Poems begining by F
/ page 97 of 107 /
For The Twentieth Century
© Frank Bidart
*
Therefore you and I and Mozart
must thank the Twentieth Century, for
Fog Portrait
© Carl Sandburg
RINGS of iron gray smoke; a womans steel face
looking
looking.
Funnels of an ocean liner negotiating a fog night; pouring a taffy mass down the wind; layers of soot on the top deck; a taffrail
and a womans steel face
looking
looking.
Cliffs challenge humped; sudden arcs form on a gulls wing in the storms vortex; miles of white horses plow through a stony beach; stars, clear sky, and everywhere free climbers calling; and a womans steel face
looking
looking
Flying Fish
© Carl Sandburg
I HAVE lived in many half-worlds myself
and so I know you.
I leaned at a deck rail watching a monotonous sea, the same circling birds and the same plunge of furrows carved by the plowing keel.
Flux
© Carl Sandburg
SAND of the sea runs red
Where the sunset reaches and quivers.
Sand of the sea runs yellow
Where the moon slants and wavers.
Flat Lands
© Carl Sandburg
FLAT lands on the end of town where real estate men are crying new subdivisions,
The sunsets pour blood and fire over you hundreds and hundreds of nights, flat landsblood and fire of sunsets thousands of years have been pouring over you.
And the stars follow the sunsets. One gold star. A shower of blue stars. Blurs of white and gray stars. Vast marching processions of stars arching over you flat lands where frogs sob this April night.
Lots for SaleEasy Terms run letters painted on a boardand the stars wheel onward, the frogs sob this April night.
Flanders
© Carl Sandburg
FLANDERS, the name of a place, a country of people,
Spells itself with letters, is written in books.
Where is Flanders? was asked one time,
Five Towns on the B. & O.
© Carl Sandburg
BY day tireless smokestacks hungry smoky shanties hanging to the slopes crooning: We get by, thats all
Five Cent Balloons
© Carl Sandburg
PIETRO has twenty red and blue balloons on a string.
They flutter and dance pulling Pietros arm.
A nickel apiece is what they sell for.
Fire-Logs
© Carl Sandburg
NANCY HANKS dreams by the fire;
Dreams, and the logs sputter,
And the yellow tongues climb.
Red lines lick their way in flickers.
Fire Dreams
© Carl Sandburg
I REMEMBER here by the fire,
In the flickering reds and saffrons,
They came in a ramshackle tub,
Pilgrims in tall hats,
Films
© Carl Sandburg
I HAVE kept all, not one is thrown away, not one given to the ragman, not one thrust in a corner with a P-f-f.
The red ones and the blue, the long ones in stripes, and each of the little black and white checkered ones.
Keep them: I tell my heart: keep them another year, another ten years: they will be wanted again.
They came once, they came easy, they came like a first white flurry of snow in late October,
Fellow Citizens
© Carl Sandburg
I DRANK musty ale at the Illinois Athletic Club with
the millionaire manufacturer of Green River butter
one night
And his face had the shining light of an old-time Quaker,
Far Rockaway Night till Morning
© Carl Sandburg
WHAT can we say of the night?
The fog night, the moon night, the fog moon night last night?
There swept out of the sea a song.
Falltime
© Carl Sandburg
GOLD of a ripe oat straw, gold of a southwest moon,
Canada thistle blue and flimmering larkspur blue,
Tomatoes shining in the October sun with red hearts,
Shining five and six in a row on a wooden fence,
From The Shore
© Carl Sandburg
A LONE gray bird,
Dim-dipping, far-flying,
Alone in the shadows and grandeurs and tumults
Of night and the sea
And the stars and storms.
Four Preludes on Playthings of the Wind
© Carl Sandburg
The past is a bucket of ashes. 1THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
For You
© Carl Sandburg
THE PEACE of great doors be for you.
Wait at the knobs, at the panel oblongs.
Wait for the great hinges.
Flash Crimson
© Carl Sandburg
I SHALL cry God to give me a broken foot.
I shall ask for a scar and a slashed nose.
Fish Crier
© Carl Sandburg
I KNOW a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street with a
voice like a north wind blowing over corn stubble
in January.
He dangles herring before prospective customers evincing
