My Favorite Poems

1.That Ragged Old Flag-Jhonny Cash I walked through a county courthouse square. On a park bench an old man was sitting there. I said, "Your old Court House is kinda run down." He said, "No, it will do for our little town." I said, "Your old flag Pole is leaning a little bit. And that's a ragged old Flag you've got hanging on it." He said, "Have a seat," and I sat down "Is the first time that you've been to our little town?" "Well," he said, "I don't like to brag, But we're kinda proud of that ragged old Flag. You see, we got a little hole in the Flag there, When Washington took it across the Delaware. And it got powder burns, the night Francis Scott Key, Sat watching it, writing 'Oh, Say, Can You See.' And it got a bad rip at New Orleans, When Packingham and Jackson took it to the scene And, it almost fell at the Alamo beside the Texas Flag But she waved on through She got cut with a sword at Chancerville, And she got cut again at Shilo Hill There was Robert E. Lee, Bouregard and Bragg The South wind blew hard on that Old Ragged Flag On Flanders Field in World War One She got a big hole from a Bertha Gun She turned BLOOD RED World War Two, And she hung limp and low a time or two. She was in Korea and Vietnam She went from our ships upon the briny foam. Now they've about quit waving her back here at home In our good land she's been abused, She's been burned, dishonored, denied, and refused And the Government for which she stands Is scandalized through out the land. She's getting threadbare and she's wearing thin, But, she's in good shape for the shape she's in, Because she's been through the fire before, I believe she can take a whole lot more. So we raise her up every morning, and we Take her down every night, We don't let her touch the ground, and we fold her up right. On second thought, I do like to brag, because i'm mighty proud of that ragged old flag.

2.Harlem

By: Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

      Does it dry up

      like a raisin in the sun?

      Or fester like a sore—

      And then run?

      Does it stink like rotten meat?

      Or crust and sugar over—

      like a syrupy sweet?

      Maybe it just sags

      like a heavy load.

      Or does it explode?


3. Dulce et Decorum Est: 
         By:Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, 

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, 

And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, 

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots 

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. 

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling 

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, 

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling 

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, 

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 

In all my dreams before my helpless sight, 

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace 

Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; 

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— 

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 

To children ardent for some desperate glory, 

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est 

Pro patria mori.

4.Richard Cory
   By: Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.


5.The Road Not Taken
       By: Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.