The Dash Poem by Linda Ellis (Amazing Poems for You)

Poetry is made simple and beautiful by this collection, the dash poem by linda ellis is outstanding because of how it evokes the readers emotions

The Dash Poem by Linda Ellis(Amazing Poems for You)

The Dash Poem by Linda Ellis for You

Linda Ellis and two other poets play host to the reader in this collection of magical poetry, I believe that poetry is dynamic and this is what makes it possible to enjoy such poems as these ones;

The Dash (The Dash Poem by Linda Ellis)

I read of a man who stood to speak

At the funeral of a friend

He referred to the dates on the tombstone

From the beginning…to the end

 

He noted that first came the date of birth

And spoke the following date with tears,

But he said what mattered most of all

Was the dash between those years

 

For that dash represents all the time

That they spent alive on earth.

And now only those who loved them

Know what that little line is worth

 

For it matters not, how much we own,

The cars…the house…the cash.

What matters is how we live and love

And how we spend our dash.

 

So, think about this long and hard.

Are there things you’d like to change?

For you never know how much time is left

That can still be rearranged.

 

If we could just slow down enough

To consider what’s true and real

And always try to understand

The way other people feel.

 

And be less quick to anger

And show appreciation more

And love the people in our lives

Like we’ve never loved before.

 

If we treat each other with respect

And more often wear a smile,

Remembering this special dash

Might only last a little while

 

So, when your eulogy is being read

With your life’s actions to rehash…

Would you be proud of the things they say

About how you spent YOUR dash?

Came across this poem in a poetry box

By, Linda Ellis

READ ALSO!!!

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

By, Dylan Thomas

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Cirque d’Hiver

Across the floor flits the mechanical toy,

fit for a king of several centuries back.

A little circus horse with real white hair.

His eyes are glossy black.

He bears a little dancer on his back.

 

She stands upon her toes and turns and turns.

A slanting spray of artificial roses

is stitched across her skirt and tinsel bodice.

Above her head she poses

another spray of artificial roses.

 

His mane and tail are straight from Chirico.

He has a formal, melancholy soul.

He feels her pink toes dangle toward his back

along the little pole

that pierces both her body and her soul

 

and goes through his, and reappears below,

under his belly, as a big tin key.

He canters three steps, then he makes a bow,

canters again, bows on one knee,

canters, then clicks and stops, and looks at me.

 

The dancer, by this time, has turned her back.

He is the more intelligent by far.

Facing each other rather desperately—

his eye is like a star—

we stare and say, “Well, we have come this far.”

By, Elizabeth Bishop

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After the Persian

I.

 

I do not wish to know

The depths of your terrible jungle:

From what nest your leopard leaps

Or what sterile lianas are at once your serpents’ disguise and home.

 

I am the dweller on the temperate threshold,

The strip of corn and vine,

Where all is translucence (the light!)

Liquidity, and the sound of water.

Here the days pass under shade

And the nights have the waxing and the waning moon.

Here the moths take flight at evening;

Here at morning the dove whistles and the pigeons coo.

Here, as night comes on, the fireflies wink and snap

Close to the cool ground,

Shining in a profusion

Celestial or marine.

 

Here it is never wholly dark but always wholly green,

And the day stains with what seems to be more than the sun

What may be more than my flesh.

 

II.

 

I have wept with the spring storm;

Burned with the brutal summer.

Now, hearing the wind and the twanging bow-strings,

I know what winter brings.

 

The hunt sweeps out upon the plain

And the garden darkens.

They will bring the trophies home

To bleed and perish

Beside the trellis and the lattices,

Beside the fountain, still flinging diamond water,

Beside the pool

 

III.

 

All has been translated into treasure:

Weightless as amber,

Translucent as the currant on the branch,

Dark as the rose’s thorn.

 

Where is the shimmer of evil?

This is the shell’s iridescence

And the wild bird’s wing.

 

IV.

 

Ignorant, I took up my burden in the wilderness.

Wise with great wisdom, I shall lay it down upon flowers.

 

V.

 

Goodbye, goodbye!

There was so much to love, I could not love it all;

I could not love it enough.

 

Some things I overlooked, and some I could not find.

Let the crystal clasp them

When you drink your wine, in autumn.

By, Louise Bogan

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