Charles Bukowski

(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994 / Andernach)

Charles Bukowski Poems

1. No help for that 4/27/2015
2. The Last Days Of The Suicide Kid 1/14/2015
3. My Cats 1/8/2015
4. On The Fire Suicides Of The Buddhists 1/13/2015
5. Hell Is A Lonely Place 2/9/2015
6. For The Foxes 11/26/2014
7. So You Want To Be A Writer 3/23/2015
8. The Trash Men 3/31/2010
9. Trollius And Trellises 3/31/2010
10. German 3/31/2010
11. The Japanese Wife 3/31/2010
12. I Am Visited By An Editor And A Poet 3/31/2010
13. Goading The Muse 3/31/2010
14. The Laughing Heart 12/30/2013
15. Gas 3/31/2010
16. New Mexico 1/13/2003
17. Hemingway Never Did This 3/31/2010
18. Magical Mystery Tour 1/3/2003
19. His Wife, The Painter 1/13/2003
20. Crucifix In A Deathhand 3/31/2010
21. The Retreat 1/13/2003
22. Luck 1/13/2003
23. My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant 1/3/2003
24. Hooray Say The Roses 1/13/2003
25. The German Hotel 1/3/2003
26. Love &Amp; Fame &Amp; Death 1/13/2003
27. Sleep 1/13/2003
28. Mama 1/13/2003
29. Trashcan Lives 1/13/2003
30. Show Biz 1/13/2003
31. Short Order 1/13/2003
32. The Sun Wields Mercy 1/1/2004
33. Shoes 1/13/2003
34. Poetry Reading 1/13/2003
35. The Blackbirds Are Rough Today 1/3/2003
36. The Shoelace 4/28/2011
37. The Shower 1/13/2003
38. True Story 1/13/2003
39. The Meek Shall Inherit The Earth 1/13/2003
40. Poem For My 43rd Birthday 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Charles Bukowski

A Smile To Remember

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!'
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, ...

Read the full of A Smile To Remember

These Things

these things that we support most well
have nothing to do with up,
and we do with them
out of boredom or fear or money
or cracked intelligence;
our circle and our candle of light
being small,
so small we cannot bear it,
we heave out with Idea

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