james watkin Poems

Twas a day, no
Lovelier this.
Lit, nor was it, more brightsome.
And yet, as much
...

These weedy rhygrasses
Worts, flourish in dung
Each plain up-stood growth, counted
As we are among
...

This is reality is it?
To a poor dreamer
Maybe! One of tastes, meaner.
To Hell, deferent.
...

Angel-bright, dear, with your own
Lineaments, sharpened
World, so exchanged, at day's end.
Briefly a Heaven!
...

Every vista, from our door
Four or five steps out
With the eye, as steep will drop
Awe's accustomed shout!
...

Waddled up to, he'll not be
Swallowed, and whole, by all of
Its dimnesses grim.
Tall stood, for tree, in passing
...

Puffed up ego;
A bird of prey.
As stern-faced, it; sharp eyed.
Of praise o'erblown
...

When not whooping, its voice
Is a more pained scream.
Some brace for this realization
Here, wider opened!
...

Not the sun's; if that more grand
Unfurled below for.
But his, down on minuter
A loveliness rests.
...

Lamp-hung.
Bell-rung.
Doubly comforted by.
Night airs, who fear.
...