Home poems
/ page 14 of 465 /
The Footman: An Epistle to my Friend Mr. Wright
© Dodsley Robert
Dear FRIEND,Since I am now at leisure,And in the Country taking Pleasure,If it be worth your while to hearA silly Footman's Business there,I'll try to tell, in easy Rhyme,How I in London spend my Time
To My Spinning-Wheel
© Dixon Charlotte Eliza
I love thee well my little wheel,And why I love thee I can tell:When tir'd of folly, shew and noise,Of feeling griefs, and feigning joys,Of visiting, and company,And all that's called society,I sought in solitude and peace,To sooth a mind too ill at ease,Thou kindly then thy aid didst lend,I found in thee almost a friend
That First Year
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
i wrote poems mainly that first year,picking garbage, doing dishes, humblingmyself among men who doubted me for having gottenthe world's publicity; what did i want with them, anyway?but after a year they saw my touch and needed an armaround them; men without women can use an italiannow and again to laugh christ off the cross and make him dance;make the devil look a bit foolish
Flying Deeper into the Century
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
Flying deeper into the centuryis exhilarating, the faces of loved ones eaten outslowly, the panhandles of flesh warding offthe air, the smiling plots
Cowboy on Horse in Desert
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
Little cowboy, painted ona paint-by-numbers picturefound in a junk shop
America
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
The Tropic of Capricorn someone hadleft on the seat beside me, somewhere betweenUtica and Albany;
Cooper's Hill (1655)
© Sir John Denham
Sure there are poets which did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon, we therefore may supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those
Cooper's Hill (1642)
© Sir John Denham
Sure we have poets that did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon, and therefore I supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those
The Collier's Wife
© William Henry Davies
The collier's wife had four tall sons Brought from the pit's mouth dead, And crushed from foot to head;When others brought her husband home,Had five dead bodies in her room.
Forty Below
© Dafoe Christopher
From this valley we hope to be going,When at last we can travel alone,For we're sick of the snow and the dust storms,In Toronto we'll find a new home.
Skirt, My Pretty Name
© Crosbie Lynn
and the space between my name and myself grows larger until... .- Rosalie Sings Alone
Carrie Leigh's Hugh Hefner Haikus
© Crosbie Lynn
Hef brings me flowerstiger lilies, ochre veineddowncast, sleek black cups
Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
Part IA silver ring that he had beaten outFrom that same sacred coin--first well-priz'd wageFor boyish labour, kept thro' many years
The Task: from Book IV: The Winter Evening
© William Cowper
Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,That with its wearisome but needful lengthBestrides the wintry flood, in which the moonSees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,He comes, the herald of a noisy world,With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;News from all nations lumb'ring at his back
