Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf
Bound up at length for harvesting,
And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?
...

Unspeakable. The word that fills up the
poem, that the head
tries to excise.
At 6 a.m., the wet lion. Its sewn plush face
on the porch rail in the rain.
Heavy rains later, & maybe a thunderstorm.
12 or 13 degrees.

Inside: an iris, candle, poster of the
many-breasted Artemis in a stone hat

...

He holds her hand through everyday,
in every challenge, come what may.
With gentle words and a steady heart,
he's there for her, from the start.

Through every smile and every tear,
he stands besides her, always near.
In all she dreams and all she fear,
he's her support, her love, her cheer.
...

Even such is Time, that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
   Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wander'd all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days;
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.
...

why am i doing this? Failure
to keep my work in order so as
to be able to find things
to paint the house
to earn enough money to live on
to reorganize the house so as
to be able to paint the house &
to be able to find things and
earn enough money so as
to be able to put books together

...

His Face

Strolling through the city's pulsing heart,
I searched for the one who'd capture mine.
Among the crowd, his face shone bright,
A radiant beacon, elegantly designed.
His smile, a gentle breeze on a summer's day,
Alluring, leaving my heart in disarray.



...

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
...

They said come skating;
They said it's so nice.
They said come skating;
I'd done it twice.
They said come skating;
It sounded nice….
I wore roller-
They meant ice.
...

I had one once, but it left too soon,
Now I find myself beneath a heavy moon.
Two have appeared in this tangled embrace,
One seeks my heart, the other, a different place.

One likes me dearly, I feel the same glow,
Its laughter, a melody, a gentle flow.
The other admires, but my heart cannot sway,
Yet still, there's a weight, I can't push away.


...