All Poems
/ page 125 of 3210 /
The Unfair Sex
© Colombo John Robert
Some girls are like French verbs,the irregular kind. Avoir. Etre.
There is No Way Out
© Colombo John Robert
One of these days they will come for youit will happen on a day like any other daybut this day at four in the afternoonthey will drive up in their big black Cadillacsthe tall men in overcoatsand they will ask about youtheir black briefcases bulgingtheir synchronized watches ticking
Post-Mortem
© Colombo John Robert
DEAD AGAIN.Thus the Distinguished Author'sHeadline -- and deadline.
Oh Canada
© Colombo John Robert
Canada could have enjoyed: English government, French culture, and American know-how.
I See Her
© Colombo John Robert
I see her stalking the fashion section of the mall,Her attire and apparel revealing, suggestive
Confession
© Colombo John Robert
I am always a little ahead for my appointmentsand a little behind in any assignments.
A Song from Shakespeare's Cymbeline
© William Taylor Collins
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bringEach op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring.
The Passions
© William Taylor Collins
When Music, heav'nly maid, was young,While yet in early Greece she sung,The Passions oft, to hear her shell,Throng'd around her magic cell,Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,Possest beyond the Muse's painting;By turns they felt the glowing mindDisturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd:Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,From the supporting myrtles roundThey snatch'd her instruments of sound;And as they oft had heard apartSweet lessons of her forceful art,Each, for madness rul'd the hour,Would prove his own expressive pow'r
On Donne's Poem "To a Flea"
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Be proud as Spaniards! Leap for pride ye Fleas!Henceforth in Nature's mimic World grandees
To a Cat
© Hartley Coleridge
Nelly, methinks, 'twixt thee and meThere is a kind of sympathy;And could we interchange our nature, --If I were cat, thou human creature, --I should, like thee, be no great mouser,And thou, like me, no great composer;For, like thy plaintive mews, my museWith villainous whine doth fate abuse,Because it hath not made me sleekAs golden down on Cupid's cheek;And yet thou canst upon the rug lie,Stretch'd out like snail, or curl'd up snugly,As if thou wert not lean or ugly;And I, who in poetic flightsSometimes complain of sleepless nights,Regardless of the sun in heaven,Am apt to doze till past eleven, --The world would just the same go roundIf I were hang'd and thou wert drown'd;There is one difference, 'tis true, --Thou dost not know it, and I do
Sonnet XVI. November
© Hartley Coleridge
The mellow year is hasting to its close;The little birds have almost sung their last,Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast --That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows:The patient beauty of the scentless rose,Oft with the Morn's hoar chrystal quaintly glass'd,Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past,And makes a little summer where it grows:In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief dayThe dusky waters shudder as they shine,The russet leaves obstruct the straggling wayOf oozy brooks, which no deep banks define,And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine
Sonnet VII. Whither is Gone the Wisdom and the Power
© Hartley Coleridge
Whither is gone the wisdom and the powerThat ancient sages scatter'd with the notesOf thought-suggesting lyres? The music floatsIn the void air; e'en at this breathing hour,In every cell and every blooming bowerThe sweetness of old lays is hovering still:But the strong soul, the self-constraining will,The rugged root that bare the winsome flowerIs weak and wither'd
Song (The Earliest Wish I ever Knew)
© Hartley Coleridge
The earliest wish I ever knewWas woman's kind regard to win;I felt it long e'er passion grew,E'er such a wish could be a sin.
Presentiment
© Hartley Coleridge
Something has my heart to saySomething on my brest does weighThat when I would full fain be gay Still pulls me back.
On a Dissolution of a Ministry
© Hartley Coleridge
Shout Britain, raise a joyful shout,The Tyrant Tories all are out --Deluded Britains -- cease your din --For lo -- the scoundrel Whigs are in.
