#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…
I gotta buy me a new girdle. (I’ll buy you one) O.K.
a burst of iris so that come down for breakfast we searched through the rooms for
A middle-northern March, now as a… gusts from the South broken agains… but from under, as if a slow hand… it moves—not into April—into a sec… the old skin of wind-clear scales…
When over the flowery, sharp pastu… edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flower… but color and the movement—or the…
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…
THERE is a bird in the poplars— It is the sun! The leaves are little yellow fish Swimming in the river; The bird skims above them—
First he said: It is the woman in us That makes us write– Let us acknowledge it– Men would be silent.
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
Lady of dusk-wood fastnesses, Thou art my Lady. I have known the crisp, splinterin… White, slender through green sapli… I have lain by thee on the brown f…
It’s a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!
I will teach you my towns… how to perform a funeral… for you have it over a tr… of artists— unless one should scour t…
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!