Poems About: ELEGY

Shall my sorrow for one day turn into laughter?
Who is he that has prophesied? You false prophet hold it to yourself.
Have all not developed teeth? Yet teeth development remains a dream to me.
When shall I become a man? When? read more »

He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like vellum, blank and pale.
Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence.
He scans the room as he would a poem seeking an indent that leads to a quiet corner.
A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, ink stained. read more »

She has heard a whisper say
the mist has left the mountain grey,
the ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
and his is henceforth an established sway read more »

Dear Lord, thee hath created Adam, with knowledge that glare;
And made thine angels, at thy perfect creation stare.
But to this wretched being, shall I not bow:
Thus, labeled pariah, a fallen angel, by thou. read more »

She straddled over the lake
as she approached the only existing living hell
as she approached the lonely
she opened her violet eyes read more »

Your face was a moon I haunted, and your body
twisted me into agonies of sexual driftwood
that wanted to burn at midnight under the stars
like the last signal fire of an isolated survivor read more »

A "Stranger in Moscow" told me that you've gone!
But is it true that you've gone my M.J.?
And with tears in my eyes I say goodbye my M.J.
You who feeds the eyes and the ears read more »

Mary slammed her old phone down with a bang.
Her neatly-pressed gingham dress swirled and shook
As she whirled around, 'DANG! '
'The Mobile Home Ombudsman is not in, ' 'The schnook! ' read more »

From the beginning rises their anguish.
At the point of no return they languish.
Fought against the iron shackle that held them bond.
Their arms, bodies and dreams lay in darkness. read more »

Now profit seems a dirty word,
or so some fine folk say!
but as I feel that is absurd,
at stocks and shares I play. read more »

Is Death so cunning now that all her blowe
Aymes at the heade? Doth now her wary Bowe
Make surer worke than heertofore? The steele
Slew warlike heroes onely in the heele. read more »

Is Viner Dead? and shall each Muse become
Silent as Death, and as his Musick Dumb?
Shall he depart without a poet's Praise, read more »