Poems begining by T
/ page 423 of 916 /
Tidy
© Ralph Angel
I miss you too.
Something old is broken,
nobodys in hell.
Sometimes I kiss strangers,
This
© Ralph Angel
Today, my love,
leaves are thrashing the wind
just as pedestrians are erecting again the buildings of this drab
forbidding city,
the Noster was a ship of swank... (8)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
the Noster was a ship of swank
(as gallant as they come)
until she hit a mine and sank
just off the coast of Sum
this(let's remember)day died again and...
© Edward Estlin Cummings
this(let's remember)day died again and
again;whose golden,crimson dooms conceive
an oceaning abyss of orange dream
this evangelist... (XXIX)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
this evangelist
buttons with his big gollywog voice
the kingdomofheaven up behind and crazily
skating thither and hither in filthy sawdust
chucks and rolls
against the tent his thick joggling fists
there are so many tictoc...
© Edward Estlin Cummings
there are so many tictoc
clocks everywhere telling people
what toctic time it is for
tictic instance five toc minutes toc
this is the garden: colours come and go,... (IX)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
Tumbling-hair/ picker of buttercups/ violets... (V)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
Tumbling-hair
picker of buttercups
violets
dandelions
Thy fingers make early flowers of... (IV)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
Thy fingers make early flowers of
all things.
thy hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
there is a here and... (19)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
so aged the ocean
wanders the streets are so
ancient the houses enter the
the boys i mean are not refined
© Edward Estlin Cummings
the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night
the way to hump a cow is not... (14)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
the way to hump a cow is not
to get yourself a stool
but draw a line around the spot
and call it beautifool
The Sash
© Sharon Olds
The first ones were attached to my dress
at the waist, one on either side,
right at the point where hands could clasp you and
pick you up, as if you were a hot
The Arrivals
© Sharon Olds
I pull the bed slowly open, I
open the lips of the bed, get
the stack of fresh underpants
out of the suitcasepeach, white,
The Clasp
© Sharon Olds
She was four, he was one, it was raining, we had colds,
we had been in the apartment two weeks straight,
I grabbed her to keep her from shoving him over on his
face, again, and when I had her wrist
The Space Heater
© Sharon Olds
On the then-below-zero day, it was on,
near the patients' chair, the old heater
kept by the analyst's couch, at the end,
like the infant's headstone that was added near the foot
The Mortal One
© Sharon Olds
Three months after he lies dead, that
long yellow narrow body,
not like Christ but like one of his saints,
the naked ones in the paintings whose bodies are
The Pact
© Sharon Olds
We played dolls in that house where Father staggered with the
Thanksgiving knife, where Mother wept at noon into her one ounce of
cottage cheese, praying for the strength not to
kill herself. We kneeled over the
The Unborn
© Sharon Olds
Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,
Like gnats around a streetlight in summer,
The children we could have,
The glimmer of them.
The Daughter Goes To Camp
© Sharon Olds
In the taxi alone, home from the airport,
I could not believe you were gone. My palm kept
creeping over the smooth plastic
to find your strong meaty little hand and
