All Poems

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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,

Evening Waterfall

© Carl Sandburg

WHAT was the name you called me?
And why did you go so soon?

The crows lift their caw on the wind,

Eleventh Avenue Racket

THERE is something terrible
about a hurdy-gurdy,
a gipsy man and woman,
and a monkey in red flannel

Early Moon

THE BABY moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sails and sails in the Indian west.
A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon.
One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers.
O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, fire-white writing to-night of the Red Mans dreams.

Dynamiter

I SAT with a dynamiter at supper in a German saloon
eating steak and onions.
And he laughed and told stories of his wife and children
and the cause of labor and the working class.

Dusty Doors

CHILD of the Aztec gods,
how long must we listen here,
how long before we go?

Dunes

WHAT do we see here in the sand dunes of the white
moon alone with our thoughts, Bill,
Alone with our dreams, Bill, soft as the women tying
scarves around their heads dancing,

Drumnotes

DAYS of the dead men, Danny.
Drum for the dead, drum on your
remembering heart.