All Poems
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Dead Man's Dump
© Isaac Rosenberg
The plunging limbers over the shattered track
Racketed with their rusty freight,
Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,
And the rusty stakes like sceptres old
To stay the flood of brutish men
Upon our brothers dear.
The Sending Of The Magi
© Bliss William Carman
IN a far Eastern country
It happened long of yore,
Where a lone and level sunrise
Flushes the desert floor,
Children of Wealth
© Elizabeth Daryush
Go down, go out to elemental wrong,
Waste your too round limbs, tan your skin too white;
The glass of comfort, ignorance, seems strong
To-day, and yet perhaps this very night
You'll wake to horror's wrecking fire your home
Is wired within for this, in every room.
Third Sunday In Lent
© John Keble
See Lucifer like lightning fall,
Dashed from his throne of pride;
While, answering Thy victorious call,
The Saints his spoils divide;
This world of Thine, by him usurped too long,
Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants' wrong.
Dinner at the Whos Who
© Laure-Anne Bosselaar
amidst swirling wine
and flickers of silver guests quote
Dante, Brecht, Kant and each other.
Dost Thou Not Care?
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
I love and love not: Lord, it breaks my heart
To love and not to love.
English Flavors
© Laure-Anne Bosselaar
I love to lick English the way I licked the hard
round licorice sticks the Belgian nuns gave me for six
good conduct points on Sundays after mass.
Garage Sale
© Laure-Anne Bosselaar
I sold her bed for a song.
A song of yearning like an orphans.
Or the one knives carve into bread.
Community Garden
© Laure-Anne Bosselaar
I watch the man bend over his patch,
a fat gunny sack at his feet. He combs the earth with his fingers, picks up pebbles around
tiny heads of sorrel. Clouds bruise in, clog the sky, the first fat drops pock-mark the dust.
The man wipes his hands on his chest, opens the sack, pulls out top halves
Rimas XLII
© Gustavo Adolfo Becquer
Cuando me lo contaron senti el frio
De una hoja de acero en las entranas,
Filthy Savior
© Laure-Anne Bosselaar
there it goes, letting the wind
push it, suck it into a cloud; then its
gone like some vague, inhuman
longing as the rain lifts, and the suburbs
emerge in dirty white light.
The Worlds in this World
© Laure-Anne Bosselaar
Doors were left open in heaven again:
drafts wheeze, clouds wrap their ripped pages
around roofs and trees. Like wet flags, shutters
flap and fold. Even light is blown out of town,
Woods
© Wendell Berry
I part the out thrusting branches
and come in beneath
the blessed and the blessing trees.
Though I am silent
An April Joke
© Carolyn Wells
Oh, it was a merry, gladsome day,
When the April Fool met the Queen of May;
Water
© Wendell Berry
I was born in a drouth year. That summer
my mother waited in the house, enclosed
in the sun and the dry ceaseless wind,
for the men to come back in the evenings,
Sonnet Written Among The Ruins Of The Castle At Heidelberg
© Frances Anne Kemble
Weep'st thou to see the ruin and decay
Which Time doth wreak upon earth's mighty things?
The Wish to be Generous
© Wendell Berry
ALL that I serve will die, all my delights,
the flesh kindled from my flesh, garden and field,
the silent lilies standing in the woods,
the woods, the hill, the whole earth, all
When I Roved A Young Highlander
© George Gordon Byron
When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy steep sumrnit, oh Morven of snow!
The Silence
© Wendell Berry
Though the air is full of singing
my head is loud
with the labor of words.
