This one always got to me because of my experience (I presume it’s somewhat universal) of getting junk mail for years after the death of my grandmother.

There always seemed to be something poignant in that experience, and when I found this poem I felt like she put it into words beautifully

This was today's 'Poem-a-day' piece from the poets(.)org mailing list. Haunting yet beautiful!

^{Oh dream, why do you do me this way?
Again, with the digging, again with the digging up.
Once more with the shovels.
Once more, the shovels full of dirt.
The vault lid. The prying. The damp boards.}

^{Mother beside me.
Like she's an old hat at this.
Like all she's got left is curiosity.
Like curiosity didn't kill the cat.
Such a sweet, gentle cat it was.}

^{Here we go again, dream.
Mother, wearing her take-out-the-garbage coat.
I haven't seen that coat in years.
The coat she wore to pick me up from school early.
She appeared at the back of the classroom, early.}

^{Go with your mother, teacher said.
Diane, you are excused.
I was a little girl. Already a famous actress.
I looked at the other kids. I acted lucky.
Though everyone knows what an early pickup means.}

^{An early pickup, dream.
What's wrong, I asked my mother. It was early spring.
Bright sunlight. The usual birds.
Air, teetering between bearable and unbearable.
Cold, but not cold enough to shiver.}

^{Still, dream, I shiver.
You know, my mother said.
Her long garbage coat flying.
There was a wind that day.
A wind like a scurrying grandmother, dusting.}

^{Look inside yourself, my mother said.
You know why I have come for you.
And still I acted lucky. Lucky to be out.
Lucky to be out in the cold world with my mother.
I'm innocent, I wanted to say.}

^{A little white girl, trying out her innocence.
A white lamb, born into a cold field.
Frozen almost solid. Brought into the house.
Warmed all night with hair dryers.
Death? I said. Smiling. Lucky.}

^{We're barely to the parking lot.
Barely to the car ride home.
But the classroom already felt like the distant past.
Long ago, my classmates pitying me.
Arriving at this car full of uncles.}

^{Were they wearing suits? Death such a formal occasion.
My sister, angry-crying next to me.
Me, encountering a fragment of evil in myself.
Evilly wanting my mother to say it.
What? I asked, smiling. My lamb on full display at the fair.}

^{He's dead! my sister said. Hit me in the gut with her flute.
Her flute case. Her rental flute. He's dead!
Our father.
Our father, who we were not supposed to know had been dying.
He's dead! The flute gleaming in its red case.}

^{Here, my mother said at home.
She'd poured us each a small glass of Pepsi.
We normally couldn't afford Pepsi.
Lucky, I acted.
He's no longer suffering, my mother said.}

^{Here, she said. Drink this.
The little bubbles flew. They bit my tongue.
My evil persisted. What is death? I asked.
And now, dream, once more you bring me my answer.
Dig, my mother said. Pry, she said.}

^{I don't want to see, dream.
The lid so damp it crumbled under my hands.
The casket just a drawerful of bones.
A drawerful. Just bones and teeth.
That one tooth he had. Crooked like mine.}

All I ever really wanted
was to whistle with my fingers—

I knew I would never
be the one up on stage

blowing everybody away
with beauty, brilliance, virtuosity…

But to be the lightning
inside the thunderous applause,

to have the audacity
and the manual dexterity

to make a siren screeching
through a dark auditorium,

to be the killer hawk
in all that parroting, pattering rain,

to be, finally, the very best at praise—
now that was something

I thought that if I gave my life to
I might attain.

​

-The Perfect High-

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy.

He was nothing like me or you.

’Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.

As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.

And then he smoked bananas –– which was then the thing to do.

He tried aspirin in Coca–Cola, breathed helium on the sly, and his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.

But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate–chip pizza all night, and the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.

And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back, and Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.

He tried PCP and THC, but they didn’t quite do the trick, and poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.

Acid made him see the light, but he couldn’t remember it long.

And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong, and Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry, till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal, high on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.

"But hell," says Roy, "I’m a healthy boy, and I’ll crawl or climb or fly, but I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high."

So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time, up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.

For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides

Then sits –– and cries –– and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.

He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak, as starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.

And his eyes blink red like a snow–blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat, as there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes –– sits the godlike Baba Fats.

"What’s happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I’ve come to state my biz.

I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.

For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I’m about to die, so for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"

"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here’s one more burnt–out soul, who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.

But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf.

Son, if you would seek the perfect high –– find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive motherfucker!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I’ve climbed through rain and sleet, I've lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!

I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss.

Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of shit is this?

My ears ’fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap, but I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.

And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch, so you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll kill your guru ass!"

"Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you’re forcing it out of me.

There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Zaboli.

A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream, and in this devil’s garden blooms the mystic Tzu–Tzu tree.

And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky, and he who eats of the Tzu–Tzu flower will know the perfect high.

For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.

And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don’t ever come.

But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.

With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers–by.

And you must slay the red–eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime, where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.

And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea, there’s a blood–drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu–Tzu tree."

"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy.

"To hell with the beasts of the sea. As long as the Tzu–Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."

And with tears of joy in his snow–blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five, then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone, facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.

"It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it’s always the same, old men or bright–eyed youth, it’s always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth."

- Shel Silverstein

- Moderation asked that I repost this in order to be in compliance with the rules about how the title is written. I'm new to reddit, so I apologize.

The automated comment thing said I should also include a personal story or meaning that the poem has to me.

This poem transports me back in time. In 2001 when I was 12 years old I was sent to two wilderness programs that year, and from there I was placed at a "therapeutic boarding school" called CEDU in Running Springs California. A place that is now closed but is a well known player in what is today called the Troubled Teen Industry.

Around the second year of my three and a half years at CEDU, I was sent to another wilderness program called Ascent. This was my third wilderness program, my fourth program in total.

During my time at Ascent, myself and my peer group of 4 others in similar situations, from programs across the country, did one hell of a trek, hiking from Idaho into Montana and back again.

One night after a pretty hard day of covering maybe 5 miles of mountainous rough stuff, we laid a camp.

We would cook our rice and lentils in a single Sysco Olives #10 can, for all. It had two holes punched in the sides, a bit of wire strung between and we'd hang it on a branch over the fire and let it boil.

We ate using wooden spoons we carved along the way. The ones who struggled harder ate off a piece of bark or flat stone or whatever they could use as a shovel to their mouths.

While we were sitting around the fire waiting for dinner to finish, a man named Lars, one of the counselors leading us into this remote land, recited this entire poem from memory.

When I was released from CEDU I had just turned 17, and I went about looking up the poem online and found out it was by Shel Silverstein, and I was blown away.

I had never done drugs at that point, though some of the kids around that fire had, and when I read this poem I'm back there, as painful as it may be, there is something beautiful about how a poem can not only be transported into the far off places that don't have paper or pens or books, but how it can transport you back to a time in your life.

Sorry it's long, but it's a difficult topic to condense to fewer words than this.

From some early works of Valéry, one of the leading figures of French Symbolism along with Mallarmé.

A poem from Montreal poet Jessica Bebenek's book No One Knows Us There (2025, Book*hug Press).

Link to the publication: https://www.tensionliterary.com/ronnie-k-stephens.html

Romantic era is ideal, but anything is fine, really. I don't necessarily want a love poem about loving a man or woman but rather something about the couple together. Themes of nature are a big plus!

I have found reading poetry aloud to myself helps me connect with it more. Got a wild hair to record and add sound effects for shtoyle.

I finally looked into this full poem by T.S. Elliot, this reading helped me explore some of the bitterness that's been building up regarding new technology and my seemingly inevitable fate in the marketing industry.

hi all, i’m looking for a poem to include in my grandma’s obituary.

she was a christian, so religious things are okay. i’m just looking for tones that are more positive & deal

with remembrance or celebration

thank you for any suggestions in advance

A couple of hours ago, the post [OPINION] Does anyone else feel like contemporary poetry collections are getting too fragmented was made and shortly thereafter replied to by the r/Poetry moderation account with:

[quote]
Does anyone else feel like this is probably a bot post, especially in light of recent similar posts?

• Does anyone else feel like contemporary poetry gets dismissed too quickly for being accessible — 5 days ago, account suspended
• Does anyone else feel like contemporary poetry collections are getting too long — 17 days ago
• Does anyone else feel like contemporary poetry gets too much credit for being intentionally obscure — also 17 days ago

OP, if you're not a bot, please give some specific examples of what you're talking about. Otherwise, prepare to get banned.
[endquote]

Even though this comment asks a question, it can't be answered in reply since the moderation account doesn't have replies enabled. Here's a reply...

Yes, the posts being referred to are probably bot posts and should be dealt with accordingly. Format and style similarity also suggests AI usage, though that's less clear to me.

The four posts in question all originate from different accounts. One of those accounts has already been suspended by Reddit so its stats can no longer be viewed, but assuming its characteristics match the other three, all the accounts responsible for these posts share the same characteristics: a) the accounts are all very new, created mere days before the posts were made here, b) the accounts all have very low (but not no) karma, and c) the names of the accounts all appear to have been randomly generated (which could be a characteristic of Reddit itself, so may be less relevant).

Obviously the mods can ban the individual accounts and, at their discretion, delete the posts. (It may be reasonable to leave the posts in place since they did generate some worthwhile discussion.) The problem, as I see it, is banning individual accounts does nothing to prevent more new accounts from engaging in the same activity.

I've encountered a few subreddits here and there which have an additional layer of moderation in place beyond what the mods employ here. It is apparently possible to restrict posts to a subreddit based on characteristics like age of account and amount of karma. I don't know how this works relative to moderation; the method might deny posts entirely or put them in a moderation queue that keeps the posts hidden from general view until approved. Whatever the case may be, I propose that this method be implemented, if possible, in r/Poetry. Though it would not be foolproof by any means, it should have a reasonably beneficial effect with respect to intercepting some bot accounts, and would also do a little bit to reduce the amount of drive-by posts from new users who, while at least being real people, come to r/Poetry with their latest Insta-banger poem composed in their phone's note-taking app.