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If the sun sets for me at dawn
So that the white in me turns black
Before I shed off a single milk teeth
If I vacate that soothsome seat
wild animals become divinely rare
their habitats wild homes are soft earth & tree
cannot flee before the bulldozer concrete
flame and smoke desert where only wheat
S. K. Kelen
Letter To An Archaeologist
Citizen, enemy, mama's boy, sucker, utter
garbage, panhandler, swine, refujew, verrucht;
a scalp so often scalded with boiling water
that the puny brain feels completely cooked.
Cement up to the neck
& my head packed
with unsaid words.
A gullet full of pebbles,
Woke up suddenly thinking I heard crying.
Rushed through the dark house.
Stopped, remembering. Stood looking
out at bright moonlight on concrete.
I want the new canvas of the day to look really good
and thus I start in the morning with a grateful mood:
with strokes of colour, soft and sweet pastel
I want to make a superb and pleasing aquarelle
Keisy Rams The Poet
In A Dream
at fifty I approach myself,
eighteen years of age,
seated despondently on the concrete steps
of my father's house,
THE SHALE and water thrown together so-so first of all,
Then a potter's hand on the wheel and his fingers shaping the jug; out of the mud a mouth and a handle;
Slimpsy, loose and ready to fall at a touch, fire plays on it, slow fire coaxing all the water out of the shale mix.
Dipped in glaze more fire plays on it till a molasses lava runs in waves, rises and retreats, a varnish of volcanoes.
Before the gate has been closed,
before the last question is posed,
before I am transposed.
Before the weeds fill the gardens,
The Weary One
The weary one, orphan
of the masses, the self,
the crushed one, the one made of concrete,
the one without a country in crowded restaurants,
When the sun shouts and people abound
One thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of
And the iron age; iron the unstable metal;
There is a music of immaculate love,
That beats within the virgin veins of Spring,
And trillium blossoms, like the stars that cling
To fairies' wands; and, strung on sprays above,
Madison Julius Cawein
God spoke once in the dark: dead sound
in the dead silence. I turned
in my sleep.
I slept and sank away.
Eureka - A Prose Poem (an Essay On The Material And Spiritual Universe)
It is with humility really unassumed, it is with a sentiment even of awe, that I pen the opening sentence of this work: for of all conceivable subjects I approach the reader with the most solemn, the most comprehensive, the most difficult, the most august.
What terms shall I find sufficiently simple in their sublimity -- sufficiently sublime in their simplicity, for the mere enunciation of my theme?
Edgar Allan Poe
The Ape And God
Son put a poser up to me
That made me scratch my head:
“God made the whole wide world,” quoth he;
“That's right, my boy,” I said.
At ten I read Mayakovsky had died,
learned my first word of Russian, lyublyu;
watched my English teacher poke his earwax
with a well-chewed HB and get the class
Peoples of the world, together
Join to serve the common cause!
So it feeds us all for ever
See to it that it's now yours.
The Summer I Was Sixteen
The turquoise pool rose up to meet us,
its slide a silver afterthought down which
we plunged, screaming, into a mirage of bubbles.
We did not exist beyond the gaze of a boy.
The Future Of Forestry
How will the legend of the age of trees
Feel, when the last tree falls in England?
When the concrete spreads and the town conquers
The countryâ??s heart; when contraceptive
Clive Staples Lewis
Description Of Love
A true lover is proved such by his pain of heart;
No sickness is there like sickness of heart.
The lover's ailment is different from all ailments;
Love is the astrolabe of God's mysteries.
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
i cop a squat on a squared-off log,
to watch you ball on the community center court.
butt numb, i shift my weight
The Rising Of The Sun
I did not expect to live in such an unusual moment.
When the God of thunders and of rocky heights,
The Lord of hosts, Kyrios Sabaoth,
Would humble people to the quick,
Sometimes, I, too, tell the ah's
of my heart one by one
like the blood-red beads
of a ruby rosary strung
A Little Scraping
True, the time, to one who does not love farce,
And if misery must be prefers it nobler, shows apparent vices;
At least it provides the cure for ambition.
One does not crave power in ant-hills, nor praise in a paper forest;
Ash falls on the roof
of my house.
I have cursed you enough
Australia Today 1916
They came from the lower levels
Deep down in the Brilliant mine;
From the wastes where the whirlwind revels,
Whirling the leaves of pine.
I was born in 1902
I never once went back to my birthplace
I don't like to turn back
at three I served as a pasha's grandson in Aleppo
On A View Of Pasadena From The Hills
From the high terrace porch I watch the dawn.
No light appears, though dark has mostly gone,
Sunk from the cold and monstrous stone. The hills
Lie naked but not light. The darkness spills
Tonite I walked out of my red apartment door on East tenth streetâ??s duskâ??
Walked out of my home ten years, walked out in my honking neighborhood
Tonite at seven walked out past garbage cans chained to concrete anchors