A True Story, for Jeremy

Related poetry:

1. The Desk, for Jeremy There is a child I used to know Who sat, perhaps, at this same desk Where you sit now, and made a mess Of things sometimes. I wonder how He learned at all… He saw T-Rexes down the hall And dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks. He dribbled phantom basketballs, Shot spitwads at his […]...
2. True Story they found him walking along the freeway All red in Front He had taken a rusty tin can And cut off his sexual Machinery As if to say See what you’ve done to Me? you might as well have the Rest. And he put part of him In one pocket and Part of him in […]...
3. A True Story Little Ann and her mother were walking one day Through London’s wide city so fair, And business obliged them to go by the way That led them through Cavendish Square. And as they pass’d by the great house of a Lord, A beautiful chariot there came, To take some most elegant ladies abroad, Who straightway […]...
4. From The Short Story A Christmas Dream, And How It Came True From our happy home Through the world we roam One week in all the year, Making winter spring With the joy we bring For Christmas-tide is here. Now the eastern star Shines from afar To light the poorest home; Hearts warmer grow, Gifts freely flow, For Christmas-tide has come. Now gay trees rise Before young […]...
5. See See how her hair has thinned: it does not seem / Like hair at all, but like the airy moult / Of emus who outraced the wind and left / Soft plumage in their wake. See how her eyes / Are gentler now; see how each wrinkle laughs, / And deepens on itself, as though […]...
6. The Locker All the dull hollow clamor has died And what was contained, Removed, Reproved Adulation or sentiment, Left with the pungent darkness As remembered as the sudden light. Originally published by The Raintown Review...
7. Fahr an' Ice, Apologies to Robert Frost From what I know of death, I’ll side with those Who’d like to have a say in how it goes: Just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker), And real fahr off, instead of quicker. Originally published by Light Quarterly...
8. Tremble Her predatory eye, The single feral iris, Scans. Her raptor beak, All jagged sharp-edged thrust, Juts. Her hard talon, Clenched in pinched expectation, Waits. Her clipped wings, Preened against reality, Tremble. Originally published by The Lyric...
9. At Wilfred Owen's Grave A week before the Armistice, you died. They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s, Then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie Between two privates, sacrificed like Christ To politics, your poetry unknown Except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months With Gaukroger beside you in the trench, Dismembered, as you babbled, as the […]...
10. Charon 2004 I, too, have stood paralyzed at the helm Watching onrushing, inevitable disaster. I too have felt sweat (or ecstatic tears) plaster Damp hair to my eyes, as a slug’s dense film Becomes mucous-insulate. Always, thereafter Living in darkness, bright things overwhelm. Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea...
11. The Watch Moonlight spills down vacant sills, Illuminates an empty bed. Dreams lie in crates. One hand creates Wan silver circles, left unread By its companion unmoved now By anything that lies ahead. I watch the minutes test the limits Of ornamental movement here, Where once another hand would hover. Each circuit incomplete. So dear, So precious, […]...
12. Memory A black ringlet Curls to lie At the nape of her neck, Glistening with sweat In the evaporate moonlight… This is what I remember Now that I cannot forget. And tonight, If I have forgotten her name, I remember: Rigid wire and white lace Half-impressed in her flesh… Our soft cries, like regret, … the […]...
13. She Gathered Lilacs, for Beth She gathered lilacs And arrayed them in her hair; Tonight, she taught the wind to be free. She kept her secrets In a silver locket; Her companions were starlight and mystery. She danced all night To the beat of her heart; With her tears she imbued the sea. She hid her despair In a crystal […]...
14. In Flight Convergence Serene, almost angelic, The lights of the city attend Upon lumbering behemoths Shrilly screeching displeasure; they say That nothing is certain, That nothing man dreams or ordains Long endures his command. Here the streetlights that flicker And those burning steady Seem one, From a distance. Descend, They abruptly part ways, So that nothing is one […]...
15. She Was Very Strange, and Beautiful She was very strange, and beautiful, as the violet mist upon the hills before night falls when the hoot owl calls and the cricket trills And the envapored moon hangs low and full. She was very strange, in a pleasant way, as the hummingbird flies madly still… so I drank my fill of her every […]...
16. Water and Gold You came to me as rain breaks on the desert When every flower springs to life at once, But joy is an illusion to the expert: The Bedouin has learned how not to want. You came to me as riches to a miser When all is gold, or so his heart believes, Until he dies […]...
17. Fountainhead I did not delight in love so much As in a kiss like linnets’ wings, The flutterings of a pulse so soft The heart remembers, as it sings: To bathe there was its transport, brushed By marble lips, or porcelain,– One liquid kiss, one cool outburst From pale rosettes. What did it mean… To float […]...
18. Jeremy Carlisle Passer-by, sin beyond any sin Is the sin of blindness of souls to other souls. And joy beyond any joy is the joy Of having the good in you seen, and seeing the good At the miraculous moment! Here I confess to a lofty scorn, And an acrid skepticism. But do you remember the liquid […]...
19. NEW YEAR POEM For Jeremy Reed Rejection doesn’t lead me to dejection But to inspiration via irritation Or at least to a bit of naughty new year wit- Oh isn’t it a shame my poetry’s not tame Like Rupert’s or Jay’s – I never could Get into their STRIDE just to much pride To lick the arses of […]...
20. If It Is True What the Prophets Write If it is true, what the Prophets write, That the heathen gods are all stocks and stones, Shall we, for the sake of being polite, Feed them with the juice of our marrow-bones? And if Bezaleel and Aholiab drew What the finger of God pointed to their view, Shall we suffer the Roman and Grecian […]...
21. Pan … Among the shadows of the groaning elms, Amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves… … Once there were paths that led to coracles That clung to piers like loosening barnacles… … where we cannot return, because we lost The pebbles and the playthings, and the moss… … hangs weeping gently downward, maidens’ hair Who […]...
22. The Folly of Wisdom She is wise in the way that children are wise, Looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes I must bend down to her to understand. But she only smiles, and takes my hand. We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go, So I smile, and I follow… And the years are dark […]...
23. Rainbow (II) You made us hopeful, LORD; where is your Hope When every lovely Rainbow bright and chill Reflects your Will? You made us artful, LORD; where is your Art, As we connive our way to easeful death: Sad waste of Breath! You made us needful, LORD; what is your Need, When all desire lies in imperfection? […]...
24. The Octopi Jars Long-vacant eyes Now lodged in clear glass, A-swim with pale arms As delicate as angels’ … You are beyond all hope Of salvage now… And yet I would pause, No fear!, To once touch Your arcane beaks… I, more alien than you To this imprismed world, Notice, most of all, The scratches on the inside […]...
25. The Forge To at last be indestructible, a poem Must first glow, almost flammable, upon A thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone, Then bend this way and that, and slowly cool At arms-length, something irreducible Drawn out with caution, toughened in a pool Of water so contrary just a hiss Escapes it-water instantly a mist. […]...
26. Auschwitz Rose There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar, A rose like Sharon’s, lovely as her name. The world forgot her, and is not the same. I love her and would not forget desire, But keep her memory exalted flame To justify the thistles and the nettles. On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles; They […]...
27. Ode to the Sublime Porte Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions! And oh, above all, I admire that Decree, In which thou command’st, that all she politicians Shall forthwith be strangled and cast in the sea. ‘Tis my fortune to know a lean Benthamite spinster A maid, who her faith in old Jeremy puts; Who talks, with a […]...
28. The Story of Mongrel Grey This is the story the stockman told On the cattle-camp, when the stars were bright; The moon rose up like a globe of gold And flooded the plain with her mellow light. We watched the cattle till dawn of day And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey. He was a knock-about station hack, […]...
29. The Peripheries of Love Through waning afternoons we glide The watery peripheries of love. A silence, a quietude falls. Above us–the sagging pavilions of clouds. Below us–rough pebbles slowly worn smooth Grate in the gentle turbulence Of yesterday’s forgotten rains. Later, the moon like a virgin Lifts her stricken white face And the waters rise Toward some unfathomable shore. […]...
30. The City Is A Garment A rhinestone skein, a jeweled brocade of light,- The city is a garment stretched so thin Her festive colors bleed into the night, And everywhere bright seams, unraveling, Now spill their brilliant contents out like coins On motorways and esplanades; bead cars Come tumbling down long highways; at her groin A railtrack like a zipper […]...
31. Flight 93 I held the switch in trembling fingers, asked Why existence felt so small, so purposeless, Like a minnow wriggling feebly in my grasp… Vibrations of huge engines thrummed my arms As, glistening with sweat, I nudged the switch To OFF… I heard the klaxon-shrill alarms Like vultures’ shriekings… earthward, in a stall… We floated… earthward… […]...
32. In Praise of Meter The earth is full of rhythms so precise The octave of the crystal can produce A trillion oscillations, yet not lose A second’s beat. The ear needs no device To hear the unsprung rhythms of the couch Drown out the mouth’s; the lips can be debauched By kisses, should the heart put back its watch […]...
33. Discrimination The meter I had sought to find, perplexed, Was ripped from books of “verse” that read like prose. I found it in sheet music, in long rows Of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks Of long-forgotten volumes undisturbed Half-centuries by archivists, unscanned. I read their fading numbers, frowned, perturbed- Why should their tattered artistry be banned? […]...
34. Mother’s Smile For my wife, Elizabeth Harris Burch, and my mother, Christine Ena Burch There never was a fonder smile Than mother’s smile, no softer touch Than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile And know she loves you more than “much. ” So more than “much, ” much more than “all. ” Though tender words, these do not […]...
35. The Story Of Our Lives 1 We are reading the story of our lives Which takes place in a room. The room looks out on a street. There is no one there, No sound of anything. The tress are heavy with leaves, The parked cars never move. We keep turning the pages, hoping for something, Something like mercy or change, […]...
36. The Tree: An Old Man's Story I Its roots are bristling in the air Like some mad Earth-god’s spiny hair; The loud south-wester’s swell and yell Smote it at midnight, and it fell. Thus ends the tree Where Some One sat with me. II Its boughs, which none but darers trod, A child may step on from the sod, And twigs […]...
37. Because Her Heart Is Tender, for Beth She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget,” Dove-white on her car’s window, and the wren, Because her heart is tender, might regret It called the sun to wake her. As I slept, She heard lost names recounted, one by one. She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget,” And kept her heart’s own counsel. No […]...
38. Redolence Now darkness ponds upon the violet hills; Cicadas sing; the tall elms gently sway; And night bends near, a deepening shade of gray; The bass concerto of a bullfrog fills What silence there once was; globed searchlights play. Green hanging ferns adorn dark window sills, All drooping fronds, awaiting morning’s flares; Mosquitoes whine; the lissome […]...
39. John Horace Burleson I won the prize essay at school Here in the village, And published a novel before I was twenty-five. I went to the city for themes and to enrich my art; There married the banker’s daughter, And later became president of the bank- Always looking forward to some leisure To write an epic novel of […]...
40. Like Men and Women Shadows walk Like Men and Women Shadows walk Upon the Hills Today With here and there a mighty Bow Or trailing Courtesy To Neighbors doubtless of their own Not quickened to perceive Minuter landscape as Ourselves And Boroughs where we live...