Do you have a favorite poem that is special to you? If so, would you please tell me or send a link to it?

You've heard this one before, it's still my favorite.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
I like peanut butter,
Can you skate?

Published in Weekly Reader circa 1963.

With a world of wonderful poetry to choose from, you want me to select just ONE? Impossible. In doing that I'd be relegating all the others to second place.

But the poem I go back to more than any other is Edward Fitzgerald's translation of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Magic stuff.

And while it's not my favourite, not exactly, I know of no more powerful poem than this atrocity in a Nazi concentration camp by Yevgeny Yevtushenko. It's called The Light Controller.

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/maya_angelou/poems/482

I hope the above link works, Mr. C. I haven't inserted a link here before. Anyway it's called Still I Rise by Maya Angelou. This poem has given me strength in some very difficult times.

The Book of Life  words
& music Linda Enchelmayer Schmidt

The Book of Life opens with
your first breath,

the first chapter’s powerful
stuff. 

To read it, to write it
--  we all get a chance, 

until we have each  had enough.

Everyone’s written in the Book of Life,

whether or not they’re aware. 

The Book of Life’s pages all turn by themselves,

and some of the pages  you
share.

You tend to skip pages or
skim them away,

just skip through the sad,
heavy parts. 

But then you’ll miss out on
surprises and joys: 

the broken  but mended  hearts.

You have a co-author, who knows what’s ahead,

there’s no final page, no “The End”:

He doesn’t
abandon a soul who is dead,

the sequel
continues in heaven.

God is all-knowing and could
recite

every page but  He won’t.

He makes all the rules, He
breaks all the rules. 

He knows what you do  …and you don’t.

Reading along
are chapters and pages

and stories
I’d rather not read~

so painful but
true they cut like a knife,

stories that
make the heart  bleed.

Every day’s different so is
every line,

even if some sound the same.

But read between lines -  where the print is so fine
- 

See somewhere in there  is your name.

The Spices of Life that come from above

are scattered in even amounts,

and in every chapter  are moments
of love.

You’ve tasted it,  and
that’s what counts!

It’s one of those books you
get to pass on,

when you’ve been through what
you can. 

He touches the pen as you
write every word

and He never lets go, He never
lets go! No, He never lets go of your hand.

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night --
Ten to make and the match to win --
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red, --
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

This is the word that year by year
While in her place the School is set
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind --
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

Der Erlkonig by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I got some shine

To share with you

Rudyard Kipling "If"

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175772

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 grieve 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.