Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

Indeed indeed, I cannot tell,
Though I ponder on it well,
Which were easier to state,
All my love or all my hate.
Surely, surely, thou wilt trust me
When I say thou dost disgust me.
O, I hate thee with a hate
That would fain annihilate;
Yet sometimes against my will,
My dear friend, I love thee still.
It were treason to our love,
And a sin to God above,
One iota to abate
Of a pure impartial hate.
...

I keep on dying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,
Rotting flesh and worms do
Not convince me against
The challenge. The years
And cold defeat live deep in
Lines along my face.

...

You hide behind your hair again
Like the mirror told a lie
Tracing every "flaw" you think
Is something you should hide
You say you wish you looked like them
Scrollin' through your phone
But you don't see the light you have
That's yours and yours alone
You're comparing chapters
To someone else's page

...

'Hope' is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
...

To grow old is to lose everything.
Aging, everybody knows it.
Even when we are young,
we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads
when a grandfather dies.
Then we row for years on the midsummer
pond, ignorant and content. But a marriage,
that began without harm, scatters
into debris on the shore,
and a friend from school drops

...

Alone in cobwebs and dusty bookshelves,
My mental state of dwelling,
Sanity decays like plaster, I hear the voices yelling
Like a thunderbolt of lightning in a quiet cemetery

My split identity crisis forms a sprite
Shovelling a ditch, my obituary etched by invisible hands
Possession of my soul, I've lost control awhile ago
Press the knife against my throat like a goat in the hexagram
...

Along the sun-drenched roadside, from the great
hollow half-treetrunk, which for generations
has been a trough, renewing in itself
an inch or two of rain, I satisfy
my thirst: taking the water's pristine coolness
into my whole body through my wrists.
Drinking would be too powerful, too clear;
but this unhurried gesture of restraint
fills my whole consciousness with shining water.

Thus, if you came, I could be satisfied
to let my hand rest lightly, for a moment,
lightly, upon your shoulder or your breast.
...

'Come, try your skill, kind gentlemen,
A penny for three tries!'
Some threw and lost, some threw and won
A ten-a-penny prize.

She was a tawny gypsy girl,
A girl of twenty years,
I liked her for the lumps of gold
That jingled from her ears;


...

They came to us,
City by city they marched,
Town by town, village by village,
Even the forgotten hamlets
Felt their footsteps.
They came clothed in promises,
Speaking the language of hope,
Painting dreams of euphoria
They never intended to fulfill.
With "peanuts" in their hands,

...