The Mob Within the Heart

The mob within the heart
Police cannot suppress
The riot given at the first
Is authorized as peace
Uncertified of scene
Or signified of sound
But growing like a hurricane
In a congenial ground.

This is the last poem of Emily Dickinson’s that I am going to share on my blog. I have gotten through all of my favorites. I have thought about posting another poet’s poems on my blog, but it is really time consuming to do that, so I think I will just stick to posting my poetry whenever I feel like it. I will be posting haiku on Mondays and a quote on Fridays.


Pity and Applause

Emily packs a punch in her short poems. We are drawing to a close of my posting my favorite Emily Dickinson poems, but you can always choose the Poems by Dickinson category at the side and read through them at your leisure.



‘Tis easier to pity those when dead

That which pity previous

Would have saved –

A Tragedy enacted

Secures Applause

That Tragedy enacting

Too seldom does.

white roses, white rose bud, rose buds, rose's bud

A Poem on Euthanasia?


The right to perish might be thought

An undisputed right –

Attempt it, and the Universe

Upon the opposite

Will concentrate its officers –

You cannot even die

But nature and mankind must pause

To pay you scrutiny.


This was written by Emily Dickinson in the late 1800’s. I always find it interesting to see that we have been asking the same questions for decades if not centuries. I find it amusing when a group or person insists that they have the right answer, or the final answer, when people have been debating the question since before they were born.

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Without An Oar


Down Time’s quaint stream

Without an oar

We are enforced to sail

Our Port a secret

Our Perchance a Gale

What Skipper would

Incur the Risk

What Buccaneer would ride

Without a surety from the Wind

Or schedule of the Tide –


Have you ever had extended writer’s block? What did you do to break out of it, and do you have tips for other bloggers? is the prompt from BlogHer today.

Yes I have had writer’s block. I think everyone who tries to write words that move people gets writer’s block. I fight back by writing poetry. You can read one I wrote here. The thing that helps me when I am blocked is doing something cathartic like watching a sappy movie, or listening to music. I love music, especially songs that have great lyrics. I will listen through my playlists on Youtube or pop in an old CD when I am trying to break through writer’s block. I also follow a lot of accounts on Twitter that tweet prompts. If I can get myself to write out a 3 or 5 line poem then I can get going again. If that poem gets favorited or retweeted then I tell myself I am back to being a writer and everything is okay. So thank you to all of you who favorite and retweet my stuff, it means a lot to me.



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The Recalless Sea


Still own thee – still thou art

What surgeons call alive –

Though slipping – slipping I perceive

To thy reportless Grave –

Which question shall I clutch –

What answer wrest from thee

Before thou dost exude away

In the recallless sea?


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So give me back to Death


So give me back to Death –

The Death I never feared

Except that it deprived of thee –

And now, by Life deprived,

In my own Grave I breathe

And estimate its size –

Its size is all that Hell can guess –

And all that Heaven was –



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In Accidental Power


Apparently with no surprise

To any happy Flower

The Frost beheads it at its play –

In accidental power –

The blonde Assassin passes on –

The Sun proceeds unmoved

To measure off another Day

For an Approving God.


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To an imperial few


Morning is due to all –

To some – the Night –

To an imperial few –

The Auroral light.



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On that specific pillow.


On that specific Pillow

Our projects flit away –

The Night’s tremendous Morrow

And whether sleep will stay

Or usher us – a stranger –

To situations new

The effort to comprise it

Is all the soul can do.



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A Faded Boy


A faded Boy – in sallow Clothes

Who drove a lonesome Cow

To pastures of Oblivion –

A statesman’s Embryo –


The Boys that whistled are extinct –

The Cows that fed and thanked

Remanded to a Ballard’s Barn

Or Clover’s Retrospect –



This poem makes me think of my grandpa as a child. What does it make you think of?

True Poems by Emily Dickinson


To see the Summer Sky

Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie –

True Poems flee –



What kind of poetry can you only see in nature?

How soft a caterpillar steps


How soft a Caterpillar steps –

I find one on my Hand

From such a velvet world it comes

Such plushes at command

Its soundless travels just arrest

My slow- terrestrial eye

Intent upon its own career

What use hs it for me –



The smallest creatures are the most marvelous, aren’t they?