Treasure Island

Adam Fitzgerald

(12/30/1983 / Staten Island, New York)

Saint Christopher


Striated in folds, his red gown flows
Like a firemuscle dipped to a flamelip,
While featherlegged, lame and limp his toes
Writhe wearily wave-enrhythmed steps, chipped

Foot he crosses with, among gold minnows
Mocking him in nimble dance, jubilant.
Anguished, his brown eyes close in lead repose.
And all is gold, barren and opulent.

O, cursed Saint, your finger-threshing staff
Gnashes your gnarled knuckles the heat will taint
As skylinen soiled sags, the infant laughs
And winds sift pitchless. But travel on, Saint,

Such eyes narrow like a craving chorus
Of rocks, wound-worn and darkly susurrus.

Submitted: Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Listen to this poem:

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Saint Christopher by Adam Fitzgerald )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  9. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  10. A Dream Within A Dream
    Edgar Allan Poe

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. Three Word Poem, kitty smith
  2. A Part of the Passion, Maharishi Deja Vu
  3. Cotton, Mike Walsh
  4. i would so come and give without taking..., Mandolyn ...
  5. Statistician, Dr PJ Raj Kamal
  6. Splattered On An Aging Quilt, Lawrence S. Pertillar
  7. OUR CONSCIENCE KEEPS US FAITHFUL, Tom Zart
  8. Qi Breath, Maharishi Deja Vu
  9. Railway station, Dr PJ Raj Kamal
  10. I Want The Past That Will Never Be Again, Shalom Freedman

Poem of the Day

poet Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
...... Read complete »

   
[Hata Bildir]