Car poems
/ page 374 of 738 /
In Death Valley
© Edwin Markham
There came gray stretches of volcanic plains,
Bare, lone and treeless, then a bleak lone hill
The Common Women Poems, II. Ella, in a square apron, along Highway 80
© Judy Grahn
She’s a copperheaded waitress,
tired and sharp-worded, she hides
The Flurry
© Sharon Olds
When we talk about when to tell the kids,
we are so together, so concentrated.
The Haunted Oak
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Pray why are you so bare, so bare,
Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
Runs a shudder over me?
The Nineteenth Century as a Song
© Robert Hass
It was a warm day.
What clouds there were
were made of sugar tinged with blood.
They shed, faintly, amid the clatter of carriages
new settings of the songs
Moravian virgins sang on wedding days.
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
© Edward Estlin Cummings
the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
The Sundays of Satin-Legs Smith
© Gwendolyn Brooks
He wakes, unwinds, elaborately: a cat
Tawny, reluctant, royal. He is fat
And fine this morning. Definite. Reimbursed.
from A Ballad Upon A Wedding
© Sir John Suckling
I tell thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake, or fair.
Mingus in Diaspora
© William Matthews
You could say, I suppose, that he ate his way out,
like the prisoner who starts a tunnel with a spoon,
or you could say he was one in whom nothing was lost,
who took it all in, or that he was big as a bus.
Helen: A Revision
© Jack Spicer
And if he dies on this road throw wild blackberries at his ghost
And if he doesn't, and he won't, hope the cost
Hope the cost.
Veterans of the Seventies
© Marvin Bell
His army jacket bore the white rectangle
of one who has torn off his name. He sat mute
Psalm 55
© Mary Sidney Herbert
My God, most glad to look, most prone to hear,
An open ear, oh, let my prayer find,
The Chaste Stranger
© James Tate
All the sexually active people in Westport
look so clean and certain, I wonder
Ælla, a Tragical Interlude
© Thomas Chatterton
The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte;
The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue;
Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte;
The nesh yonge coweslepe bendethe wyth the dewe;
The trees enlefed, yntoe Heavenne straughte,
Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys broughte.
Im thankful that my life doth not deceive
© Henry David Thoreau
Im thankful that my life doth not deceive
Itself with a low loftiness, half height,
