Poems begining by T
/ page 452 of 916 /
The Blue Bowl
© Jane Kenyon
Silent the rest of the day, we worked,
ate, stared, and slept. It stormed
all night; now it clears, and a robin
burbles from a dripping bush
like the neighbor who means well
but always says the wrong thing.
Tangerine
© Ruth L. Schwartz
It was a flower once, it was one of a billion flowers
whose perfume broke through closed car windows,
Thoughtless Cruelty
© Charles Lamb
There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly — ,
And should you thousand ages try
The life you've taken to supply,
You could not do it.
The Speed of Darkness
© Katha Pollitt
Whoever despises the clitoris despises the penis
Whoever despises the penis despises the cunt
Whoever despises the cunt despises the life of the child.
To the Swimmer
© Countee Cullen
Now as I watch you, strong of arm and endurance, battling and struggling
With the waves that rush against you, ever with invincible strength returning
Into my heart, grown each day more tranquil and peaceful, comes a fierce longing
Of mind and soul that will not be appeased until, like you, I breast yon deep and boundless expanse of blue.
Twilight Blues
© Samuel Menashe
(Morton St. Pier)
Lying here
Flat on my back
I can almost see
Myself in the morgue
On a slab, tagged
The Cave Painters
© Eamon Grennan
Holding only a handful of rushlight
they pressed deeper into the dark, at a crouch
The Exam
© Joyce Sutphen
It is mid-October. The trees are in
their autumnal glory (red, yellow-green,
The Stream's Secret
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
What thing unto mine ear
Wouldst thou convey,what secret thing,
O wandering water ever whispering?
Surely thy speech shall be of her.
Thou water, O thou whispering wanderer,
What message dost thou bring?
The River at Wolf
© Jean Valentine
Coming east we left the animals
pelican beaver osprey muskrat and snake
their hair and skin and feathers
their eyes in the dark: red and green.
Your finger drawing my mouth.
The Oven Loves the TV Set
© Heather McHugh
Stuck on the fridge, our favorite pin-up girl
is anorexic. On the radio we have a riff
The Right Whale in Iowa
© Debora Greger
The shag rug of a Great Plains buffalo,
a flightless bird
gone to stone: over its fellow keepsakes,
The Three-Legged Dog at the Heart of Our Home
© Michael Rosen
She dances to the wheeze of my lungs. Were she taller,
or had she both hind legs, she would lick my aching knees.
There’s nothing like practice I firmly believe. Practice
The Erotic Philosophers
© John Betjeman
It’s a spring morning; sun pours in the window
As I sit here drinking coffee, reading Augustine.
There may be Chaos still around the World
© George Santayana
There may be chaos still around the world,
This little world that in my thinking lies;
The Cleaving
© Li-Young Lee
He gossips like my grandmother, this man
with my face, and I could stand
