Pet poems
/ page 108 of 126 /
We, The Living
© Ivan Donn Carswell
There were moments when we rose above despair
borne by strength of spirit in your name,
but tragedy remained in darkened shadow's
gloom beneath your widow's eyes.
To Henrietta Lyn
© Ivan Donn Carswell
We're going to miss you little girl, you leave an aching space
way out of all proportion to your size. Tomorrow we must face the day
without your lavish greeting - without your urgent bark to wake us up
and say, "Let me out of here, the sun is up, I want to play."
Thought it was America
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Is there anything which isnt made in China?
The answer is
of course there is, the question
was rhetorical, a crude attempt to palliate
Chinas late renaissance; eighty years ago youd say
that nothing was or nothing much that
mattered was, and still been wrong.
Thinking of an Afterlife
© Ivan Donn Carswell
When was the beginning,
in the fertilising, in the flower,
or was it deeper,
in the earth beneath?
The Last Unicorn
© Ivan Donn Carswell
We were never set to let her free
from facile bonds, we fondly loved
mythology too much to let her go
and kept her chained beyond
the scheme of sessile separation.
Puissant Morons
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Clean your glory glasses, scrub the lenses clean
and see the puissant morons stare;
garbed in common guises far from unfamiliar,
guises fair as anyone you know or care,
Partisanship and politics
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Were I not a patriot, which of course I am, I would explain
just how the term remains a sticking point within my craw,
how it contains a core of prudish mockery, dissembles jingoistic
claims. But I am and not ashamed. I love the land, the people
United States
© Edgar Albert Guest
He shall be great who serves his country well.
He shall be loved who ever guards her fame.
His worth the starry banner long shall tell,
Who loves his land too much to stoop to shame.
The Mountain Heart's-Ease
© Francis Bret Harte
By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting,
By furrowed glade and dell,
To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting,
Thou stayest them to tell
Frogmouth biker
© Ivan Donn Carswell
The biker was a menace on the farm, a madman bent
on speed, intent on leaving all for dead (it was fortunate
he never left the shed). This biker was a frogmouth owl,
a petrol head who sought to ride the biggest, baddest bike
Blame Katrina, or Larry
© Ivan Donn Carswell
You may have heard a dumb-ass claim that
Katrina, a hurricane, is to blame for current
stress upon our fiscal state, that petrol prices
ate their share but be aware of what the lack
of Cavendish bananas did when far too few
were found to satisfy the mad demand.
A Fuedal Picture
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
WITH what a grace she passed us by just now!
Her delicate chin half raised, her cordial brow
Electra On Azalea Path
© Sylvia Plath
The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
St. Peter and the Angel
© Denise Levertov
Delivered out of raw continual pain,
smell of darkness, groans of those others
to whom he was chained--
The Borough. Letter XVIII: The Poor And Their
© George Crabbe
applause:
To her own house is borne the week's supply;
There she in credit lives, there hopes in peace to
Fulfillment
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
I GREW a rose once more to please mine eyes.
All things to aid it dew, sun, wind, fair skies
The Golden Legend: VI. The School Of Salerno
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
_Doctor Serafino._ I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain,
That a word which is only conceived in the brain
Is a type of eternal Generation;
The spoken word is the Incarnation.
Turns And Movies: The Cornet
© Conrad Aiken
When she came out, that white little Russian dancer,
With her bright hair, and her eyes, so young, so young,
He suddenly lost his leader, and all the players,
And only heard an immortal music sung,
The House Of Dust: Part 03: 11: Conversation: Undertones
© Conrad Aiken
What shall we talk of? Li Po? Hokusai?
You narrow your long dark eyes to fascinate me;
You smile a little. . . .Outside, the night goes by.
I walk alone in a forest of ghostly trees . . .
Your pale hands rest palm downwards on your knees.
The House Of Dust: Part 03: 08: Coffins: Interlude
© Conrad Aiken
Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower
Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:
At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .
The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.
We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky.
