Frost is probably my long-time favorite among the traditional poets of America, by which, of course, I mean the ones whose poems rhyme.
Two Frost poems follow. The Road Not Taken speaks to all of us who have taken the 'road less traveled'. Fire and Ice happens to be the only Frost poem I can recite from memory. Fortunately, I found somebody better to recite it for you...

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

I got the text of these poems from a fine Frost fan page on the Net, put together by a couple of British fans. You may want to check it out or go to the Amherst Frost site through the Links Page

To discuss or describe the joyous, masterful work of e. e. cummings would be to imply that I fully understand him. I really do not understand him. I just love him. He is, obviously, among the countless poets who have influenced my efforts. In fact, it is in large part because of him that I write poetry at all.

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere) arranging
a window, into which people look (while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here) and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things, while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there) and

without breaking anything.

Cummings and many other poets are covered beautifully on the Academy of American Poets web site. Links to poets.org and the cummings section specifically are found on the Links Page

Did I mention that I met Allen Ginsberg? I got the chance to hear him read and chat with him back in the days when I was hanging with the artsy crowd at the Mercury Cafe in Denver. He was frank and friendly and obviously in a slightly different space than most of us.
Ginsberg's epic Howl would be presented here, but it is long enough to run into the next county. I've provided a link to it here and on the Links Page