|
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
LXXXV
Again, I come to meet your majesty,
to gaze upon the grandeur of your face;
in awe, I touch your skin, its velvety
seduction, soft to fingers stroking space.
From languid light of lazy morning's rise
to dreamy...
|
|
Words dangle in space,
Spin like leaves caught
In a spider's web,
Wander through forests
With a predatory instinct,
Tantalize, titillate and
Then tremble upon
Imaginative release,
Intimidating, expanding,
Escaping before they...
|
|
When Nature speaks,
she marks her burgeoning season’s kiss
in wet dew, autumn gales,
bountiful, thickening rainbows anew,
the crisp aloof crunch of native rot
stripping her art from ancient bows
cast carelessly asunder,...
|
|
Willy the worm, Who wriggles and squirms, In his damp den of darkness, Segmented and slim, Dines on dirt he tunnels within. On his diet of dirt, Dinning from dusk 'till dawn, He consumes our rubbish to castings, And aerates our lawns. He...
|
|
A skeletal army of trees now stand, Where winter's chill is close at hand. Human discontent has taken wings, Wailing within the winter winds. Carpet vivid white covers green, Broken by a translucent stream. Sun timidly appears and quickly...
|
|
When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And...
|
|
When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried, When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it  lie down for an aeon or two, Till the...
|
|
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
And Winter slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, ...
|
|
He's quiet as he packs his gear, he won't be back for at least a year. He may never be home again if things go wrong and the enemy wins. He stops and turns as he opens the door; the tears in her eyes say so much more than the words that either one...
|
|
It was your way, my dear,
To be gone without a word
When callers, friends, or kin
Had left, and I hastened in
To rejoin you, as I inferred.
And when you'd a mind to career
Off anywhere — say to town —
You were...
|
|
When first I met thee, warm and young, There shone such truth about thee, And on thy lip such promise hung, I did not dare to doubt thee. I saw thee change, yet still relied, Still clung with hope the fonder, And thought, though false to all...
|
|
Wreathe the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest Wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heav'n to-night, And leave dull earth behind us; Should Love amid The wreaths be hid That Joy, the enchanter, brings us, No danger fear While wine...
|
|
My better half is busy tonight,
and my soul is wandering,
meeting eyes and stares,
seeing lazy smiles and
eyebrows raising
that would be invisible
if my better half were here.
Is it good to know that
I am not fixated,...
|
|
it's good for me
it tones up my cerebral six-pack
it's an exercise regime
to tighten up my scansion
tickle my tmesis
perhaps even stiffen my pathetic fallacy
it makes me laugh
the joke puns allusions
some are for general...
|
|
When I was young
and the sea was stretched to full tide –
the waves dimpled and sang,
stars spattered like sparklers,
wind gusted, pushing and pulling,
falling over itself to trip me whilst running.
Life hung like a moving...
|
|
I want to wrap myself in poems,
pull on cashmere shawls of words,
snuggle into sweaters of similes,
make metaphysical messages knit magic
into a pattern imprinted on my mind
clothing metres of imagination
with softness sheared...
|
|
For a name unknown,
Whose fame unblown
Sleeps in the hills
For ever and aye;
For her who hears
The stir of the years
Go by on the wind
By night and day;
And heeds no thing
Of the needs of Spring,
Of Autumn's...
|
|
When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows dee How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with...
|
|
A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered...
|
|
Powered by AlphaContent 3.0.4 © 2005-2008 - All rights reserved |
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
"I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no
hurt, but only more love." ~ Mother Teresa |
|
Home 
Poetry 
