Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

Strange that I did not know him then.
That friend of mine!
I did not even show him then
One friendly sign;

But cursed him for the ways he had
To make me see
My envy of the praise he had
For praising me.

I would have rid the earth of him
Once, in my pride...
I never knew the worth of him
Until he died.
...

Shirtsleeved afternoons
turn toward leather as the trees
blush, scatter a last
few bright, weary wisps across
the great bruised heart of the South.
The spirit cup drifts
down the pond's moon-sparked highway.
Far laughter, shadows.
Love or poison? Your turn. Drink
to the star-drenched latitudes
...

Because I forget everything
I forget what is my name
My name that is nothing
But just hungry for the fame.

I forget what is my gender
My gender that is physical
In the false pride, they wander
And the human, becomes invisible.


...

Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done;

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go!
...

I cherished my non sequiturs
spent more time out of my head
in half-baked theorising
or a vagrant continuity glitch
and some gawky deaths

like, the sex-drugs billets-doux
of a simple girls-night-out
that transience, routine backdrops
tracks up and down stairs

...

I wrote a letter that you'll never read,
Folded my heart in every creed.
The ink has dried, the words remain,
A silent song of love and pain.
If only time could turn around,
The love I lost might still be found.
...

The world`s great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weeds outworn:
Heaven smiles, and faith and empires gleam,
Like a wrecks of a dissolving dream.

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains
From waves serener far;
A new Peneus rolls his fountains
Against the morning star.
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.

A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
Fraught with a later prize;
Another Orpheus sings again,
And loves, and weeps, and dies.
A new Ulyssses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore...
...

That half-open amber eye fixed on you,
the woman in the kitchen half turning to you —
drowsy tonight, you take in the angles
of chairs, walls, old photos, a painted vase.

There, a heron’s stillness helps it vanish,
wading by a wind-flecked lake.
Outside, car-noise glistening after early rain.
Night’s silence builds its inner ear.


...

I am broadcasting from a frequency of static
a nameless signal in the crowded dark
calling out from a room without a face
hoping some wandering eye will catch the spark.
It is a quiet sort of panic
this needing to be heard but not seen
a desperate reach across the empty miles
through the cold glow of a glass screen.
I have stripped away the titles and the history
leaving only the weight of the plea

...