All Poems

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On the Nativity of Christ

© William Dunbar

RORATE coeli desuper!
Hevins, distil your balmy schouris!
For now is risen the bricht day-ster,
Fro the rose Mary, flour of flouris:

Lament for the Makers

© William Dunbar

I THAT in heill was and gladness
Am trublit now with great sickness
And feblit with infirmitie:--
Timor Mortis conturbat me.

In Honour of the City of London

© William Dunbar

LONDON, thou art of townes A per se.
Soveraign of cities, seemliest in sight,
Of high renoun, riches and royaltie;
Of lordis, barons, and many a goodly knyght;

Of Politics & Art

© Norman Dubie

Today I listened to a woman say
That Melville might
Be taught in the next decade. Another woman asked, "And why not?"
The first responded, "Because there are
No women in his one novel."

The Czar's Last Christmas Letter: A Barn in the Urals

You were never told, Mother, how old Illyawas drunk
That last holiday, for five days and nightsHe stumbled through Petersburg forming
A choir of mutes, he dressed them in pink ascension gownsAnd, then, sold Father's Tirietz stallion so to rent
A hall for his Christmas recital: the audienceWas rowdy but Illya in his black robes turned on them

February: The Boy Breughel

© Norman Dubie

And a fox crosses through snow
Down a hill; then, he runs,
He has overcome something white
Beside a white bush, he shakes
It twice, and as he turns
For the woods, the blood in the snow

At Corfu

© Norman Dubie

In seventeen hundred, a much hated sultan
visited us twice, finally
dying of headaches in the south harbor.

Sky Harbor

© Norman Dubie

The flock of pigeons rises over the roof,
and just beyond them, the shimmering asphalt fields
gather their dull colored airliners.

Summer Sonata

© Desi Di Nardo

The sun sizes it up
A fast grey machine
Lopes like the wolf
Stashed among trees

Keep Telling Me

© Desi Di Nardo

Its 12:34
And I hear them
Battering me with a foul message
The maddening interpretations

Rainbird in the Annex

© Desi Di Nardo

I make my way to MacEwens salient red door
To catch some remnants of her
A faint scent lifting into old familiar skin
Her unbendable pronounced lightness absorbed by sky

Beautiful Vagabonds

© Desi Di Nardo

I am not the piston in the flower or
The bulging seed throttled by pollen
But a separate figure expectant and
Cupped by the shape palms make

To Fr. Armando

© Regina Derieva

Everyone, after all, was killed:
he who was crucified,
he who died without skin,
he who died without a head,

Beyond Siberia Again Siberia

Beyond Siberia again Siberia,
beyond impenetrable forest again forest.
And beyond it waste ground,
where a blizzard of snow breaks loose.

A Pig's-Eye View Of Literature

The Lives and Times of John Keats,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, and
George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron
Byron and Shelley and Keats

From The Last Island: To Lady Elisabeth Verreet

Oval mirror of the sea,
age-warped isle waved and cloudy,
each angle crystalline and salty.
my lens into reality.

Sons of bitches
were born
with hearts of stone,
cherishing this stone

On The Sea-Shore, Smell Of Iodine

An intellectual that came from the common people,
preparing himself to be Rosencrantz.
He decides to serve Claudius and therefore
spy on Prince Hamlet from the fountain.