The Homicide
They say she speeded wanton wild When she was warm with wine; And so she killed a little child, (Could have been yours or mine). The Judge’s verdict was not mild, And heavy was
A Mediocre Man
I’m just a mediocre man Of no high-brow pretence; A comfortable life I plan With care and commonsense. I do the things most people do, I echo what they say; And through my morning
The Men That Don't Fit In
There’s a race of men that don’t fit in, A race that can’t stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin, And they roam the world at will. They range the
Rhyme For My Tomb
Here lyeth one Who loved the sun; Who lived with zest, Whose work was done, Reward, dear Lord, Thy weary son: May he be blest With peace and rest, Nor wake again, Amen.
Toilet Seats
While I am emulating Keats My brother fabrics toilet seats, The which, they say, are works of art, Aesthetic features of the mart; So exquisitely are they made With plastic of a pastel shade,
The Faceless Man
I’m dead. Officially I’m dead. Their hope is past. How long I stood as missing! Now, at last I’m dead. Look in my face no likeness can you see, No tiny trace of him
The Home-Coming
My boy’s come back; he’s here at last; He came home on a special train. My longing and my ache are past, My only son is back again. He’s home with music, flags and
Old Bob
I guess folks think I’m mighty dumb Since Jack and Jim and Joe Have hit the trail to Kingdom Come And left me here below: Since Death, the bastard, bowled them out, And left
Moon-Lover
I The Moon is like a ping-pong ball; I lean against the orchard wall, And see it soar into the void, A silky sphere of celluloid. Then fairy fire enkindles it, Like gossamer by
Tourists
In a strange town in a far land They met amid a throng; They stared, they could not understand How life was sudden song. As brown eyes looked in eyes of grey Just for
A Domestic Tragedy
Clorinda met me on the way As I came from the train; Her face was anything but gay, In fact, suggested pain. “Oh hubby, hubby dear!” she cried, “I’ve awful news to tell. .
At Eighty Years
As nothingness draws near How I can see Inexorably clear My vanity. My sum of worthiness Always so small, Dwindles from less to less To none at all. As grisly destiny Claims me at
Room 4: The Painter Chap
He gives me such a bold and curious look, That young American across the way, As if he’d like to put me in a book (Fancies himself a poet, so they say.) Ah well!
The Mourners
I look into the aching womb of night; I look across the mist that masks the dead; The moon is tired and gives but little light, The stars have gone to bed. The earth
Gangrene
So often in the mid of night I wake me in my bed With utter panic of affright To find my feet are dead; And pace the floor to easy my pain And make