Poems begining by W
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Where does the Winter go?
© Ethel Turner
There goes the Winter, sulkily slinking
Somewhere behind the trees on the hill.
Willow Catkins
© Xue Tao
In February, light, fine willow catkins
play with people's clothes in spring breeze;
they are heartless creatures,
flying south one moment, then north again.
Waters
© Kenneth Slessor
THIS Water, like a sky that no one uses,
Air turned to stone, ridden by stars and birds
No longer, but with clouds of crystal swimming,
I'll not forget, nor men can lose, though words
Wasteful Gesture Only Not
© Tony Hoagland
Ruth visits her mother’s grave in the California hills.
She knows her mother isn’t there but the rectangle of grass
marks off the place where the memories are kept,
What The Wolf Really Said To Little Red Riding-Hood
© Francis Bret Harte
Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair,
Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare?
"Why are my eyelids so open and wild?"
Only the better to see with, my child!
Only the better and clearer to view
Cheeks that are rosy and eyes that are blue.
We Wear the Mask
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
When I Am Asked
© Paul Eluard
When I am asked
how I began writing poems,
I talk about the indifference of nature.
White Water
© Eamon Grennan
Yes, the heart aches, but you know or think you know it could be
indigestion after all, the stomach uttering its after-lunch cantata
for clarinet and strings, while blank panic can be just a two-o'clock
shot of the fantods, before the afternoon comes on in toe-shoes
and black leotard, her back a pale gleaming board-game where all
is not lost though the hour is late and you've got light pockets.
wishes for sons
© Paul Celan
i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
i wish them no 7-11.
Walking Parker Home
© Bob Kaufman
Sweet beats of jazz impaled on slivers of wind
Kansas Black Morning/ First Horn Eyes/
When Your Sins Come Home to Roost
© Henry Lawson
When you fear the barbers mirror when you go to get a crop,
Or in sorrow every morning comb your hair across the top:
When you titivate and do the little things you never used
It is close upon the season when your sins come home to roost.
Winter Landscape, With Rooks
© Sylvia Plath
Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone,
plunges headlong into that black pond
where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan
floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind
which hungers to haul the white reflection down.
When Sue Wears Red
© Langston Hughes
When Susanna Jones wears red
her face is like an ancient cameo
Turned brown by the ages.
Come with a blast of trumphets, Jesus!
"When Burbadge Played"
© Henry Austin Dobson
WhenN Burbadge played, the stage was bare
Of fount and temple, tower and stair;
Two backswords eked a battle out;
Two supers made a rabble rout;
The throne of Denmark was a chair!
We know this much
© Sappho
We know this much
Death is an evil;
we have the gods'
word for it; they too
would die if death
were a good thing
