#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
Little round moon up there’wait… '''''' It has always been the fashion to… This that I have struggled agains… ''''''
When the snow falls the flakes spi… that concerns them most intimately two and two to make a dance the mind dances with itself, taking you by the hand,
Well, Lizzie Anderson! seventeen… the baby hard to find a father for… What will the good Father in Heav… to the local judge if he do not so… A little two-pointed smile and—pou…
"Sweet land" at last! out of sea— the Venusremembering wavelets rippling with laughter—
The brutal Lord of All will rip u… Out of bitterness itself the clear… To you! whoever you are, wherever… Some fools once were listening to… It’s all one. Richard worked yea…
Men with picked voices chant the n… of cities in a huge gallery: promi… that pull through descending stair… to a deep rumbling. The rubbing feet
This quiet morning light reflected, how many times from grass and tress and clouds enters my north room touching the walls with
The world begins again! Not wholly insufflated the blackbirds in the rain upon the dead topbranches of the living tree,
This plot of ground facing the waters of this inlet is dedicated to the living presenc… Emily Dickinson Wellcome who was born in England; married;
The grass is very green, my friend… and tousled, like the head of —— your grandson, yes? And the mounta… the mountain we climbed twenty years since for the last
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
The dayseye hugging the earth in August, ha! Spring is gone down in purple, weeds stand high in the corn, the rainbeaten furrow
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
It is cold. The white moon is up among her scattered stars— like the bare thighs of the Police Sergeant’s wife—among her five children . . .
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
