Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

Grief thief of time crawls off,
The moon-drawn grave, with the seafaring years,
The knave of pain steals off
The sea-halved faith that blew time to his knees,
The old forget the cries,
Lean time on tide and times the wind stood rough,
Call back the castaways
Riding the sea light on a sunken path,
The old forget the grief,
Hack of the cough, the hanging albatross,
Cast back the bone of youth
And salt-eyed stumble bedward where she lies
Who tossed the high tide in a time of stories
And timelessly lies loving with the thief.

Now Jack my fathers let the time-faced crook,
Death flashing from his sleeve,
With swag of bubbles in a seedy sack
Sneak down the stallion grave,
Bull's-eye the outlaw through a eunuch crack
And free the twin-boxed grief,
No silver whistles chase him down the weeks'
Dayed peaks to day to death,
These stolen bubbles have the bites of snakes
And the undead eye-teeth,
No third eye probe into a rainbow's sex
That bridged the human halves,
All shall remain and on the graveward gulf
Shape with my fathers' thieves.
...

Why did he promise me
that we would build ourselves
an ark all by ourselves
out in back of the house
on New York Avenue
in Union City New Jersey
to the singing of the streetcars
after the story
of Noah whom nobody
believed about the waters

...

Upon a wooden bench the lovers stayed,
While restless winds around their silence played;
Before them waved a crimson flag so bright,
Not sign of fear—but love's eternal light.
The sea stretched deep, as deep their hearts could be,
The sand a carpet by the whispering sea;
The world below seemed distant, small, and far—
For love had raised their souls above each star.
...

A bunch of old snakeheads down by the pond
carrying on the swan tradition -- hissing
inside their white bodies, raising and lowering their heads
like ostriches, regretting only the sad ritual
that forced them to waddle back into the water
after their life under the rocks, wishing they could lie again
in the sun

and dream of spreading their terrifying wings;
wishing, this time, they could sail through the sky like
horses,
their tails rigid, their white manes fluttering,
their mouths open, their sharp teeth flashing,
drops of mercy pouring from their eyes,
bolts of wisdom from their foreheads.
...

Dim vales- and shadowy floods-
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over!
Huge moons there wax and wane-
Again- again- again-
Every moment of the night-
Forever changing places-
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.

...

The swan is set to fly away alone.
From earth-pilgrimage it's time to unwind.
No memories are saved of mortal zone...
of stone or bone...nor traces left behind.

It's just a dream...a palpable figment;
of places, people, tastes and fragrances.
Those wild eddies of love and sentiment
are straightening now on shores of dead senses.


...

He loved her and he was untrue—
Untrue he was, let loved her still;
For out of nether darkness drew
The winds that lashed his wandering will.

She lived in joy all unaware,
In pain and joy his children bore,
While hidden spectres of despair
Drove him to love her more and more.

And when she knew the truth at last,
Suddenly she grew still and strange.
Her rag of haggard youth was cast
Upon the evil winds of change.

She heard, and could not understand;
She paled, and could not bloom again.
So bland death took her by the hand,
Looked in her eyes and made all plain,

Yes, wise death taught her all, and so,
Smiling once more, she kissed and passed.
And he, caught in life's overthrow,
Faced love and death alone at last.

At last, made strong by love and death,
He gave her truth for truth, and knew
Now she had won his perfect faith.
Dying, she doomed him to be true.
...

There’s nothing so exasperates a true Australian youth,
Whatever be his rank in life, be he cultured or uncouth,
As the manner of a London swell. Now it chanced, the other day,
That one came out, consigned to me—a cousin, by the way.

As he landed from the steamer at the somewhat dirty pier,
He took my hand; and lispingly remarked, ‘How very queer!
I’m glad, of course, to see you—but you must admit this place,
With all its mixed surroundings, is a national disgrace.’


...

Is it that place, where he said he fell once,
but soon on his feet to make his strides?
Is that the garden he described ere,
now you're staring at
with great disbelief and joy?
Oh, this flower, he praised before
of its rare fragrance
now you are holding tenderly in your hands
looking at it with great amazement...it must be!


...