#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
Ecstatic bird songs pound the hollow vastness of the sky with metallic clinkings— beating color up into it at a far edge,—beating it, beating…
Rather notice, mon cher, that the moon is titled above the point of the steeple than that its color
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
In Brueghel’s great picture, The… the dancers go round, they go roun… around, the squeal and the blare a… tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and f… tipping their bellies (round as th…
The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them— all the exciting detail
Love is twain, it is not single, Gold and silver mixed to one, Passion 'tis and pain which ming… Glist’ring then for aye undone. Pain it is not; wondering pity
Oh strong—ridged and deeply hollow… nose of mine! what will you not be… What tactless asses we are, you an… always indiscriminate, always unas… and now it is the souring flowers…
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain
In the flashes and black shadows of July the days, locked in each other’s a… seem still so that squirrels and colored bird…
Gagarin says, in ecstasy, he could have gone on forever he floated at and sang
The birches are mad with green poi… the wood’s edge is burning with th… burning, seething—No, no, no. The birches are opening their leav… by one. Their delicate leaves unfo…
O’eh’lee! La’la! Donna! Donna! Blue is the sky of Palermo; Blue is the little bay; And dost thou remember the orange…
The rose is obsolete but each petal ends in an edge, the double facet cementing the grooved columns of air ——The edge
Leaves are graygreen, the glass broken, bright green.
When trouble comes your soul to tr… You love the friend who just “stan… Perhaps there’s nothing he can do’ The thing is strictly up to you; For there are troubles all your ow…