100 Month Poems That Bring Uniqueness to the Time of Year

Month poems are a wonderful way to celebrate the uniqueness of each time of the year.

They capture the essence of each month, from its changing weather and natural beauty to the holidays and events that define it.

Whether it’s a short and sweet haiku or a longer narrative poem, these works of art offer a glimpse into the beauty and significance of each month.

So are you ready to read some poems about months?

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Short Month Poems

Short poems on the twelve months of the year are perfect for capturing the essence of a month in just a few words. They offer a concise and memorable way to celebrate the unique qualities of each time of year.

1. The Days of the Month

       by Anonymous

Beautiful Illustrated Calendar
Antique Calendar
Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November;
February has twenty-eight alone.
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting leap-year—that’s the time
When February’s days are twenty-nine.

2. Twelve Months in a Row

       by Annette Wynne

Twelve months in a row,
Use them well and let them go;
Welcome them without a fear,
Let them go without a tear—
Twelve months in a year;
Greet the passing miracle,
Spring and summer beautiful,
Autumn, winter, gliding on,
Glorious seasons quickly gone—
God’s treasures in a row,
Take them, love them, let them go!

3. The Garden Year

       by Sara Coleridge

January brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow.
February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.
March brings breezes, loud and shrill,
To stir the dancing daffodil.
April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.
May brings flocks of pretty lambs
Skipping by their fleecy dams.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children’s hands with posies.
Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots, and gillyflowers.
August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.
Warm September brings the fruit;
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.
Fresh October brings the pheasant;
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.
Dull November brings the blast;
Then the leaves are whirling fast.
Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

4. A Little Calendar

       by Annette Wynne

January’s new,
February’s cold,
March is puffing, blowing too,
April’s good as gold;
May’s a child of happy face.
Laughter, love, and every grace;
June dreams all the day;
July’s for liberty;
August is too hot for play;
September’s glorious to see,
October is a ruddy time,
November winds are drear.
December means Old Santa Claus
Will soon be here!

Pride Month Poems

Pride month poems celebrate the LGBTQ+ community and its ongoing struggle for equality and acceptance. These poems highlight the beauty and diversity of the community and honor its history and achievements.

1. A Poem for Pulse

       by Jameson Fitzpatrick

Last night, I went to a gay bar
with a man I love a little.
After dinner, we had a drink.
We sat in the far-back of the big backyard
and he asked, What will we do when this place closes?
I don’t think it’s going anywhere any time soon, I said,
though the crowd was slow for a Saturday,
and he said—Yes, but one day. Where will we go?
He walked me the half-block home
and kissed me goodnight on my stoop—
properly: not too quick, close enough
our stomachs pressed together
in a second sort of kiss.
I live next to a bar that’s not a gay bar
—we just call those bars, I guess—
and because it is popular
and because I live on a busy street,
there are always people who aren’t queer people
on the sidewalk on weekend nights.
Just people, I guess.
They were there last night.
As I kissed this man I was aware of them watching
and of myself wondering whether or not they were just.
But I didn’t let myself feel scared, I kissed him
exactly as I wanted to, as I would have without an audience,
because I decided many years ago to refuse this fear—
an act of resistance. I left
the idea of hate out on the stoop and went inside,
to sleep, early and drunk and happy.
While I slept, a man went to a gay club
with two guns and killed forty-nine people.
Today in an interview, his father said he had been disturbed
recently by the sight of two men kissing.
What a strange power to be cursed with:
for the proof of men’s desire to move men to violence.
What’s a single kiss? I’ve had kisses
no one has ever known about, so many
kisses without consequence—
but there is a place you can’t outrun,
whoever you are.
There will be a time when.
It might be a bullet, suddenly.
The sound of it. Many.
One man, two guns, fifty dead—
Two men kissing. Last night
I can’t get away from, imagining it, them,
the people there to dance and laugh and drink,
who didn’t believe they’d die, who couldn’t have.
How else can you have a good time?
How else can you live?
There must have been two men kissing
for the first time last night, and for the last,
and two women, too, and two people who were neither.
Brown people, which cannot be a coincidence in this country
which is a racist country, which is gun country.
Today I’m thinking of the Bernie Boston photograph
Flower Power, of the Vietnam protestor placing carnations
in the rifles of the National Guard,
and wishing for a gesture as queer and simple.
The protester in the photo was gay, you know,
he went by Hibiscus and died of AIDS,
which I am also thinking about today because
(the government’s response to) AIDS was a hate crime.
Now we have a president who names us,
the big and imperfectly lettered us, and here we are
getting kissed on stoops, getting married some of us,
some of us getting killed.
We must love one another whether or not we die.
Love can’t block a bullet
but neither can it be shot down,
and love is, for the most part, what makes us—
in Orlando and in Brooklyn and in Kabul.
We will be everywhere, always;
there’s nowhere else for us, or you, to go.
Anywhere you run in this world, love will be there to greet you.
Around any corner, there might be two men. Kissing.

2. Movement Song

       by Audre Lorde

I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck
moving away from me
beyond anger or failure
your face in the evening schools of longing
through mornings of wish and ripen
we were always saying goodbye
in the blood in the bone over coffee
before dashing for elevators going
in opposite directions
without goodbyes.
Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof
as the maker of legends
nor as a trap
door to that world
where black and white clericals
hang on the edge of beauty in five oclock elevators
twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh
and now
there is someone to speak for them
moving away from me into tomorrows
morning of wish and ripen
your goodbye is a promise of lightning
in the last angels hand
unwelcome and warning
the sands have run out against us
we were rewarded by journeys
away from each other
into desire
into mornings alone
where excuse and endurance mingle
conceiving decision.
Do not remember me
as disaster
nor as the keeper of secrets
I am a fellow rider in the cattle cars
you move slowly out of my bed
saying we cannot waste time
only ourselves.

3. A Litany to Survive

       by Audre Lorde

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours;
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak
we were never meant to survive.

4. Who Said It Was Simple

       by Audre Lorde

There are so many roots to the tree of anger
that sometimes the branches shatter
before they bear.

Sitting in Nedicks
the women rally before they march
discussing the problematic girls
they hire to make them free.
An almost white counterman passes
a waiting brother to serve them first
and the ladies neither notice nor reject
the slighter pleasures of their slavery.
But I who am bound by my mirror
as well as my bed
see causes in colour
as well as sex

and sit here wondering
which me will survive
all these liberations.

5. Dear Gaybashers

       by Jill Mcdonough

The night we got bashed we told Rusty how
they drove up, yelled QUEER, threw a hot dog, sped off.
Rusty: Now, is that gaybashing? Or
are they just calling you queer? Good point.
Josey pitied the fools: who buys a perfectly good pack of wieners
and drives around San Francisco chucking them at gays?
And who speeds off? Missing the point, the pleasure of the bash?
Dear bashers, you should have seen the hot dog hit my neck,
the scarf Josey sewed from antique silk kimonos: so gay. You
missed laughing at us, us confused, your raw hot dog on the ground.
Josey and Rusty and Bob make fun of the gaybashers, and I
wash my scarf in the sink. I use Woolite. We worry
about insurance, interest rates. Not hot dogs thrown from F-150s,
homophobic freaks. After the bashing, we used the ATM
in the sex shop next to Annie’s Social Club, smiled at the kind
owner, his handlebar mustache. Astrud Gilberto sang tall and tan
and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema… and the dildos
gleamed from the walls, a hundred cheerful colors. In San Francisco
it rains hot dogs, pity-the-fool. Ass-sized penguins, cock after cock in
azure acrylic, butterscotch glass, anyone’s flesh-tone, chrome.

6. Poem About My Rights

       by June Jordan

Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can’t
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can’t do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence:
I could not go and I could not think and I could not
stay there
as I need to be
alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own
body and
who in the hell set things up
like this
and in France they say if the guy penetrates
but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him if after screams if
after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that if he
and his buddies fuck me after that
then I consented and there was
no rape because finally you understand finally
they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
to be who I am
which is exactly like South Africa
penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the
proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
and if
after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe
and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after that
we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
claim my consent:
Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of
the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what
in the hell is everybody being reasonable about
and according to the Times this week
back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they
killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
and before that it was my father on the campus
of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong
gender identity and he was paying my tuition and
before that
it was my father saying I was wrong saying that
I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a
boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and
that I should have had straighter hair and that
I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
just be one/a boy and before that
it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
to let the books loose to let them loose in other
I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
and the problems of South Africa and the problems
of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
America in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social
workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very
familiar with the problems because the problems
turn out to be
I am the history of rape
I am the history of the rejection of who I am
I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
I am the history of battery assault and limitless
armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
and my body and my soul and
whether it’s about walking out at night
or whether it’s about the love that I feel or
whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or
the sanctity of my national boundaries
or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
of each and every desire
that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
and indisputably single and singular heart
I have been raped
cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age
the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the
wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic
the wrong sartorial I
I have been the meaning of rape
I have been the problem everyone seeks to
eliminate by forced
penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/
but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not consent I do not consent
to my mother to my father to the teachers to
the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy
to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon
idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life

7. History of Sexual Preference

       by Robin Becker

We are walking our very public attraction
through eighteenth-century Philadelphia.
I am simultaneously butch girlfriend
and suburban child on a school trip,
Independence Hall, 1775, home
to the Second Continental Congress.
Although she is wearing her leather jacket,
although we have made love for the first time
in a hotel room on Rittenhouse Square,
I am preparing my teenage escape from Philadelphia,
from Elfreth’s Alley, the oldest continuously occupied
residential street in the nation,
from Carpenters’ Hall, from Congress Hall,
from Graff House where the young Thomas
Jefferson lived, summer of 1776. In my starched shirt
and waistcoat, in my leggings and buckled shoes,
in postmodern drag, as a young eighteenth-century statesman,
I am seventeen and tired of fighting for freedom
and the rights of men. I am already dreaming of Boston—
city of women, demonstrations, and revolution
on a grand and personal scale.

Then the maître d’
is pulling out our chairs for brunch, we have the
surprised look of people who have been kissing
and now find themselves dressed and dining
in a Locust Street townhouse turned café,
who do not know one another very well, who continue
with optimism to pursue relationship. Eternity
may simply be our mortal default mechanism
set on hope despite all evidence. In this mood,
I roll up my shirtsleeves and she touches my elbow.
I refuse the seedy view from the hotel window.
I picture instead their silver inkstands,
the hoopskirt factory on Arch Street,
the Wireworks, their eighteenth-century herb gardens,
their nineteenth-century row houses restored
with period door knockers.
Step outside.
We have been deeded the largest landscaped space
within a city anywhere in the world. In Fairmount Park,
on horseback, among the ancient ginkgoes, oaks, persimmons,
and magnolias, we are seventeen and imperishable, cutting classes
May of our senior year. And I am happy as the young
Tom Jefferson, unbuttoning my collar, imagining his power,
considering my healthy body, how I might use it in the service
of the country of my pleasure.

8. Homosexuality

       by Frank O’Hara

So we are taking off our masks, are we, and keeping
our mouths shut? as if we’d been pierced by a glance!

The song of an old cow is not more full of judgement
than the vapors which escape one’s soul when one is sick;

so I pull down the shadows around me like a puff
and crinkle my eyes as if at the most exquisite moment

of a very long opera, and then we are off!
without reproach and without hope that our delicate feet

will touch the earth again, let along “very soon”.
It is the law of my own voice I shall investigate.

I start like ice, my finger to my ear, my ear
to my heart, that proud cur at the garbage can

in the rain. It’s wonderful to admire oneself
with complete candor, tallying up the merits of each

of the latrines. 14th Street is drunken and credulous,
53rd tries to tremble but is too at rest. The good

love a park and the inept a railway station,
and there are the divine ones who drag themselves up

and down the lengthening shadow of an Abyssinian head
in the dust, trailing their long elegant heels of hot air

crying to confuse the brave “It’s a summer day,
and I want to be wanted more than anything else in the world.”

9. Gay Pride Weekend

       by Brenda Shaughnessy

I forgot how lush and electrified
it was with you. The shaggy
fragrant zaps continually passing
back and forth, my fingertip
to your clavicle, or your wrist
rubbing mine to share gardenia
oil. We so purred like dragonflies
we kept the mosquitoes away
and the conversation was heavy,
mother-lacerated childhoods
and the sad way we’d both
been both ignored and touched
badly. Knowing that being
fierce and proud and out and
loud was just a bright new way
to be needy. Please listen to me, oh
what a buzz! you’re the only one
I can tell. Even with no secret,
I could come close to your ear
with my mouth and that was
ecstasy, too. We barely touched
each other, we didn’t have to
speak. The love we made leapt
to life like a cat in the space
between us (if there ever was
space between us), and looked
back at us through fog. Sure,
this was San Francisco, it was
often hard to see. But fog always
burned off, too, so we watched
this creature to see if it knew
what it was doing. It didn’t.

10. The 17-Year-Old & the Gay Bar

       by Danez Smith

this gin-heavy heaven, blessed ground to think gay & mean we.
bless the fake id & the bouncer who knew
this need to be needed, to belong, to know how
a man taste full on vodka & free of sin. i know not which god to pray to.
i look to christ, i look to every mouth on the dance floor, i order
a whiskey coke, name it the blood of my new savior. he is just.
he begs me to dance, to marvel men with the
of hips i brought, he deems my mouth in some stranger’s mouth necessary.
bless that man’s mouth, the song we sway sloppy to, the beat, the bridge, the length
of his hand on my thigh & back & i know not which country i am of.
i want to live on his tongue, build a home of gospel & gayety
i want to raise a city behind his teeth for all boys of choirs & closets to refuge in.
i want my new god to look at the mecca i built him & call it damn good
or maybe i’m just tipsy & free for the first time, willing to worship anything i can taste.

11. The Mortician in San Francisco

       by Randall Mann

This may sound queer,
but in 1985 I held the delicate hands
of Dan White:
I prepared him for burial; by then, Harvey Milk
was made monument—no, myth—by the years
since he was shot.
I remember when Harvey was shot:
twenty, and I knew I was queer.
Those were the years,
Levi’s and leather jackets holding hands
on Castro Street, cheering for Harvey Milk—
elected on the same day as Dan White.
I often wonder about Supervisor White,
who fatally shot
Mayor Moscone and Supervisor Milk,
who was one of us, a Castro queer.
May 21, 1979: a jury hands
down the sentence, seven years—
in truth, five years—
for ex-cop, ex-fireman Dan White,
for the blood on his hands;
when he confessed that he had shot
the mayor and the queer,
a few men in blue cheered. And Harvey Milk?
Why cry over spilled milk,
some wondered, semi-privately, for years—
it meant “one less queer.”
The jurors turned to White.
If just the mayor had been shot,
Dan might have had trouble on his hands—
but the twelve who held his life in their hands
maybe didn’t mind the death of Harvey Milk;
maybe, the second murder offered him a shot
at serving only a few years.
In the end, he committed suicide, this Dan White.
And he was made presentable by a queer.

New Month Poems

Happy new month poems welcome the arrival of a new month with excitement and anticipation. They capture the changing seasons and the fresh opportunities and possibilities that come with each new month.

1. New Month

       by Aminat Opatola

A new month again,
a new opportunity for gain,
the year is running to an end as the months flows in and out with haste,
it says we’re growing, , , ,
growing with the months sweetest stones,
ageing with another new month brim with rays,
it says another chance to be wise, loved, honoured and respected,
cause life is moving on and on in a quickest decrees,
spread thy legs around a sand of gold and troops around friends,

breath a new month air where they most breed and haunt,
laugh to the nimbly atmosphere that sweetly recommends itself unto thy gentle senses and move with the day’s beauty to thy sweetly content,

joys with birds and dance with the trees,
floats with the water and shine with sun,
move with the air and paint with the colors of the day,
sing with diver tones the songs of merriment to the majestic lord now he has given thee a great opportunity to live on.
Forgo thy saddened past and start up something new,
rise on stepping stones and leave thy haters to crawl in the den of hargardness,
it’s a new month of profound peace steamed to the winds with gems and golden lustres, so embrace it with arms and trophies and amaze the welkin with thy glorious achievement,
live to the fulliest and feed on hope,
it’s here again to bring chances for a new dream, a new goal and a new beginning,
a new thoughts and a new life,
a new joy and a new world,
so worry less and be fufilled,
it’s a whole new and winsome month.

2. New Month

       By Cloudnine Fairmane

Previous month wasn’t just the end of beginning of new month.
It’s not just how time flies. But how time upgrades to new stage.
Because nothang have to be the same; future is born.
New month begins because life goes on.
Bust on,
Never hesitate to update and transform to upgrade the version of your life.
Month ended, sorrow ends, grief, pain, all sources of sadness ceased.
New month harvest, joy, abundance blessings, favors, peace, freedom, deliverance, healing, breakthrough, love more money, and sanely sound life.

Women’s Month Poems

Poems about women’s month honor the contributions and achievements of women throughout history. They celebrate the progress made toward gender equality and highlight the challenges that still need to be overcome.

1. The Invitation

       By 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 centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled 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 is 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 at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,

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 centre 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.

2. Still I Rise

       By Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

3. Phenomenal Woman

       By Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
‘Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

4. Solitude

       By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

5. Mother, A Cradle to Hold Me

       By Maya Angelou

It is true
I was created in you.
It is also true
That you were created for me.
I owned your voice.
It was shaped and tuned to soothe me.
Your arms were molded
Into a cradle to hold me, to rock me.
The scent of your body was the air
Perfumed for me to breathe.

During those early, dearest days
I did not dream that you had
A large life which included me,
For I had a life
Which was only you.

Time passed steadily and drew us apart.
I was unwilling.
I feared if I let you go
You would leave me eternally.
You smiled at my fears, saying
I could not stay in your lap forever.

That one day you would have to stand
And where would I be?
You smiled again.
I did not.
Without warning you left me,
But you returned immediately.
You left again and returned,
I admit, quickly,
But relief did not rest with me easily.
You left again, but again returned.
You left again, but again returned.
Each time you reentered my world
You brought assurance.
Slowly I gained confidence.

You thought you know me,
But I did know you,
You thought you were watching me,
But I did hold you securely in my sight,
Recording every moment,
Memorizing your smiles, tracing your frowns.
In your absence
I rehearsed you,
The way you had of singing
On a breeze,
While a sob lay
At the root of your song.

The way you posed your head
So that the light could caress your face
When you put your fingers on my hand
And your hand on my arm,
I was blessed with a sense of health,
Of strength and very good fortune.

You were always
the heart of happiness to me,
Bringing nougats of glee,
Sweets of open laughter.

During the years when you knew nothing
And I knew everything, I loved you still.
Condescendingly of course,
From my high perch
Of teenage wisdom.
I grew older and
Was stunned to find
How much knowledge you had gleaned.
And so quickly.

Mother, I have learned enough now
To know I have learned nearly nothing.
On this day
When mothers are being honored,
Let me thank you
That my selfishness, ignorance, and mockery
Did not bring you to
Discard me like a broken doll
Which had lost its favor.
I thank you that
You still find something in me
To cherish, to admire and to love.

I thank you, Mother.
I love you.

6. On Aging

       By Maya Angelou

When you see me sitting quietly,
Like a sack left on the shelf,
Don’t think I need your chattering.
I’m listening to myself.
Hold! Stop! Don’t pity me!
Hold! Stop your sympathy!
Understanding if you got it,
Otherwise I’ll do without it!
When my bones are stiff and aching,
And my feet won’t climb the stair,
I will only ask one favor:
Don’t bring me no rocking chair.
When you see me walking, stumbling,
Don’t study and get it wrong.
‘Cause tired don’t mean lazy
And every goodbye ain’t gone.
I’m the same person I was back then,
A little less hair, a little less chin,
A lot less lungs and much less wind.
But ain’t I lucky I can still breathe in.

7. A Tribute to The Beautiful Women I Know

       By Na Dsa

To all you beautiful women who have been part of my life,
I am glad you shared in my joys and supported me in moments of strife.

On you, may God’s abundant blessings pour,
And when, like me, solace you need, a helping hand may He send to your door.

Women, because of each of you, I am the kind of person you see today.
You played an important part at some stage, in some way.

Your words of advice and encouragement or just a listening ear
Have helped me move forward and to get rid of many a fear.

I am now blessed to help other women, who beyond their pain can’t see,
By giving them what I received from you, thus saving them from the fate that theirs could be.

Women, on this special occasion, and for each and every day,
Good health, joy, and happiness be showered on you and your loved ones, for this I kneel to pray.

8. My Mother

       By Sinitta Washington

I know of a woman whose strength is of a bear.
And even when she’s not that happy, she always takes time out to care.
I know of a woman whose beauty is that of a queen.
But she continues to teach us that beauty doesn’t mean a thing.
You see, this woman I know is surely like no other.
Because the woman I mention here is truly my great mother.

9. Alone

       By Maya Angelou

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don’t believe I’m wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can’t use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They’ve got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I’ll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
‘Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

10. Hope Is the Thing With Feathers

       By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

11. If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking

       By Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

12. As You Go Through Life

       By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Don’t look for the flaws as you go through life;
And even when you find them,
It is wise and kind to be somewhat blind
And look for the virtue behind them.
For the cloudiest night has a hint of light
Somewhere in its shadows hiding;
It is better by far to hunt for a star,
Than the spots on the sun abiding.

The current of life runs ever away
To the bosom of God’s great ocean.
Don’t set your force ‘gainst the river’s course
And think to alter its motion.
Don’t waste a curse on the universe–
Remember it lived before you.
Don’t butt at the storm with your puny form,
But bend and let it go o’er you.

The world will never adjust itself
To suit your whims to the letter.
Some things must go wrong your whole life long,
And the sooner you know it the better.
It is folly to fight with the Infinite,
And go under at last in the wrestle;
The wiser man shapes into God’s plan
As water shapes into a vessel.

13. Remember

       By Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann’d:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

14. In the Orchard

       By Muriel Stuart

“I thought you loved me.” “No, it was only fun.”
“When we stood there, closer than all?” “Well, the harvest moon
“Was shining and queer in your hair, and it turned my head.”
“That made you?” “Yes.” “Just the moon and the light it made
“Under the tree?” “Well, your mouth, too.” “Yes, my mouth?”
“And the quiet there that sang like the drum in the booth.
“You shouldn’t have danced like that.” “Like what?” “So close,
“With your head turned up, and the flower in your hair, a rose
“That smelt all warm.” “I loved you. I thought you knew
“I wouldn’t have danced like that with any but you.”
“I didn’t know. I thought you knew it was fun.”
“I thought it was love you meant.” “Well, it’s done.” “Yes, it’s done.
“I’ve seen boys stone a blackbird, and watched them drown
“A kitten … it clawed at the reeds, and they pushed it down
“Into the pool while it screamed. Is that fun, too?”
“Well, boys are like that … Your brothers…” “Yes, I know.
“But you, so lovely and strong! Not you! Not you!”
“They don’t understand it’s cruel. It’s only a game.”
“And are girls fun, too?” “No, still in a way it’s the same.
“It’s queer and lovely to have a girl…” “Go on.”
“It makes you mad for a bit to feel she’s your own,
“And you laugh and kiss her, and maybe you give her a ring,
“But it’s only in fun.” “But I gave you everything.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have done it. You know what a fellow thinks
“When a girl does that.” “Yes, he talks of her over his drinks
“And calls her a—” “Stop that now. I thought you knew.”
“But it wasn’t with anyone else. It was only you.”
“How did I know? I thought you wanted it too.
“I thought you were like the rest. Well, what’s to be done?”
“To be done?” “Is it all right?” “Yes.” “Sure?” “Yes, but why?”
“I don’t know. I thought you were going to cry.
“You said you had something to tell me.” “Yes, I know.
“It wasn’t anything really … I think I’ll go.”
“Yes, it’s late. There’s thunder about, a drop of rain
“Fell on my hand in the dark. I’ll see you again
“At the dance next week. You’re sure that everything’s right?”
“Yes.” “Well, I’ll be going.” “Kiss me…” “Good night.” …
“Good night.”

15. The Seed-Shop

       By Muriel Stuart

HERE in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone and shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry –
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

Dead that shall quicken at the voice of spring,
Sleepers to wake beneath June’s tempest kiss;
Though birds pass over, unremembering,
And no bee find here roses that were his.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust
That shall drink deeply at a century’s streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;
Here I can stir a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

16. I, Being Born a Woman and Distressed

       By Edna St. Vincent Millay

I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity, —let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.

17. A Woman for All Times

       By Lenora Mcwhorter

A woman of noble character, who can find?
She is more precious than rubies of any kind.
Her husband esteems her with love and respect.
She manages her household without neglect.

She rises early and plans her day with skill,
And with great wisdom she buys herself a field.
The woman works diligently with her hands;
her business is profitable and is in demand.

She helps the poor and those in need
and prepares for her family with love indeed.
Covering of scarlet for her home she makes
and sews linen and tapestry for her own sake.

Her husband is respected in the public place
as she works wisely with quiet grace.
The woman is clothed with honor and dignity,
speaks with wisdom, and quite charming is she.

Her children rise up and call her blessed,
and her husband praises her resourcefulness.
For favor is deceitful and beauty is vain,
but a God-fearing woman is of great gain.

18. A Woman’s Virtue

       By Tonya Woodridge-Jarvis

A woman’s virtue is her wisdom and her strength.
She’s poised, prim and proper, and always watches over her sheep.
See, a woman has the ability to get the job done, no matter the circumstance.
God equipped her that way and not by chance.

A woman’s virtue is her ability to pray and cover her family without ceasing.
She knows that God’s favor on her family’s life is forever increasing.
So no matter the errands, the homework, or how she feels,
She covers them daily like their personal armored shields.

A woman’s virtue is her ability to sacrifice herself and her time for her family.
Her ultimate goal in life is to see them succeed, and when that happens, her spirit is at ease.
She puts her goals and dreams on hold to make sure the family stands together boldly.
See, God made her multifaceted to meet every deadline, make the kids cupcakes, and to even plan while she’s sleeping.

She can take blow after blow, yet have beautiful skin with a natural godly glow,
Like she’s been through nothing.
But she’ll be quick to tell anybody that her God is truly something.
She doesn’t look like she’s been in a fiery trial, because God truly keeps her by His side.
She knows that her pain is never wasted and it was never caused in vain.
She knows that one day a lost soul of a woman will come along for her to tame.

See, the kind of woman I’m talking about is beautiful, strong, and a weapon of mass destruction.
She knows the real meaning of spiritual warfare, as it is not just a song.
She’ll tell that devil to get under her feet and will not ever accept any kind of defeat,
Because in due season she knows that she will reap!

See, that woman of virtue is YOU.
Can you stand to be empowered, to know your self-worth?
You’re worth way more than you were ever told.
You’re worth more than silver and gold.

See, God made you blessed and highly favored.
You’re above and never beneath, you’re the head and not the tail, you’re a lender and not the borrower,
So you should stand for nothing less than what He already promised!
Now, I just stopped by to refresh your memory
And to remind you that we are all Proverbs 31 women.

Month Poems for Preschool

Month poems for preschool are designed to introduce young children to the changing seasons and holidays that define each month. These poems are simple and easy to understand, making them perfect for young children.

1. Days of The Month

       By Charmaine J Forde

Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November,
All the rest have thirty-one,
But February’s twenty-eight,
The Leap Year, which comes once in four,
Gives February one day more.

2. Months of The Year

       by Catherine Pulsifer

January, the start of the year, could be considered a new beginning
To set your goals and keep on living.

February the cold is here
But celebrate Valentine day with those who are dear.

March the hope of spring arrives
We are always glad to see winter die.

May the tulips do blossom bright
The days get longer giving us more light

June brings weather warm
But also black flies that like to swarm.

July the summer is finally here
The skies are blue and oh so clear!

August brings vacation time
A time to relax and just unwind.

September sees the kids back to school
Back to work and many schedules.

October the days begin to chill
But Halloween always brings a thrill.

November reminds us winter is near
We are coming to the end of the year.

December brings us shorter days and cold
Many Christmas stories are told.

Be thankful for each month of the year
Each month brings a blessing for you to hear!

3. Beautiful Things

       By Anonymous

Beautiful things there are coming this way
Nearer and nearer, every day
Yes, closer and closer.

Mischievous showers, and faint little smells
Of far-away flowers in far-away dells,
Are coming in April.

Sly little blossoms that clamber along
Close to the ground till they grow big and strong,
Are coming in May.

Roses and bees and a big yellow moon,
Coming together in beautiful June
In lovely midsummer.

Pretty red cherries, and bright little flies,
Twinkling and turning the fields into skies,
Will come in July.

Feathery clouds, and long, still afternoons
Scarce a leaf stirring, and birdies’ soft croons,
Are coming in August.

Glimpses of blue through the poppies and wheat.
And one little birthday on fast-flying feet,
Will come in September.

4. Each Month

       By Anonymous

January falls the snow,
February cold winds blow,
In March peep out the early flowers,
And April comes with sunny showers.
In May the roses bloom so gay,
In June the farmer mows his hay,
In July brightly shines the sun,
In August harvest is begun.
September turns the green leaves brown,
October winds then shake them down,
November fills with bleak and smear,
December comes and ends the year.

Month Poems for Kindergarten

Months of the year poems for kindergarten continue to explore the changing seasons and holidays of each month while introducing more complex ideas and themes. They help children develop their reading and comprehension skills while still being fun and engaging.

1. A Reason to Celebrate

       By Catherine Pulsifer

Every month there is a reason to celebrate
Birthdays and lots of cake.
But special occasions do arise
They happen each year they are no surprise.

January we celebrate and wish a happy new year
We look forward with much cheer.
We think of the things we want to achieve
Then set our goals and believe.

February brings love out front
A cupid goes on the hunt.
We tell our loved ones how much we love
Them and think they are sent from God above

March sees St. Patrick Day and green we wear
We celebrate the day with a flair.
We often claim Irish to be
Everyone is Irish and happy.

April gives us hope of spring
People retire and start living
Graduations happen too
April brings lots to do.

And then May is suddenly appears
A time to get out as winter disappears
We celebrate our Mothers dear
Tell Mom we love her forever and a year!

June is the month we celebrate dear old Dad
We tell him he’s the best Dad a person could have had
Graduation is celebrated
We are proud of our kids, now educated.

July is the month for vacation time
All year long we saved our dimes.
We look forward to relaxation
As we go on our vacation.

August brings the bounty of the season
We planted our garden just for this reason
We enjoy fresh fruit and vegetables
Making each meal delectable.

September brings warm days, cool nights
And you find some children delight
In going back to school each day
And others hate it in every way.

October brings trick or treat
Full of candy that is oh, so sweet
Children dress up,
And the pumpkins we carve

November sees the cold arrive
South we want to drive.
We can feel winter on the rise
Much to many’s demise.

Finally, December is here
Christmas comes with lots of cheer.
The month with a reason
Jesus Christ was born in this season.

2. Months of The Year

       By Anonymous

In January comes the snow,
And the glad New Year, you know.

In February, banners gay
Float for Washington’s Birthday.

In March the merry winds are blowing,
What care we for ice and snowing?

In April ’mid the sun and rain,
Flowers spring up once again.

In May when apple blossoms blow,
Round the May Pole we will go.

In June we sing a merry tune,
Glad vacation is coming soon.

In July, our glad July,
Rockets soar up toward the sky.

In August dusty golden-rod,
Springs up where the fairies trod.

In September school-bells ring,
All the birds are on the wing.

In October overhead,
All the leaves turn yellow and red.

In November get the sleigh,
Soon will come Thanksgiving Day.

In December if you please,
We will trim the Christmas trees.

3. The Months of The Seasons

       By Kate Summers

The Winter months of January, February, and March do bring
Cold weather for skating, and tobogganing
We tend to stay more indoors
The cold is not what many adore.

The Spring Months of April, May, and June do bring
Longer days and warmer feelings
We feel the warmth of the sun
We start looking forward to summer and its fun.

The Summer Months of July, August, and September do bring
Sunshine, and vacations we love living
We spend more outdoor time
We work less and have more downtime.

The Fall Months of October, November, and December do bring
Shorter days and we start wishing for spring.
Celebrations each month we do
Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas too!

Month Poems about May

Poems about the month of May capture the beauty and energy of springtime. They celebrate the arrival of warm weather, blooming flowers, and the joy of outdoor activities.

1. First of May

       by Annette Wynne

If I could stay up late no doubt
I’d catch the buds just bursting out;
And up from every hidden root
Would jump a tiny slender shoot;
I wonder how seeds learn the way,
They always know the very day—
The pretty, happy first of May;
If I could stay up then, no doubt
I’d catch the buds just bursting out.

2. First of May

       by Nicholas Lester

The winter’s breath of snow and sleet
No longer on our faces beat,
And loungers have resumed the street;
To work the house-wife quick will go
House cleaning, that the world may know
She is to dirt a deadly foe.
The house she’ll rummage through through,
The bed-rooms and the closets too;
Mid-floor their contents she will pile,
And greet her lord with winning smile
While she demands a carpet new.
Each table, bedstead, stand and chair.
Of scrubbing gets an ample share,
And soon the spouse becomes aware
The carpets from the floors are ripped,
And he must put them out to air;
(Let him remonstrate if he dare,)
And see that they are whipp’d.
The bureaus, brackets, stands and cases,
Must occupy some new-found places
For the ensuing year;
The parlor stove removed must be,
The pipes from soot be shaken free;
The pictures from the walls be taken;
The blankets, rugs and bed-quilts shaken;
And every nook with suds be drenched,
The kitchen fire remaining quench’d,
For dinner he in vain may look,
And should he grumble at the cook,
A flea gets in his ear.

3. In May

       by Alice Baker

The rain that’s falling soft and slow
Has set the tulip bed aglow,
A flaming mass of color.
And oh, the yellow and the red
Against the blackness of the bed—
The garden seems enchanted.
And how the tiny rose leaves shine,
So new and wet, and on the vine
A tiny yellow warbler.
And in my heart I bend my knee
To Him who made such things to be—
So exquisite and tender.

4. May Is Pretty, May Is Mild

       by Annette Wynne

May is pretty, May is mild,
Dances like a happy child;
Sing out, robin; spring out, flowers;
April went with all her showers,
And the world is green again;
Come out, children, to the glen,
To the meadows, to the wood,
For the earth is clean and good,
And the sky is clear and blue,
And bright May is calling you!
May is pretty, May is mild,
Dances like a happy child,
On a blessèd holiday,
Come out, children, join the play!

5. In Early May

       by Bliss Carman

O my dear, the world to-day
Is more lovely than a dream!
Magic hints from far away
Haunt the woodland, and the stream
Murmurs in his rocky bed
Things that never can be said.
Starry dogwood is in flower,
Gleaming through the mystic woods.
It is beauty’s perfect hour
In the wild spring solitudes.
Now the orchards in full blow
Shed their petals white as snow.
All the air is honey-sweet
With the lilacs white and red,
Where the blossoming branches meet
In an arbor overhead.
And the laden cherry trees
Murmur with the hum of bees.
All the earth is fairy green,
And the sunlight filmy gold,
Full of ecstasies unseen,
Full of mysteries untold.
Who would not be out-of-door,
Now the spring is here once more!

6. Calling the Violet

       by Lucy Larcom

Dear Little Violet,
Don’t be afraid!
Lift your blue eyes
From the rock’s mossy shade!
All the birds call for you
Out of the sky;
May is here, waiting,
And here, too, am I.
Come, pretty Violet,
Winter’s away:
Come, for without you
May isn’t May.
Down through the sunshine
Wings flutter and fly;—
Quick, little Violet,
Open your eye!
Hear the rain whisper,
“Dear Violet, come!”
How can you stay
In your underground home?
Up in the pine-boughs
For you the winds sigh.
Homesick to see you,
Are we—May and I.

7. Home Pictures in May

       by John Clare

The sunshine bathes in clouds of many hues
And morning’s feet are gemmed with early dews,
Warm daffodils about the garden beds
Peep through their pale slim leaves their golden heads,
Sweet earthly nuns of Spring; the gosling broods
In coats of sunny green about the road
Waddle in extasy; and in rich moods
The old hen leads her flickering chicks abroad,
Oft scuttling ‘neath her wings to see the kite
Hang wavering o’er them in the spring’s blue light.
The sparrows round their new nests chirp with glee
And sweet the robin Spring’s young luxury shares
Tootling its song in feathery gooseberry tree
While watching worms the gardener’s spade unbares.

8. May Has Decked the World

       by Annette Wynne

May has decked the world, that we
May bring the brave on land or sea
Earth’s glory on Memorial Day,
The lovely meadow gifts of May.
Brave dead, who saved our country, we
Come with flowers; O living brave, on land or sea,
We wave the bright Red, White and Blue
And bring May meadow gifts to you!

9. Early May

       by John Burroughs

The time that hints the coming leaf,
When buds are dropping chaff and scale,
And, wafted from the greening vale,
Are pungent odors, keen as grief.
Now shad-bush wears a robe of white,
And orchards hint a leafy screen;
While willows drop their veils of green
Above the limpid waters bright.
New songsters come with every morn,
And whippoorwill is overdue,
While spice bush gold is coined anew
Before her tardy leaves are born.
The cowslip now with radiant face
Makes mimic sunshine in the shade,
Anemone is not afraid,
Although she trembles in her place.
Now adder’s-tongue new gilds the mould,
The ferns unroll their woolly coils,
And honey-bee begins her toils
Where maple trees their fringe unfold.
The goldfinch dons his summer coat,
The wild bee drones her mellow bass,
And butterflies of hardy race
In genial sunshine bask and float.
The Artist now is sketching in
The outlines of his broad design
So soon to deepen line on line,
Till June and summer days begin.
Now Shadow soon will pitch her tent
Beneath the trees in grove and field,
And all the wounds of life be healed,
By orchard bloom and lilac scent.

10. In May

       by John Burroughs

When grosbeaks show a damask rose
Amid the cherry blossoms white,
And early robins’ nests disclose
To loving eyes a joyous sight;
When columbines like living coals
Are gleaming ‘gainst the lichened rocks,
And at the foot of mossy boles
Are young anemones in flocks;
When ginger-root beneath twin leaves
Conceals its dusky floral bell,
And showy orchid shyly weaves
In humid nook its fragrant spell;
When dandelion’s coin of gold
Anew is minted on the lawn,
And apple trees their buds unfold,
While warblers storm the groves at dawn;
When such delights greet eye and ear,
Then strike thy tasks and come away:
It is the joy-month of the year,
And onward sweeps the tide of May.
When farmhouse doors stand open wide
To welcome in the balmy air,
When truant boys plunge in the tide,
And school-girls knots of violets wear;
When grapevines crimson in the shoot,
Like fin of trout in meadow stream,
And morning brings the thrush’s flute
Where dappled lilies nod and dream;
When varied tints outline the trees,
Like figures sketched upon a screen,
And all the forest shows degrees
Of tawny red and yellow-green;
When purple finches sing and soar,
Then drop to perch on open wing,
With vernal gladness running o’er—
The feathered lyrist of the spring:
When joys like these salute the sense,
And bloom and perfume fill the day,
Then waiting long hath recompense,
And all the world is glad with May.

11. May Has Such a Winsome Way

       by Annette Wynne

Has such a winsome way,
Loves to love and laugh and play,
To be pretty all the day,
Never loves to sulk and frown,
As April does; when rain comes down,
May is sorry, says: “Rain, please
Go away soon, flowers and trees
Love the merry shining sun,
Want to laugh now, every one,
For the happy time’s begun.”
All you people who love play,
Love to love the livelong day,
Do you not love May
With her winsome way?

12. ‘Tis May Now in New England

       by Bliss Carman

‘Tis May now in New England
And through the open door
I see the creamy breakers,
I hear the hollow roar.
Back to the golden marshes
Comes summer at full tide,
But not the golden comrade
Who was the summer’s pride.

13. A Sleet-Storm in May

       by Madison Cawein

On southern winds shot through with amber light,
Breathing soft balm and clothed in cloudy white,
The lily-fingered Spring came o’er the hills,
Waking the crocus and the daffodils.
O’er the cold Earth she breathed a tender sigh—
The maples sang and flung their banners high,
Their crimson-tasselled pennons, and the elm
Bound his dark brows with a green-crested helm.
Beneath the musky rot of Autumn’s leaves,
Under the forest’s myriad naked eaves,
Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue,
Robed in the starlight of the twinkling dew.
With timid tread adown the barren wood
Spring held her way, when, lo! before her stood
White-mantled Winter wagging his white head,
Stormy his brow and stormily he said:
‘The God of Terror, and the King of Storm,
Must I remind thee how my iron arm
Raised my red standards ‘mid these conquered bowers,
Turning their green to crimson?—Thou, with flowers,
Thou wouldst supplant me! nay! usurp my throne!—
Audacious one!’—And at her breast he tossed
A bitter javelin of ice and frost;
And left her lying on th’ unfeeling mould.
The fragile blossoms, gathered in the fold
Of her warm bosom, fell in desolate rows
About her beauty, and, like fragrant snows,
Covered her lovely hands and beautiful feet,
Or on her lips lay like last kisses sweet
That died there. Lilacs, musky of the May,
And bluer violets and snowdrops lay
Entombed in crystal, icy dim and fair,
Like teardrops scattered in her heavenly hair.
Alas! sad heart, break not beneath the pain!
Time changeth all; the Beautiful wakes again.—
We should not question such; a higher power
Knows best what bud is ripest or what flower,
And silently plucks it at the fittest hour.

14. May Day

       by Sara Teasdale

A delicate fabric of bird song
Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
Is everywhere.
Red small leaves of the maple
Are clenched like a hand,
Like girls at their first communion
The pear trees stand.
Oh I must pass nothing by
Without loving it much,
The raindrop try with my lips,
The grass with my touch;
For how can I be sure
I shall see again
The world on the first of May
Shining after the rain?

15. Ode to May

       by Peter Burn

Queen of months, supremely fair,
Cloth’d with garments rich and rare,
None in beauty can compare
With thee, sweet May.
Lovely month, thou bringest mirth,
Spreadest sweetness o;er the earth,
Causest Nature to give birth
To fruits and flowers.
Thou art lov’d by young and old.
Joys for each thou dost unfold;
Never shall our hearts grow cold
To thee, sweet May.

16. May

       by Rebecca Hey

The clouds “have wept their fill” the whole night long,
And what a change is wrought! But yesterday,
We look’d around, and scarce could deem that May,
The poet’s theme,—the month of flowers and song,—
Could do her own sweet lineaments such wrong
As to frown on us like a very shrew:
To-day, we feel what poets sing is true;
Like them, we hail her reign, and wish it long.
See, how each budding spray, each floweret fair
Retains the liquid treasure! how the trees,
Lest summer should o’ertake them unaware,
Haste to unfold their leaflets to the breeze;
While in the orchard every moss-grown stem,
And sapling shoot, a thousand blossoms gem!

17. May

       by Edith Willis Linn

A white shower falls from the apple tree,
Good-bye good-bye, sweet May!
I will not mourn at beauty lost,
For there comes as fair a day;
But such a wealth of sweets is thine,
Such blooms of flower and spray,
We can but sigh that gaining June,
We still must lose our May.
Only for once in the whole long year
Are the trees so robed in bloom;
Only for once the lilac flowers
Yield up such rare perfume;
Only for once the birds sing forth
A melody so gay;
The sweetest promise of the year
Comes with the flowers of May.
We dream of these days through the winter long,
When dreary lies the snow,
And picture forth what joys were ours
In the Mays of long ago;
But when the time brings forth the bloom
From the buds of leaf and spray,
We find our loveliest dreams were vain
To show the sweets of May.
And waking morn, with golden sun,
Is filled with gladdest sound,
The chords of music seem to thrill
Along the very ground,
For insect life awakes and moves
To join the roundelay
That breaks along the happy earth
In the fair time of May.
Our hearts forget from year to year
How pink the apple bloom,
We cannot carry in our mind
Such wealth of rich perfume;
At every step we feel surprise
At the glory of the day,
And wonder if the world has been
As fair in every May.
But time has in its bosom much
To give for our delight.
There is a promise in the flower
So beautiful and white.
The green fields mean a fair, rich yield
When spring has passed away,
And the birds will know a deeper joy
Than comes to them in May.
Fall down, fall down, oh! shower of white
And make the ground like snow,
For underneath those petals fair
The fruit is hid, I know.
And hasten on, oh! golden sun,
There’s joy with every day
Our world would not be half as rich
If life could be all May.

18. May

       by Madison Cawein

The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed,
That spangle the woods and dance—
No gleam of gold that the twilights hold
Is strong as their necromance:
For, under the oaks where the woodpaths lead,
The golden discs of the rattlesnake-weed
Are the May’s own utterance.
The azure stars of the bluet bloom,
That sprinkle the woodland’s trance—
No blink of blue that a cloud lets through
Is sweet as their countenance:
For, over the knolls that the woods perfume,
The azure stars of the bluet bloom
Are the light of the May’s own glance.
With her wondering words and her looks she comes,
In a sunbeam of a gown;
She needs but think and the blossoms wink,
But look, and they shower down.
By orchard ways, where the wild bee hums,
With her wondering words and her looks she comes
Like a little maid to town.

19. May

       by Henry Sylvester Cornwell

Come walk with me along this willowed lane,
Where, like lost coinage from some miser’s store,
The golden dandelions more and more
Glow, as the warm sun kisses them again!
For this is May! who with a daisy chain
Leads on the laughing Hours; for now is o’er
Long winter’s trance. No longer rise and roar
His forest-wrenching blasts. The hopeful swain, Along the furrow, sings behind his team;
Loud pipes the redbreast—troubadour of spring,
And vocal all the morning copses ring;
More blue the skies in lucent lakelets gleam;
And the glad earth, caressed by murmuring showers,
Wakes like a bride, to deck herself with flowers!

20. Blue-Eyed Grass of May

       by Annette Wynne

Star, high star, far in the blue,
I have stars more near than you,
Shining from the blue-eyed grass,
Peeping at me as I pass.
Star, high star, far in the blue,
I wish that I could pick you, too,
I know I’d love you better, star,
If you were not so high and far.
My little friendly stars are found
Right close to me upon the ground;
You shine all night, they shine all day-
They are the blue-eyed grass of May!

Month Poems about June

Poems about the month of June highlight the start of summer and the excitement of longer days, warmer weather, and outdoor adventures. They capture the spirit of the season and the sense of joy and possibility that comes with it.

1. The Tent of Noon

       by Bliss Carman

Behold, now, where the pageant of high June
Halts in the glowing noon!
The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill;
The bannered hosts are still,
While over forest crown and mountain head
The azure tent is spread.
The song is hushed in every woodland throat;
Moveless the lilies float;
Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea
Sighs only fitfully;
The cattle drowse in the field-corner’s shade;
Peace on the world is laid.
It is the hour when Nature’s caravan,
That bears the pilgrim Man
Across the desert of uncharted time
To his far hope sublime,
Rests in the green oasis of the year,
As if the end drew near.
Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise
For these fleet halcyon days?—
No courage to uplift thee from despair
Born with the breath of prayer?
Then turn thee to the lilied field once more!
God stands in his tent door.

2. June’s Coming

       by John Burroughs

Now have come the shining days
When field and wood are robed anew,
And o’er the world a silver haze
Mingles the emerald with the blue.
Summer now doth clothe the land
In garments free from spot or stain—
The lustrous leaves, the hills untanned,
The vivid meads, the glaucous grain.
The day looks new, a coin unworn,
Freshly stamped in heavenly mint;
The sky keeps on its look of morn;
Of age and death there is no hint.
How soft the landscape near and far!
A shining veil the trees infold;
The day remembers moon and star;
A silver lining hath its gold.
Again I see the clover bloom,
And wade in grasses lush and sweet;
Again has vanished all my gloom
With daisies smiling at my feet.
Again from out the garden hives
The exodus of frenzied bees;
The humming cyclone onward drives,
Or finds repose amid the trees.
At dawn the river seems a shade—
A liquid shadow deep as space;
But when the sun the mist has laid,
A diamond shower smites its face.
The season’s tide now nears its height,
And gives to earth an aspect new;
Now every shoal is hid from sight,
With current fresh as morning dew.

3. Why Was June Made?

       by Annette Wynne

Why was June made?—Can you guess?
June was made for happiness!
Even the trees
Know this, and the breeze
That loves to play
Outside all day,
And never is too bold or rough,
Like March’s wind, but just a tiny blow’s enough;
And all the fields know
This is so—
June was not made for wind and stress,
June was made for happiness;
Little happy daisy faces
Show it in the meadow places,
And they call out when I pass,
“Stay and play here in the grass.”
June was made for happy things,
Boats and flowers, stars and wings,
Not for wind and stress,
June was made for happiness!

4. June

       by William Cullen Bryant

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round;
And thought, that when I came to lie
Within the silent ground,
‘Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,
When brooks sent up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton’s hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain turf should break.
A cell within the frozen mould,
A coffin borne through sleet,
And icy clods above it rolled,
While fierce the tempests beat—
Away!—I will not think of these—
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,
Earth green beneath the feet,
And be the damp mould gently pressed
Into my narrow place of rest.
There, through the long, long summer hours,
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale, close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife-bee and humming-bird.
And what if cheerful shouts, at noon,
Come from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know, I know I should not see
The season’s glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
These to their softened hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part, in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
Is—that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear, again, his living voice.

5. A New England June

       by Bliss Carman

These things I remember
Of New England June,
Like a vivid day-dream
In the azure noon,
While one haunting figure
Strays through every scene,
Like the soul of beauty
Through her lost demesne.
Gardens full of roses
And peonies a-blow
In the dewy morning,
Row on stately row,
Spreading their gay patterns,
Crimson, pied and cream,
Like some gorgeous fresco
Or an Eastern dream.
Nets of waving sunlight
Falling through the trees;
Fields of gold-white daisies
Rippling in the breeze:
Lazy lifting groundswells,
Breaking green as jade
On the lilac beaches,
Where the shore-birds wade.
Orchards full of blossom,
Where the bob-white calls
And the honeysuckle
Climbs the old gray walls;
Groves of silver birches,
Beds of roadside fern,
In the stone-fenced pasture
At the river’s turn.
Out of every picture
Still she comes to me
With the morning freshness
Of the summer sea, —
A glory in her bearing,
A sea-light in her eyes,
As if she could not forget
The spell of Paradise.
Thrushes in the deep woods,
With their golden themes,
Fluting like the choirs
At the birth of dreams.
Fireflies in the meadows
At the gate of Night,
With their fairy lanterns
Twinkling soft and bright.
Ah, not in the roses,
Nor the azure noon,
Nor the thrushes’ music,
Lies the soul of June.
It is something finer,
More unfading far,
Than the primrose evening
And the silver star;
Something of the rapture
My beloved had,
When she made the morning
Radiant and glad,—
Something of her gracious
Ecstasy of mien,
That still haunts the twilight,
Loving though unseen.
When the ghostly moonlight
Walks my garden ground,
Like a leisurely patrol
On his nightly round,
These things I remember
Of the long ago,
While the slumbrous roses
Neither care nor know.

6. A Night in June

       by Madison Cawein

White as a lily moulded of Earth’s milk
That eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky;
Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,
Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:
Bright as a naiad’s leap, from shine to shade
The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;
Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,
Flashed like a great enchantment-welded blade.
And when the western sky seemed some weird land,
And night a witching spell at whose command
One sloping star fell green from heav’n; and deep
The warm rose opened for the moth to sleep;
Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,
And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.
There where they part, the porch’s steps are strewn
With wind-blown petals of the purple vine;
Athwart the porch the shadow of a pine
Cleaves the white moonlight; and like some calm rune
Heaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon;
And now a meteor draws a lilac line
Across the welkin, as if God would sign
The perfect poem of this night of June.
The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree,
Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grass
Like crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass;
And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame,
The dewdrop trembles on the peony,
As in a lover’s heart his sweetheart’s name.

7. June

       by James Russell Lowell

What is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green.
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature’s palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o’errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

8. The Breezes of June

       by Paul Hamilton Hayne

On! sweet and soft,
Returning oft,
As oft they pass benignly,
The warm June breezes come and go,
Through golden rounds of murmurous flow,
At length to sigh,
Wax faint and die,
Far down the panting primrose sky,
Though soft and low
These breezes blow,
Their voice is passion’s wholly;
And ah! our hearts go forth to meet
The burden of their music sweet,
Ere yet it sighs,
Faints, falters, dies
Down the rich path of sunset skies—
Half glad, half melancholy!
Bend, bend thine ear!
Oh! hark and hear
What vows each blithe new-comer!
Each warm June breeze that comes goes,
Is whispering to the royal rose,
And star-pale lily, trembling nigh,
Ere yet in subtlest harmony
Its murmurs die,
Wax faint and die
On thy flushed bosom, passionate sky,
Of youthful summer!

9. June

       by Rebecca Hey

This is the year’s sweet prime! Methinks, like Youth,
‘Tis poetry embodied! Nay, I deem,
Delightsome June! that Fancy’s brightest dream
Outvies not thy fair beauty; nay in sooth,
For once she need but borrow hues from Truth
To picture thee. Now yield we every sense
To the sweet season’s genial influence,
And banish from our bosoms care and ruth.
Ask we for fragrance? lo! each little flower
Yields to our scarce-breathed wish its incense sweet;
For music? hie we to the glade and bower,
There the blithe birds shall give us welcome meet;
For beauty? deck’d in all its living power,
Earth lays her brightest trophies at our feet.

10. June’s Picture

       by Annette Wynne

Let me paint June’s picture—first I take some gold,
Fill the picture full of sun, all that it can hold;
Save some for the butterflies, darting all around,
And some more for buttercups here upon the ground;
Take a lot of baby-blue—this—to make the sky,
With a lot of downy white—soft clouds floating by;
Cover all the ground with green, hang it from the trees,
Sprinkle it with shiny white, neatly as you please;
So—a million daisies spring up everywhere,
Surely you can see now what is in the air!
Here’s a thread of silver—that’s a little brook
To hide in dainty places where only children look.
Next, comes something—guess—it grows
Among green hedges—it’s the rose!
Brown for a bird to sing a song,
Brown for a road to walk along.
Then add some happy children to the fields and flowers and skies,
And so you have June’s picture here before your eyes.

11. A Song of the Sixth Month

       by William Stanley Braithwaite

Glad, mad, and a bit sad too —
Face o’ the rose in the eye of the sun;
God has dreamed and his work is done —
June’s on the world, heigh-ho!
See how the greenish shadow raises
Patterns on the sun’s flood of golden blazes
Round a pink, slim girl knee-deep in daisies.
What is this slow full sense of Time!
This great armada of chirp and song,
That are as a host of sails that throng
Across June’s tidal sea of rhyme.
Buttercups and daisies, sing low, sing high —
Age is a fable, death is a lie —
And June’s too good to tell us why!

12. The Approach of June, Or The Month Of Roses

       by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

‘Tis blushing on through brier and thorn,
The wintry winds are still;
Now softer zephyrs waft along,
The month of June to fill.
Soft dews descend upon the flowers
And kindly rest awhile;
‘Tis sweet to wait upon these hours,
To see the roses smile.
How beautiful the charming scene,
‘Tis far surpassing art,
Like purity in heavenly mien,
Reviving to the heart.
Sweet exhalations fill the air,
While music in the grove,
Invites my pensive soul to share
In all the songs of love.
Put off thy wintry robe my soul,
Born to rejoice and sing,
Let gratitude thy lips control
In praises to your king.
The soul with innocence possess’d,
Her incense safe may bear
To Christ, whose righteousness hath bless’d
The humblest form of prayer.
Thus while the roses greet our eyes,
In all their rich perfume,
Should our prayers like incense rise,
Our summer to illume.

13. But One

       by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The year has but one June, dear friend,
The year has but one June;
And when that perfect month doth end,
The robin’s song, though loud, though long,
Seems never quite in tune.
The rose, though still its blushing face
By bee and bird is seen,
May yet have lost that subtle grace—
That nameless spell the winds know well—
Which makes its gardens queen.
Life’s perfect June, love’s red, red rose,
Have burned and bloomed for me.
Though still youth’s summer sunlight glows;
Though thou art kind, dear friend, I find
I have no heart for thee.

14. June

       by Thomas Wentworth Higginson

She needs no teaching,—no defect is hers;
She stands in all her beauty ‘mid the trees,
‘Neath the tall pines her golden sunshine stirs
And shifts and trembles with each passing breeze.
All the long day upon the broad green boughs
Lieth the lustre of her lovely life,
While too much drugged with rapture to carouse
Broods her soft world of insect-being rife.
So without effort or perplexing thought
She comes to claim all homage as her own,
Clad in the richest garments Nature wrought,
Melting the strongest with her magic zone.
O wondrous June! our lives should be like thee,
With such calm grace fulfilling destiny.

15. June

       by Lottie Brown Allen

Oh what is more sweet than the month of June
When our senses thrill and our hearts keep tune
To the song of the birds and the rose in bloom?
Oh what is more joy than the early gray
Of the dewy morn and the sun’s first ray
That herald the dawn of a perfect day?
Oh what is more fair as the sun climbs high
Than the azure hue of the summer sky
And the snow-white clouds drifting idly by?
Oh what is more pure than the summer air
That wafts from the woodlands and gardens fair
A fragrance and perfume so rich and rare?
Oh what is more dear than the twilight hour
When the daylight fades and each nodding flower
Is kissed by the moonbeams’ mystic power?
O, Summer Queen! you are gone too soon
With your sunny days and your shining moon,
With your golden grain and your wealth of bloom.
And if we could hold in some magic way
To your trailing robes for a single day,
Dear month of June, we would bid you stay.

16. The Passing June

       by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse

I am shut in as June goes by,
And can but see one little tree
Tossing its new leaves to the sky
With the old ecstasy.
And of the sky itself I see
Only a curving arc of blue,
That brings the larkspur dawn to me
And holds the evening true.
I am shut in as June goes by,
But every day you come to me,
And I am glad to lose the sky
And every dancing tree.

17. Southwestern June

       by Charles Badger Clark

Lazy little hawse, it’s noon
And we’ve wasted saddle leather,
But the mornin’s slip so soon
When we drift around together
In this lazy, shinin’ weather,
Sunny, easy-goin’ June.
Who kin study shamblin’ herds,
How they calve or die or wander,
When the bridegroom mockin’-birds,
Singin’ here and there and yonder,
Trill that June’s too bright to ponder
And life’s just too fine for words!
Down the desert’s hazy blue
See the tall gray whirlwinds farin’,
Slow, contented sort of crew
Trailin’ ‘cross the sunny barren,
Headed nowhere and not carin’
Just the same as me and you.
From a world of unfenced room
Just a breath of breeze is strayin’,
Triflin’ with the yucca bloom
Till its waxy bells are swayin’,
On my cheek warm kisses layin’
Soft as touch of ostrich plume.
When the July lightnin’ gleams
This brown range will start to workin’,
Hills be green and tricklin’ streams
Down each deep arroyo lurkin’;
Now the sleepy land is shirkin’,
Drowzin’, smilin’ in her dreams.
Steppin’ little hawse, it’s noon.
Turquoise blue the far hills glimmer;
“Sun—sun—sun,” the mockers croon
Where the yellow range lands shimmer,
And our sparklin’ spirits simmer
For we’re young yet, and it’s June!

18. “June” Sang the River

       by Annette Wynne

“June” sang the river, “June” sang the sky;
“June” sang the trees and the flowers together,
“June” sang the meadow-lark, “June” sing I;
June is the month of singing weather.
June is the time for swinging clover,
Time for the rumbling old fat bee-rover,
Time for the sky to bend sweetly over,
And whisper, “Earth dear, from the East to the West
You are lovely all seasons—but in June far the best!”

19. June

       by Ada A. Mosher

Ah, transient fall as tender were the flowers
You flung within the lap of this old clime,
And fair as fleeting were thy sweet-faced hours,
The children beautiful you bore old Time.

20. June in Maine

       by Hannah Augusta Moore

Beautiful, beautiful summer!
Odorous, exquisite June!
All the sweet roses in blossom,
All the sweet birdies in tune.
Dew on the meadows at sunset;
Gems on the meadows at morn;
Melody hushing the evening;
Melody greeting the dawn.
All the dim aisles of the forest
Ringing and thrilling with song;
Music—a flood-tide of music—
Poured the green valleys along.
Rapturous creatures of beauty.
Winging their way through the sky,
Heavenward warble their praises—
Mount our thanksgivings as high?
Lo! when a bird is delighted,
His ecstacy prompts him to soar;
The greater, the fuller his rapture,
His songs of thanksgiving the more.
See how the winds from the mountains
Sweep over meadows most fair;
The green fields are tossed like the ocean,
Are shadowed by clouds in the air.
For now fleecy shadows are chasing
The sunshine from woodland and vale,
As white clouds come gathering slowly,
Blown up by the sweet-scented gale
Birds and the gales and the flowers
Call us from study away,
Out to the fields where the mowers
Soon will be making the hay.
Buttercups, daisies, and clover,
Roses, sweet-briar, and fern,
Mingle their breath on the breezes—
Who from such wooing could turn?
Out! to the heath and the mountain,
Where mid the fern and the brake,
Under the pines and the spruces,
Fragrant the bower we will make.
Ravishing voices of Nature,
Ye conquer—and never too soon—
We yield to thy luscious embraces,
Thou odorous, exquisite June!

21. June Is Such a Bonny Time

       by Annette Wynne

June is such a bonny time—
Bird and flower weather—
Time for song and love and rime—
Time to be together;
Time for hoops and sails and wings,
Butterflies and happy things.

22. The Harebells Ring

       by Annette Wynne

The harebells ring on every lea,
They call the blue bells oversea,
And all the world takes up the tune,
Skies and earth, it’s June, June, June!

Month Poems about Black History

Black history month poems celebrate the achievements and contributions of African Americans throughout history. They honor the struggles and sacrifices made in the fight for civil rights and highlight the ongoing work toward equality and justice.

1. Homage to My Hips

       By Lucille Clifton

these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don’t fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!

2. I Heard the Voices Scream

       By Keisha Swafford

I heard the voices scream
“Nigger, best shut your mouth.”
When prejudice ran wild
While hatred ruled the south

I heard the voices scream
“Nigger, back of the bus.”
Never knew why whites thought
They were better than us

I heard the voices scream
“Nigger’s setting off sparks.”
When they saw the courage
Of the great Rosa Parks

I heard the voices scream
“Niggers can’t go on strike.”
But instead of the bus
To our jobs we would hike

I heard the voices scream
“We black folks have our pride.”
As we walked hand in hand
And stood there side by side

I heard “I have a Dream.”
By Martin Luther King,
“If we stick with this thing
The voices will not scream.”

Heard, “Thank God Almighty,”
And “I am Free at Last.”
Prejudice and hatred
Would now live in the past

I heard people singing
Songs full of love and peace
I heard people praying
For racism to cease

I heard the voices scream
“Nigger, pick my cotton
Color girl wash my floors”
Words won’t be forgotten

I heard the voices scream
“White man’s out and about.”
I heard, “I Have a Dream”
Just as the shots rang out

I heard the teardrops fall
I heard God’s Angels sing
I heard the black man say,
“They murdered Doctor King.”

I heard the voices scream
“Revenge is what we seek.”
And not, “I Have a Dream
Someday our race will peak.”

I heard the voices scream
“We must stick together
Carry out Martin’s dream
If it takes forever.”

I heard the voices scream
“We’ve won our Civil Rights.”
The words, “I Have a Dream
We’re equal to the whites.”

I heard the voices scream
“Racism’s here to stay
But thank God it isn’t
As bad as yesterday.”

I heard the voices scream,
“Nigger, back of the bus.”
Never knew why whites thought
They were better than us

I heard my own voice scream
When my sweet Momma died
Leaving her legacy
Her honor and her pride

I heard, “I think I’ll sit
I’m tired and it’s dark”
Were said by my Momma
Whose name was Rosa Parks

3. Dreams

       By Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

4. Equality

       By Maya Angelou

You declare you see me dimly
through a glass which will not shine,
though I stand before you boldly,
trim in rank and marking time.
You do own to hear me faintly
as a whisper out of range,
while my drums beat out the message
and the rhythms never change.

Equality, and I will be free.
Equality, and I will be free.

You announce my ways are wanton,
that I fly from man to man,
but if I’m just a shadow to you,
could you ever understand?

We have lived a painful history,
we know the shameful past,
but I keep on marching forward,
and you keep on coming last.

Equality, and I will be free.
Equality, and I will be free.

Take the blinders from your vision,
take the padding from your ears,
and confess you’ve heard me crying,
and admit you’ve seen my tears.

Hear the tempo so compelling,
hear the blood throb in my veins.
Yes, my drums are beating nightly,
and the rhythms never change.

Equality, and I will be free.
Equality, and I will be free.

5. Human Family

       By Maya Angelou

I note the obvious differences
in the human family.
Some of us are serious,
some thrive on comedy.

Some declare their lives are lived
as true profundity,
and others claim they really live
the real reality.

The variety of our skin tones
can confuse, bemuse, delight,
brown and pink and beige and purple,
tan and blue and white.

I’ve sailed upon the seven seas
and stopped in every land,
I’ve seen the wonders of the world
not yet one common man.

I know ten thousand women
called Jane and Mary Jane,
but I’ve not seen any two
who really were the same.

Mirror twins are different
although their features jibe,
and lovers think quite different thoughts
while lying side by side.

We love and lose in China,
we weep on England’s moors,
and laugh and moan in Guinea,
and thrive on Spanish shores.

We seek success in Finland,
are born and die in Maine.
In minor ways we differ,
in major we’re the same.

I note the obvious differences
between each sort and type,
but we are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.

6. Caged Bird

       By Maya Angelou

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

7. Life Doesn’t Frighten Me

       By Maya Angelou

Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn’t frighten me at all

Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud
Life doesn’t frighten me at all

Mean old Mother Goose
Lions on the loose
They don’t frighten me at all

Dragons breathing flame
On my counterpane
That doesn’t frighten me at all.

I go boo
Make them shoo
I make fun
Way they run
I won’t cry
So they fly
I just smile
They go wild

Life doesn’t frighten me at all.

Tough guys fight
All alone at night
Life doesn’t frighten me at all.

Panthers in the park
Strangers in the dark
No, they don’t frighten me at all.

That new classroom where
Boys all pull my hair
(Kissy little girls
With their hair in curls)
They don’t frighten me at all.

Don’t show me frogs and snakes
And listen for my scream,
If I’m afraid at all
It’s only in my dreams.

I’ve got a magic charm
That I keep up my sleeve
I can walk the ocean floor
And never have to breathe.

Life doesn’t frighten me at all
Not at all
Not at all.

Life doesn’t frighten me at all.

8. Mother to Son

       By Langston Hughes

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor-
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So, boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps.
‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now-
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

9. I, Too

       By Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”

They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

10. I Had a Dream

       By Curtiss L. Hayes

I had a dream
gathered up steam
and then just kept right on rolling
That black and white
no longer did fight
but unity both were extolling

I had a dream
built self-esteem
as I was bold and courageous
I made black and white
walk toward the light
and nobody thought it outrageous

I had a dream
making me deem
giving my life to the cause, providing
Both black and white
scale the height
And climb over the wall that’s dividing

I had a dream
strong as a beam
sturdy and steady as can be
Saw black and white
holding on tight
To the vision that U.S. does mean we

I had a dream
we were a team
Looking out for one or the other
Black and white
with all their might
helping and loving one another

I had a dream
made it seem
I should put what I dreamt in a letter
For black and white
did what was right
things couldn’t be any better

I had a dream
cookies and cream
were on the menu that day
Because black and white
are precious in his sight
and they will be together someday

11. Long Enough

       By Curtiss L. Hayes

I’ve been black long enough.

Long enough to know about the middle passage
Men, women, children, regardless of age
Stuffed in a ship, like animals in a cage

Long enough to know about slavery
And the white man’s feeling of mastery
Causing human beings a lifetime of misery

Long enough to know about Jim Crow
The unjust laws, instituted, blow after blow
Crushing the spirit of those they refused to know

Long enough to know about lynchings
The ‘strange fruit’ hanging from trees
After enduring a myriad of indignities

I’ve been black long enough.

Long enough to see separate but ‘un’equal classrooms
Schools with computers, others with, maybe, brooms
Leading inevitably to unequal boardrooms

Long enough to see the Civil Rights movement
Its effect on America barely a dent
Many courageous freedom fighters came and went

Long enough to see housing inequality
Driving past neighborhoods with no diversity
Wondering will we ever have inclusivity

Long enough to see the police forget
Those they are sworn to serve and protect
Instead they put a knee on their neck

I’ve been black long enough

Long enough to experience racial discrimination
I have felt it on more than one occasion
One time as a child on a family vacation

I was ten when I jumped into the motel pool
The white folks scattered; (was I made of stool?)
And glared at me as if I was the fool

Or when our family moved into a neighborhood
Only to watch signs pop up on placard and wood
‘For Sale’ signs to get the hell out of the hood

The confederate flag flew at my oldest son’s school
So what are concerned parents to do?
We dialogued a resolution until all parties were cool

I’ve been black long enough.

Hopeful or hopeless? Probably more of the latter
POTUS can’t even say the words ‘Black Lives Matter’
To some I may sound like a man full of blather

I’m not, it’s just that I’ve been black long enough
To know that enough is enough.

12. Rose Painted

       By Paige

If I were a Rose painted black,
would you cast me aside
like blackened, burnt rice?
Would my color tarnish my sweet smell?

If I were a Rose painted black,
would the richness of my ebony petals
make me unworthy
of being called
a Rose?

If I were a Rose painted white,
would my ivory petals be worth more than silver?
Would my sweet smell captivate
a room welcomingly?

If I were just a Rose,
sweet-smelling and vibrant
and your mind was blind…
would my color matter?

Final Thoughts

Overall, month poems offer a unique way to celebrate the changing seasons and the events that define each month.

Whether you’re looking for short and sweet poems to share with young children, or longer works that explore more complex themes, there’s a month poem out there for everyone.

Pride month poems and Women’s month poems are particularly important as they highlight the struggles and achievements of marginalized communities.

Month poems about Black history are also essential in recognizing the contributions and sacrifices of African Americans throughout history.

Ultimately, poems of the month remind us to appreciate the beauty and significance of each moment in time.

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