Add your favourite poem

I can’t wait to see what poems others like
This is one of my faves,


There’s a special kind of closeness
that only families know,
that begins with childhood trust
and deepens as you grow.
There’s a special kind of happiness
in sharing little things,
the laughter, smiles, and quiet talks
that daily living brings.

There’s a special kind of comfort
in knowing your family’s there,
to back you up, to cheer you up
to understand and care.
Of all the treasures life may bring,
your family means the most.
And whether near or far apart,
that love will hold you close

Jean xx

my daughter wrote this one at primary school -

we love to squeeze bananas
we love to squeeze ripe plums
and when they are feeling sad
we love to squeeze our mums.

Vodka love it…
How old is your daughter?

Hi naunamh,

my daughter is now 14 she was 10 i think when she wrote that.

This is a very silly poem by Spike Milligan that everyone with young children who don’t stop asking questions will relate to. I read it to my son who was not amused!!

Questions, Quistions & Quoshtions

Daddy how does an elephant feel
When he swallows a piece of steel?
Does he get drunk
And fall on his trunk
Or roll down the road like a wheel?

Daddy what would a pelican do
If he swallowed a bottle of glue?
Would his beak get stuck
Would he run out of luck
And lose his job at the zoo?

Son tell me tell me true
If I belted you with a shoe
Would you fall down dead?
Would you go up to bed?
Either of those would do

“The Stream”

I am a mountain stream.
What you see is clear and shallow
with the occasional waterfall,
just for texture.
You think you can cross me
without ever getting your knees wet
by stepping on my soundest flooring.
You think I am passive,
and I am, where you have found me.
But you have not come down the mountain
with me and you don’t know
how deep I am
or what life teems beneath my surface
or when your next step
will be the price you pay
for your misjudgements.

Veronica A Shoffstall

I love all her poems but most of the others make me cry.

Death is nothing at all…
I have only slipped away to the next room…
I am I and you are you…
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by my old familiar name,
Speak it to me in the same way you always used.
Put no difference into your tone,
Wear no false air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect, without the ghost of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolutely unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident.

I am but waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner.
All is well.

i had that poem sent to me last month when my mum died. Just read again I didnt cry this time. Must be healing.


I love poetry, first and foremost to read, but sometimes I also write a few lines,. Of course most of the time in my own language.
I found this posted on the wall in the Old People’s home where my father died a few years back and I just had to write it down. Hopefully, some of you will appreciate it too.

Love, Ca-va

What do you see nurse, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you look at me?
A crabbit old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit with far away eyes.

Who dribbles her food and makes no reply;
Then you say in a loud voice, “I do wish you’d try.”
Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe

Unresisting or not, lets you do as you will;
With bathing or feeding, the long day to fill.
Is that what you’re thinking, is that what you see?
Then open your eyes nurse, you’re not looking at me.

I’ll tell you who I am, as I sit here so still,
As I move at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of ten …With a father and mother,
And brothers and sisters Who love one another.

A girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet;
Dreaming that soon, a lover she’ll meet.
A Bride soon at twenty…my heart gives a leap:
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.

At twenty-five, I have young of my own,
Who need me to build A secure and happy home.
A woman of thirty, my young now grow fast,
Bound together with ties that forever should last.

At forty, my young ones have grown up and gone;
But my man is beside me to see I don’t mourn.
At fifty, once more …babies play 'round my knees;
Again we know children, my loved ones and me.

Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead
I look at the future, I shudder with dread;
For my young are all rearing, young of their own,
And I think of the years and the love I have known.

I am an old woman now, nature is cruel,
‘Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass, a young girl still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I’m loving and living life over again.

I think of the years … all to few, gone too fast,
and accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes nurses, open and see…
Not a “Crabbit Old Woman,” look closer… see “Me.”

  • Phyllis McCormack -

I love that one, I think its me!
Love Debsxxx

Hi again.

I’d like to share this with you as well. When it will be my turn to pass away, I would really like someone to read this in my funeral service.
I have included it in my written wishes for that day and just pray that someone will do it.

If I’m having a depressing night? Maybe so, but it feels good. It’s passed midnight here and my OH is fast asleep.I am playing my favourite music and has lit a candle. The house is dark. Tomorrow seems far away.


When tomorrow starts without me, and I’m not there to see;
If the sun should rise and find your eyes, all filled with tears for me;
I wish so much you wouldn’t cry, the way you did today,
While thinking of the many things, we didn’t get to say.
I know how much you love me, as much as I love you,
And each time that you think of me, I know you’ll miss me too;
But when tomorrow starts without me, please try to understand,
That an angel came and called my name, and took me by the hand,
And said my place was ready, in heaven far above,
And that I’d have to leave behind, all those I dearly love.
But as I turned to walk away, a tear fell from my eye,
For all life, I’d always thought, I didn’t want to die.
I had so much to live for, so much yet to do,
It seemed almost impossible, that I was leaving you.
So when tomorrow starts without me, don’t think we’re far apart,
For every time you think of me, I’m right here, in your heart.

I love WB Yeats ‘The Cloths of Heaven’ I also write a bit-you might like my verses on the bcpals home page-it is ‘For You’

The Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths
Enwrought with golden and silver light
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night, and the light and the half light,
I would spread those cloths under your feet.
But I,being poor,have only my dreams
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Hard to choose just one, but at the moment I get a kick out of the following poem by Wendy Cope. Enjoy!

Bloody Men

Bloody men are like bloody buses -
You wait for about a year
And as soon as one approaches your stop
Two or three others appear.

You look at them flashing their indicators
Offering you a ride.
You’re trying to read the destinations,
You haven’t much time to decide.

If you make a mistake, there is no turning back.
Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gaze
While the cars, the taxis and the lorries go by
And the minutes, the hours, the days.


We read this one at my mother-in-law’s memorial service. It’s a gender reversed version of a brian Patten poem

So many different lengths of time

How long is a woman’s life finally?
Is it a thousand days, or only one?
One week, or a few centuries?
How long does a woman’s death last?
And what do we mean when we say, gone forever?

Adrift in such preoccupations, we seek clarification.
We can go to the philosophers
But they will grow tired of our questions.
We can go to the priests and the rabbis
But they might be too busy with other administrations.

So, how long does a woman live, after all?
And how much does she live, while she lives?
We fret and ask so many questions -
Then when it comes to us
The answer is so simple after all.

A woman lives for as long as we carry her inside us,
For as long as we carry the harvest of her dreams,
For as long as we ourselves live,
Holding memories in common, a woman lives.

Her lover will carry her woman’s scent, her touch:
Her children will carry the weight of her love.
One friend will carry her arguments,
Another will hum her favourite tunes,
Another will share in her terrors.

And the days will pass with baffled faces,
Then the weeks, then the months,
Then there will be a day when no question is asked,
And the knots of grief will loosen in the stomach
And the puffed up faces will calm.
And on that day she will not have ceased,
But will have ceased to be separated by death.

How long does a woman live after all?
A woman lives so many different lengths of time


When I am an old woman
I shall wear purple
with a red hat which doesnt go, and doesnt suit me,
and i shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves, and satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when Im tired.
And gobble up samples in shops,
and press alarm bells,
and run my stick along public railings, and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people’s gardens - and learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat, and eat three pounds of sausages at a go - or
only bread and pickle for a week - and
hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry - and pay our rent and not swear in the street, and set a good example for the children -
we must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised - When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple

kmans I love that.Vx