All Poems

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Prologue

© Sukasah Syahdan

The taste of a poem
is in the relishing
sweet, sour or bitter
cold, lukewarm or hot

"Full Well I Know . . . "

© Hartley Coleridge

FULL well I know - my friends - ye look on me

A living specter of my Father dead -

A dull sound, varying now and again

And then we began eating corn starch,
chalk chewed wet into sirup. We pilfered
Argo boxes stored away to stiffen
my white dress shirt, and my cousin
and I played or watched TV, no longer annoyed
by the din of never cooling afternoons.

A Song From The Suds

© Louisa May Alcott

Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam raises high,
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.

Charlene-n-Booker 4ever

© Forrest Hamer

And the old men, supervising grown grandsons, nephews,
any man a boy given this chance of making
a new sidewalk outside the apartment building where
some of them live, three old men and their wives,

The Young Soldier

© Wilfred Owen

It is not death
Without hereafter
To one in dearth
Of life and its laughter,

Lesson

© Forrest Hamer

It was 1963 or 4, summer,
and my father was driving our family
from Ft. Hood to North Carolina in our 56 Buick.
We'd been hearing about Klan attacks, and we knew

Release

© Adelaide Crapsey

With swift

Great sweep of her

Grace

© Forrest Hamer

This air is flooded with her. I am a boy again, and my mother
and I lie on wet grass, laughing. She startles, turns to
marigolds at my side, saying beautiful, and I can see the red
there is in them.

Sonnet XV: Now, Round My Favour'd Grot

© Mary Darby Robinson

Now, round my favor'd grot let roses rise,

To strew the bank where Phaon wakes from rest;

Rite of Spring

© Seamus Justin Heaney

So winter closed its fist
And got it stuck in the pump.
The plunger froze up a lump

When You Get Home, Remember Me

© Henry Clay Work

Gallant and brave! together clinging,
True to the last! with but this plea;
Still in our ears its words are ringing,
"When you get home, remember me!"

Song

© Seamus Justin Heaney

A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes.

The Man Bitten By Fleas

A Peevish Fellow laid his Head
On Pillows, stuff'd with Down;
But was no sooner warm in Bed,
With hopes to rest his Crown,

Lovers on Aran

The timeless waves, bright, sifting, broken glass,
Came dazzling around, into the rocks,
Came glinting, sifting from the Americas

The Homeless Ghost

Still flowed the music, flowed the wine.
The youth in silence went;
Through naked streets, in cold moonshine,
His homeward way he bent,
Where, on the city's seaward line,
His lattice seaward leant.

Exposure

It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.

A Translation Of The CIV. Psalm To The Original Sense

My soul exalt the Lord with Hymns of praise:
O Lord my God, how boundless is thy might?
Whose Throne of State is cloath'd with glorious rays,
And round about hast rob'd thy self with light.
Who like a curtain hast the Heavens display'd,
And in the watry Roofs thy Chambers laid.