Poems begining by T
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The House
© Charles Bukowski
They are building a house
half a block down
and I sit up here
with the shades down
The Blackbirds Are Rough Today
© Charles Bukowski
lonely as a dry and used orchard
spread over the earth
for use and surrender.
This
© Charles Bukowski
self-congratulatory nonsense as the
famous gather to applaud their seeming
greatness
you
Three Oranges
© Charles Bukowski
first time my father overheard me listening to
this bit of music he asked me,
"what is it?"
"it's called Love For Three Oranges,"
Trapped
© Charles Bukowski
don't undress my love
you might find a mannequin:
don't undress the mannequin
you might find
The Aliens
© Charles Bukowski
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
The Worst And The Best
© Charles Bukowski
in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
The Meek Shall Inherit The Earth
© Charles Bukowski
if I suffer at this
typewriter
think how I'd feel
among the lettuce-
The Night I Was Going To Die
© Charles Bukowski
the night I was going to die
I was sweating on the bed
and I could hear the crickets
and there was a cat fight outside
The History Of One Tough Motherfucker
© Charles Bukowski
he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
The Shower
© Charles Bukowski
we like to shower afterwards
(I like the water hotter than she)
and her face is always soft and peaceful
and she'll watch me first
The Most Beautiful Woman In Town
© Charles Bukowski
Cass was the youngest and most beautiful of 5 sisters. Cass was the most beautiful girl
in town. 1/2 Indian with a supple and strange body, a snake-like and fiery body with eyes
to go with it. Cass was fluid moving fire. She was like a spirit stuck into a form that
would not hold her. Her hair was black and long and silken and whirled about as did her
The Genius Of The Crowd
© Charles Bukowski
and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
To The Whore Who Took My Poems
© Charles Bukowski
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
Tz'u No. 9 (Weary)
© Li Ching Chao
Saddened by the dying spring, I am too weary
to rearrange my hair.
Plum flowers, newly fallen, drift about the courtyard
in the evening wind.
The moon looks pale and light clouds float
to and fro.
Tz'u No. 8
© Li Ching Chao
My courtyard is small, windows idle,
spring is getting old.
Screens unrolled cast heavy shadows.
In my upper-story chamber, speechless,
I play on my jasper lute.
Tz'u No. 7
© Li Ching Chao
Let not the deep cup be filled
with rich, amber-colored wine;
My mind was eased of sorrow
even before I was drunk.
Distant bells have already echoed
in the evening breeze.
Tz'u No. 6 (Waiting For You)
© Li Ching Chao
Lonely in my secluded chamber,
A thousand sorrows fill every inch
of my sensitive being.
Tz'u No. 5
© Li Ching Chao
I always remember the sunset
over the pavilion by the river,
so tipsy we could not find our way home.
