All Poems

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A Moral Vindicator

© Francis Bret Harte

If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B.,
Had one peculiar quality,
'Twas his severe advocacy
Of conjugal fidelity.

This Be The Verse

© Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

The Windigo

© William Henry Drummond

Cyprien is los' hees w'issle, Cyprien is los' hees
chain
Injun Johnnie he mus' fin' it, even if de win'
is high

High Windows

© Philip Larkin

When I see a couple of kids
And guess he's fucking her and she's
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradise

Doubting

© Henry Kendall

And said an ancient faith is dead
And wonder fills my mind:
I marvel how the blind have led
So long the blind.

Without Looking

© Patricia Goedicke

Either at my friend's daughter's
sixteen-year-old body dumped
on the morgue slab, T-shirt
stuck fast to one ripped
breast I identified quick, and then
got out of there

Verses IV

© Charlotte Turner Smith

On the Death of the same Lady, written in Sept. 1794.
LIKE a poor ghost the night I seek;
Its hollow winds repeat my sighs;
The cold dews mingle on my cheek

Preamble (A Rough Draft For An Ars Poetica)

© Jean Cocteau

The grain of rye
free from the prattle of grass
et loin de arbres orateurs

Truth in advertising

© Yahia Lababidi

morning epiphany
applicable to love and life
in haiku-like purity:

The Empty Nest

© William Watson

I saunter all about the pleasant place

You made thrice pleasant, O my friends, to me;

Fanciful creators

© Yahia Lababidi

What fanciful creators we are:
bestowing shock absorbers on cars
sprinkling tenderizer on meats
and stitching wrinkle-resistant shirts

The Loom Of Dreams

© Arthur Symons

I broider the world upon a loom,
I broider with dreams my tapestry;
Here in a little lonely room
I am master of earth and sea,
And the planets come to me.

drylands

© Yahia Lababidi

Tell me, have you found a sea
deep enough to swim in
deep enough to drown in

Stars Over The Dordogne

© Sylvia Plath

Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.

To Sylvia Plath

Sleepwalking she prepared breakfast
for her still dreaming children, before
breaking fast, to satisfy her appetite

"On! driver, on! they have all gone before us,
And I will not be late at the ball," Beauty said;
And wintry winds echoed her answer in chorus
With poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!