Each line of your face
a dismissed metaphor.
You the timid champion
of time with men and art.
Wisteria hangs in great dollops
from the treetops,
the faint purple drapery
escorting me to Aiken and Camden
On the day my mother died, I unplugged
the stereo at a time when record clubs
still sent out their selections of the month
A wide open space to show off your original poetry, your favorite copyright-free poem, or any thoughts that you wish to share about poetry.
Put your poetry here, poetic people.
When they came, they took the house. They let me and my sisters live in the basement. My father died of hunger. (Sasha, 1942)
7 years ago there were no houses
Hated us, as we bickered in front of the casket.
A hornet, the kind that stings,
rests three boards away
On a naked concrete floor…
I’m mad at the world,
A world gone mad for money.