John Lars Zwerenz

Veteran Poet - 1,646 Points (1-5-69 / Kew Gardens, New York, USA)

John Lars Zwerenz Poems

161. Ode To Spring (A Sonnet) 5/31/2013
162. The Lake 4/27/2014
163. On Entering Heaven 5/6/2014
164. A Voyage To Cyprus 2/21/2013
165. Lethe (A Sonnet) 11/6/2013
166. The Grave Of Charles Baudelaire 2/19/2015
167. Andalusia 5/16/2015
168. Alchemy 2/14/2013
169. Women 2/13/2014
170. The Muse 2/15/2014
171. Purgatory 5/26/2014
172. To You, My Love 12/14/2015
173. To My Future Bride 6/9/2014
174. I Ventured Out Beneath The Moon... 12/9/2013
175. A Lady Fair 5/11/2014
176. The Rose Garden 1/22/2015
177. Love 3/13/2014
178. Our Love 7/31/2013
179. An Angel's Song 1/17/2015
180. Ladies And Men 1/30/2014
181. A Gypsy's Life 2/8/2013

Comments about John Lars Zwerenz

  • Angela Bradford (7/1/2017 10:31:00 AM)

    John Lars Zwerenz is the greatest poet in the world still living. His Eternal Verse is a literary masterpiece. Angie Bradford, Boston, MA

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  • Veronica Grimaldi Veronica Grimaldi (4/19/2016 3:45:00 PM)

    John Lars Zwerenz is the best contemporary poet in America. Veronica Grimaldi

  • Leann Howard Leann Howard (2/24/2016 9:30:00 AM)

    John Lars Zwerenz is without any doubt the greatest poet of the 21st Century, by miles. His verse is without flaw, always astonishing, and I have read all of his works. LeAnn Howard

Best Poem of John Lars Zwerenz

A Gypsy's Life

A gypsy am I, as I rove on the downy dale;
Aside from the taverns, the fields are my only vale.
I drink from my carafe a fairy-fermented brew,
And I dream of fair love, beneath a radiant sky of blue.

I carry within my satchel a book of romantic rhyme;
I wield it when I may, and write as I did of old: -
Of a sable-haired girl, whose gaze is of a raven-gold.
Her dress is white and long, and her hair is of an elysian clime.

I am struck by visions beside the lane,
On starry October nights, laved by the autumn rain,
And I sleep beneath the myrtles, musing ...

Read the full of A Gypsy's Life

Ode To Edgar Allan Poe


The tall, ruined tower, by the sea of sable wine,
Where silver stars alight, in the moonless night,
Is the seat of a raven which rarely takes flight;
Its dark eyes look down on the scorpions of the brine.

With each chilling breeze that poison billows carry
From dusky, northern currents of the half-swallowed pier,

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