I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

Florida

The state with the prettiest name, the state that floats in brackish water, held together by mangrave roots that bear while living oysters in clusters, and when dead strew white swamps with skeletons, dotted as if bombarded, with green hummocks like ancient cannon-balls sprouting grass. The state full of long S-shaped birds, blue and white, and unseen hysterical birds who rush up the scale every time in a tantrum.

From Venus And Adonis

But, lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by, A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud, Adonis' trampling courser doth espy, And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud; The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree, Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he. Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds, And now his woven girths he breaks asunder; The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,

Sonnet Xi

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

Does It Matter?

Does it matter? -losing your legs? For people will always be kind, And you need not show that you mind When others come in after hunting To gobble their muffins and eggs. Does it matter? -losing you sight? There’s such splendid work for the blind; And people will always be kind, As you sit on the terrace remembering And turning your face to the light.

Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came

I. My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. II.

Evangeline: A Tale Of Acadie

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman

A Winter's Tale

It is a winter's tale That the snow blind twilight ferries over the lakes And floating fields from the farm in the cup of the vales, Gliding windless through the hand folded flakes, The pale breath of cattle at the stealthy sail, And the stars falling cold, And the smell of hay in the snow, and the far owl Warning among the folds, and the frozen hold Flocked with the sheep white smoke of the farm house cowl

Badger

The badger grunting on his woodland track With shaggy hide and sharp nose scrowed with black Roots in the bushes and the woods, and makes A great high burrow in the ferns and brakes. With nose on ground he runs an awkward pace, And anything will beat him in the race. The shepherd's dog will run him to his den Followed and hooted by the dogs and men. The woodman when the hunting comes about Goes round at night to stop the foxes out

Strange Meeting

It seemed that out of the battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which Titanic wars had groined. Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, Lifting distressful hands as if to bless. And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall; By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

A Light Woman

I. So far as our story approaches the end, Which do you pity the most of us three?--- My friend, or the mistress of my friend With her wanton eyes, or me? II. My friend was already too good to lose,

A Busy Man

This crowded life of God's good giving No man has relished more than I; I've been so goldarned busy living I've never had the time to die. So busy fishing, hunting, roving, Up on my toes and fighting fit; So busy singing, laughing, loving, I've never had the time to quit. I've never been one for thinking

Meditation

Coming out of home I see some land and much water all around Full with wonderful animals, plants, myriad of natural objects Some I can name and some I can't, some near and some are so far Some open, some covered, some sweet again some are so bitter, First day, I see and think of the beauty remembering my sweet heart I become romantic one reciting some romantic poems, singing a song Run through the countryside playing hide and seek, hunting wildlife Earn a speed leaving all behind, treading all innocent to go fast,

Ballad Of The Long-Legged Bait

The bows glided down, and the coast Blackened with birds took a last look At his thrashing hair and whale-blue eye; The trodden town rang its cobbles for luck. Then good-bye to the fishermanned Boat with its anchor free and fast As a bird hooking over the sea, High and dry by the top of the mast,

Endymion: Book I

ENDYMION. A Poetic Romance. "THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN AN ANTIQUE SONG." INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON. Book I

Twice Shy

Her scarf a la Bardot, In suede flats for the walk, She came with me one evening For air and friendly talk. We crossed the quiet river, Took the embankment walk. Traffic holding its breath, Sky a tense diaphragm: Dusk hung like a backcloth

The Hunter

Dew wets the grass I am the hunter I walk a deadly path I am hunting Slipping through the trees I am the hunter I do it all with ease I am hunting

A Kiss

Exiled on the isle of passion and shackled in the prison of craving. Bottled up emotion - screaming and shouting and searching for an escape. Like a dehydrated deer tracking water -Like a desert hunting an oasis. Deluge of flames enrapture my being with the fervor of a thousand fire. Tranquillized by cloud of restraint yet burning with the inferno of love. Raining from the sky of my being- cascading from my connubial essence. Sunshine from the hub of my heart, moistens my lips in the dew of desire.

Fire On The Hills

The deer were bounding like blown leaves Under the smoke in front the roaring wave of the brush-fire; I thought of the smaller lives that were caught. Beauty is not always lovely; the fire was beautiful, the terror Of the deer was beautiful; and when I returned Down the back slopes after the fire had gone by, an eagle Was perched on the jag of a burnt pine, Insolent and gorged, cloaked in the folded storms of his shoulders He had come from far off for the good hunting With fire for his beater to drive the game; the sky was merciless

The Poet

Only on me, the lonely one, The unending stars of the night shine, The stone fountain whispers its magic song, To me alone, to me the lonely one The colorful shadows of the wandering clouds Move like dreams over the open countryside. Neither house nor farmland, Neither forest nor hunting privilege is given to me, What is mine belongs to no one, The plunging brook behind the veil of the woods,