All Poems
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Skirt, My Pretty Name
© Crosbie Lynn
and the space between my name and myself grows larger until... .- Rosalie Sings Alone
Passionata
© Crosbie Lynn
Clinches in the storeroombetween fifty pound bags of flour,barrels of oil and lard;
Love Letters
© Crosbie Lynn
I would give my husband drawings for grocery lists,with smiling faces on the eggs, and spider feetdangling everywhere
Carrie Leigh's Hugh Hefner Haikus
© Crosbie Lynn
Hef brings me flowerstiger lilies, ochre veineddowncast, sleek black cups
Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
Part IA silver ring that he had beaten outFrom that same sacred coin--first well-priz'd wageFor boyish labour, kept thro' many years
Correspondences
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
All things in nature are beautiful types to the soul that can read them;Nothing exists upon earth, but for unspeakable ends,Every object that speaks to the senses was meant for the spirit;Nature is but a scroll; God's handwriting thereon
Cornucopia
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
There's a lodger lives on the first floor; (My lodgings are up in the garret;)At night and at morn he taketh a horn, And calleth his neighbors to share it, --A horn so long and a horn so strong, I wonder how they can bear it
The Parson's Grave
© Craig Thomas
His tombstone tells a tale of woe -- The story of a saddened life --"Here lies the Reverend Jonas Lowe, The victim of a faithless wife."
The Beira Malaria
© Craig Thomas
When you rise to greet old Phœbus with a booming in your head, And your temples throb and threaten straight to burst;When your tongue feels like a doormat and your eyelids feel like lead, And your throat is dry and parched with burning thirst; When your eyeballs shun the light; And the sunshine seems a blight,You may moan your luck, and wish you'd ne'er been weaned, For your star is unpropitious And the Fates have hit you "vicious,"And you're "collared" by the Beira Fever Fiend; For he's a "daisy" -- he's a "lamb" -- And Rudyard's kippered "damn"Seems gurgling baby-prattle meant to grieve you, While the curs'd malaria rages Through it's flaming fiery stages --Only scientific swearing will relieve you
The Task: from Book V: The Winter Morning Walk
© William Cowper
'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orbAscending, fires th' horizon: while the clouds,That crowd away before the driving wind,More ardent as the disk emerges more,Resemble most some city in a blaze,Seen through the leafless wood
The Task: from Book IV: The Winter Evening
© William Cowper
Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,That with its wearisome but needful lengthBestrides the wintry flood, in which the moonSees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,He comes, the herald of a noisy world,With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;News from all nations lumb'ring at his back
