Car poems
/ page 617 of 738 /
At Feet Of Dogs
© Ivan Donn Carswell
At my feet the lapdogs of desire,
I wont greet their fawning, least not yet,
their foul breath would shrink a haemorroid,
perhaps Ill feed them oats with garlic
As much a part
© Ivan Donn Carswell
In a slow drawn focus the concrete
blocks that prop up my view of the sky
morph soft and easy like double
brie melting into a shirred close-up shot
Athritic Fingers Have To Last
© Ivan Donn Carswell
These painful, cold athritic fingers have to last
much longer yet, theyre all I have to keep the pages
on the screen prescribed with glowing words, my favoured antidote
to weak and skulking weariness; the cups of strong black coffee
Another barbeque tonight
© Ivan Donn Carswell
It rained throughout the night, a truly welcome sound
that eases sleep although we barely slept we were
distressed by other things. Today the kitchens centre ring,
the kitchen of Anitas dreams. Its had a long gestation,
And you will claim
© Ivan Donn Carswell
And you will claim we need more births to keep
our population mix in check while natures truths
suggest there are too many of us yet?
And you will make the claim with good intent,
And The Piper Dreams
© Ivan Donn Carswell
And the Piper dreams as he pipes up in his mind
colours in choral horizons distant, of courtliness dimmed in time,
at the puddling waters edge he stands spread square and neat
and blows a lambent dirge, a frisson to the hatchling-surf
Ah, that Murphy girl
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Lets talk about the weather then,
would that help you take your ease?
Gossip is so rare from you
the noise of falling leaves is louder than
your breathing; if breathing is whatever is
sustaining you.
After the rain
© Ivan Donn Carswell
And in the morning when the sun returns
to claim the earth the mist surprises, rising
unabashed and clean again to grace the
nascent waiting skies after the rain.
© I.D. Carswell
Admire their style
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Im reading fellow poets blogs today,
a sustaining source of entertainment;
I admire their style without exciting comment
or resorting to an unkind eye, simple though
it is to sigh about uneasy affirmation.
Ad Invasions
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Advertisements, theyve trashed the web,
somehow theyve gotten into bed
with common sense; ubiquitous
and so intense, insistent
Absorbed in familiar rhythms
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Absorbed in familiar rhythms,
carillon of senses steeped
in good vibrations, surrounded
by musical beat
A monument in words
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Perhaps they cant compete these dry and dusty counters
of the grains of sand, theres more evoked within a ball of
dimpled clay on any day a sculptor lends his hands to shape
a face; I am pleased to read the poet rather than the man
and will not place my future faith in such abstruse scatology.
© I.D. Carswell
A final journeying
© Ivan Donn Carswell
And through a pall of sadness
feel he still walks tall and talks
to us with commonsense and
passion deep to stir our souls.
A few kind words
© Ivan Donn Carswell
A few kind words, what can be bought with that?
In essence just a clique of tidy prose,
a verb, a noun, perhaps an adjectival phrase
offered in the form of venal praise
The Farewell to Clarimonde
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Adieu, Romauld! But thou canst not forget me.
Although no more I haunt thy dreams at night,
Thy hungering heart forever must regret me,
And starve for those lost moments of delight.
A Crystalline Awakening
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Beds of icicles protrude from tussock bare patches,
needle pointed lances thrusting skyward
as if some new sprung lawn,
awaiting the crushing blows of booted feet,
soon to wilt in the onslaught of day.
A catchy phrase
© Ivan Donn Carswell
It was called Farm Fantastic, a catchy phrase,
and potentially a days wasted sweat.
Even after the event I cant say it wasnt,
and Im kind of glad we went, for better
Triple Feature
© Denise Levertov
Innocent decision: to enjoy.
And the pathos
of hopefulness, of his solicitude:
The Black Cottage
© Robert Frost
We chanced in passing by that afternoon
To catch it in a sort of special picture
Full Moon
© Victoria Mary Sackville-West
She was wearing the coral taffeta trousers
Someone had brought her from Ispahan,
And the little gold coat with pomegranate blossoms,
And the coral-hafted feather fan;
But she ran down a Kentish lane in the moonlight,
And skipped in the pool of the moon as she ran.
