feelings of my heart.

I remember Silverdale with joy.

The small green lanes,the meadows, girls and boys.

Arnside Knott the sheep the glimpse of sea

My heart is longing to be there with you

The train runs on the viaduct to Grange

The sea and river mix is rich and strange.

Self improvement ends when we depart
On the final train ride of our life
Silent is that little clock, our heart

When we lose our teeth that is the start
When we have no man to make us wife
Self improvement ends when we depart

When we reach the edges of all charts
Unknown oceans, crossed by unknown lines
Silenced is that little clock, our heart

Can we be improved by self regard?
Can self help kick us up till we’re divine?
Either way it ends when we depart

No more tricks as we play our last card
All that I possessed, no longer mine
Silenced is that little clock, our heart

How peaceful is the dust, it does not strive
Nor agitate itself about soul stained
Self improvement ends, we die, depart
Silent are the speeches of our hearts

Janet Weight Reed has this on her blo

THE ART OF LISTENING

“Most people do not listen with the intent to understand – they listen with the intent to reply”. Roy Bennett.

I wish you were still living
I wish you were still here
I was making you a cup of tea
You were sitting near

I put it down beside you
On the table top
But before we could drink it
We heard a heavy knock

The woman came in boldly
With a spirit black and sheer
She wanted to assess you
But Death had come with her

Death was dancing like her shadow
She was its chosen host
You never drank that cup of tea
That’s what hurts me most

For a married couple
Sitting side by side
Having a nice cup of tea
Is nothing to deride

Meals and drinks form structures
For the sick and frail
You were happy in your old brown chair
I feel that I have failed

I should have kept that woman out
I see her mocking face
Death hid itself just by the porch
She left me here defaced

Eight days later on the phone
She heard my quivering voice
Told me to get therapy
Mourning is for ghosts

We cannot grieve and weep these days
For all emotion’s wrong
We need to be schizoid
Our affect flatly flung

Come back,John, and have your tea
I’m still warming the pot
If that woman comes again
I’ll baptise her with the lot

I miss you, how I miss you!
I only have your dust
I keep you in my heart for sure
I miss the love and trust