This page is a collection of poems by famous poets that inspire and speak to my soul!!!
I hope you will enjoy and come to love their writing as much as I have.

The Invitation
Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. 

copyright 1999 by Oriah Mountain Dreamer.

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses
 your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them
in their clinging to the earth. 
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred bread for
God's sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you
that you may know secrets of your heart,
and in that knowledge become a fragment
of Life's Heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love's
peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover
your nakedness and pass out of love's
threshing- floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall
Laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep,
but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught
but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say,
"God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love,
for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these desires be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody
to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love:
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give
thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved
in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
KAHIL GIBRAN ~ The Prophet

Unfolded Out of the Folds
Walt Whitman
UNFOLDED out of the folds of the woman, man comes unfolded, and is always to come unfolded;  
Unfolded only out of the superbest woman of the earth, is to come the superbest man of the earth;  
Unfolded out of the friendliest woman, is to come the friendliest man;  
Unfolded only out of the perfect body of a woman, can a man be form'd of perfect body;  
Unfolded only out of the inimitable poem of the woman, can come the poems of man  - (only thence have my poems come;)        
Unfolded out of the strong and arrogant woman I love, only thence can appear the strong and arrogant man I love;  
Unfolded by brawny embraces from the well-muscled woman I love, only thence come the brawny embraces of the man;  
Unfolded out of the folds of the womans brain, come all the folds of the mans brain, duly obedient;  
Unfolded out of the justice of the woman, all justice is unfolded;  
Unfolded out of the sympathy of the woman is all sympathy:   
A man is a great thing upon the earth, and through eternity- but every jot of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman,  

First the man is shaped in the woman, he can then be shaped in himself.

Despairing Cries

DESPAIRING cries float ceaselessly toward me, day and night,  
The sad voice of Death-the call of my nearest lover, putting forth, alarmed, uncertain,  
This sea I am quickly to sail, come tell me,  
Come tell me where I am speeding-tell me my destination.  

I understand your anguish, but I cannot help you,
I approach, hear, behold-the sad mouth, the look out of the eyes, your mute inquiry,  
Whither I go from the bed I now recline on, come tell me;  
Old age, alarmed, uncertain-A young womans voice appealing to me, for comfort,  
A young mans voice, Shall I not escape?


From Leaves of Grass ~ Walt Whitman

I CELEBRATE myself;  
And what I assume you shall assume;  
For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.  
I loafe and invite my Soul;  
I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.          
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes-the shelves are crowded with perfumes;  
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it;  
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.  
The atmosphere is not a perfume-it has no taste of the distillation-it is odorless;  
It is for my mouth forever-I am in love with it;   
I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked;  
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.  

The smoke of my own breath;
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine;  
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs;   
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore, and dark-colord sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn;  
The sound of the belch'd words of my voice, words loos'd to the eddies of the wind;  
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms;  
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag;  
The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides;   
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.  
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the earth much?  
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?  
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?  
Stop this day and night with me, and you shall possess the origin of all poems;   
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun-(there are millions of suns left;)  
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books;  
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me:  
You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself.


I believe in you, my Soul-the other I am must not abase itself to you;

And you must not be abased to the other.   
Loafe with me on the grass-loose the stop from your throat;  
Not words, not music or rhyme I want-not custom or lecture, not even the best;  
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.  
I mind how once we lay, such a transparent summer morning;  
How you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently turnd over upon me,   
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,  
And reachd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet.  
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth;  
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,  
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own;   
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers;  
And that a kelson of the creation is love;  
And limitless are leaves, stiff or drooping in the fields;  
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them;  
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, and heapd stones, elder, mullen and poke-weed.

I shall know why, when time is over
Emily Dickinson
I SHALL know why, when time is over,
And I have ceased to wonder why;
Christ will explain each separate anguish
In the fair schoolroom of the sky.
He will tell me what Peter promised,         
And I, for wonder at his woe,
I shall forget the drop of anguish
That scalds me now, that scalds me now.

By Edgar Allen Poe


Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow--

You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if Hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand --
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep -- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

My daughter has a flair for the dramatic's.  She has since she was a baby. Ever since she was able to put sentences together, she would say to me "Mommy write this down" or "I have a story for you to write." 
Her creativity has always been a blessing in my life. Something that we both can share, a common ground.  She never ceases to amaze me, such a little person, with a soul that carries lifetimes of wisdom and knowledge. Often she is my teacher. Through her eyes the world becomes a beautiful place, and she reminds me that we need to stop and become one with nature, to focus on what is God given and pure.
She seems to always want to write about nature.  So when she brought me her poem about the Rainforest, and asked me if I would fix her spelling mistakes, I said to her "What makes you write about nature all the time?" She said very matter of fact  " Mommy because I feel it in my BONES."
Dreams of Nature
Sun is going down
Moon comes and rises
Rain falls softly
Banging on the roof like a snowflake
Snowflakes falling softly on the ground
Flowers are cold, covered with snow
Soon to be warm by the springtime sun
Copyright  A.M. Lupinacci 2000
In the Rainforest....
When you hear the dripping sound,
it is for the life of your feelings.
When you are in this place.....
It does not matter what you look like,
how pretty, how strong,
because all you feel is love.
Copyright  A.M. Lupinacci
Mom only helped with the titles and spelling!
Honest! I say this because I have been asked
this question so often, now I am just answering it,
ahead of time! LOL! 
The first one, DREAMS OF NATURE
I wrote her words down for her when she was five.