Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

In Spanish he whispers there is no time left.
It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat,
the ache of some field song in Salvador.
The wind along the prison, cautious
as Francisco's hands on the inside, touching
the walls as he walks, it is his wife's breath
slipping into his cell each night while he
imagines his hand to be hers. It is a small country.

There is nothing one man will not do to another.
...

Your whole way with shining evil's coal
Margaret, they all do bravely judge.
What's your fault? The body sinned as such,
Innocent you have retained your soul.

To all people it's the same, I know,
To all nodded with a blurry smile.
And with this sorrowful semi-smile
You have wept yourself long time ago.


...

I see your eyes like a sky
But the shade of, is not blue.
It's an orange sunset sky
Where in I'm out of the blue.

Your voice is brave and so warm
Your hand lay down on my chest
I feel so safe and no harm
You made me out of my chest


...

Unaware of my crime
they stood me in the dock.

I was sentenced to life....
without her.

Strange trial.
No judge.
No jury.

I wonder who my visitors will be.
...

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

...

Good morning, -mum-
In the morning I used to say.
Good evening, -mum-
In the evening I used to say.
When I came back from school,
I'd shout your name down every hall—
But now I trace the empty walls,
And no reply comes back at all.

The clock still ticks, the sun still falls,

...

Tonight the moon is a cracker,
with a bite out of it
floating in the night,

and in a week or so
according to the calendar
it will probably look

like a silver football,
and nine, maybe ten days ago
it reminded me of a thin bright claw.

But eventually --
by the end of the month,
I reckon --

it will waste away
to nothing,
nothing but stars in the sky,

and I will have a few nights
to myself,
a little time to rest my jittery pen.
...

Toll no bell for me, dear Father dear Mother,
Waste no sighs;
There are my sisters, there is my little brother
Who plays in the place called Paradise,
Your children all, your children for ever;
But I, so wild,
Your disgrace, with the queer brown face, was never,
Never, I know, but half your child!

In the garden at play, all day, last summer,

...

The efforts -
of telling truth is hard,
But the results -
of it is very long for god.
Similarly,
Telling myth is very easy -
for the peoples, who are greedy,
And the rough -
of it is very tough.
...