Weather poems

/ page 78 of 80 /

Order by :

1
. . .
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80

Those Winter Sundays

© Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

The Whipping

© Robert Hayden

The old woman across the way
is whipping the boy again
and shouting to the neighborhood
her goodness and his wrongs.

The Deserted Garden

© Alan Seeger

I know a village in a far-off land
Where from a sunny, mountain-girdled plain
With tinted walls a space on either hand
And fed by many an olive-darkened lane

The Swimmer

© Adam Lindsay Gordon

With short, sharp violent lights made vivid,
To the southward far as the sight can roam,
Only the swirl of the surges livid,
The seas that climb and the surfs that comb,

Gone

© Adam Lindsay Gordon

IN Collins Street standeth a statute tall,
A statue tall, on a pillar of stone,
Telling its story, to great and small,
Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste lone;

Once I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,
And I saw the Chief Forecaster, dead as any one can be--
Dead and damned and shut in Hades as a liar from his birth,
With a record of unreason seldome paralleled on earth.

Sonnet 07

© Robert Southey

(to the rainbow)Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee; for the day,

Bixby's Landing

© Robinson Jeffers

They burned lime on the hill and dropped it down
here in an iron car
On a long cable; here the ships warped in
And took their loads from the engine, the water

Sheep

© Robert Francis

From where I stand the sheep stand still
As stones against the stony hill.The stones are gray
And so are they.And both are weatherworn and round,
Leading the eye back to the ground.Two mingled flocks -

Return

© Robert Francis

This little house sows the degrees
By which wood can return to trees.Weather has stained the shingles dark
And indistinguishable from bark.Lichen that long ago adjourned
Its lodging here has now returned.And if you look in through the door

Silent Poem

© Robert Francis

backroad leafmold stonewall chipmunk
underbrush grapevine woodchuck shadblow woodsmoke cowbarn honeysuckle woodpile
sawhorse bucksaw outhouse wellsweep backdoor flagstone bulkhead buttermilk
candlestick ragrug firedog brownbread hilltop outcrop cowbell buttercup

Prayer In Bad Weather

by God, I don't know what to
do.
they're so nice to have around.
they have a way of playing with

Cows In Art Class

good weather
is like
good women-
it doesn't always happen

The Sun Sets in Molten Gold

The sun sets in molten gold.
The evening clouds form a jade disk.
Where is he?
Dense white mist envelops the willows.

Sorrow

To the melody of "Sheng Sheng Man"I pine and peak
And questless seek
Groping and moping to linger and languish
Anon to wander and wonder, glare, stare and start