| Be not afraid, little peasant. No scary bad-poetry monsters lurk here....you are safe now. |
| Passing a Truck Full of Chickens at Night on Highway Eighty by Jane Mead What struck me first was their panic. Some were pulled by the wind from moving to the ends of the stacked cages, some had their heads blown through the bars- and could not get them in again. Some hung there like that-dead- their own feathers blowing, clotting in their faces. Then I saw the one that made me slow some- I lingered there beside her for five miles. She had pushed her head through the space between bars-to get a better view. She had the look of a dog in the back of a pickup, that eager look of a dog who knows she's being taken along. She craned her neck She looked around, watched me, then strained to see over the car- strained to see what happened beyond. That is the chicken I want to be. |
| Chase Henry by Edgar Lee Masters In life I was the town drunkard; When I died the priest denied me burial In holy ground. The which redounded to my good fortune. For the Protestants bought this lot, And buried my body here, Close to the grave of the banker Nicholas, And of his wife Priscilla. Take note, ye prudent and pious souls, Of the cross-currents in life Which bring honor to the dead, who lived in shame. |
| Benjamin Pantier by Edgar Lee Masters Together in this grave lie Benjamin Pantier, attorney at law, And Nig, his dog, constant companion, solace and friend. Down the grey road, friends, children, men and women, Passing one by one out of life, left me till I was alone With Nig for partner, bed-fellow, comrade in drink. In the morning of life I knew aspiration and saw glory. Then she, who survives me, snared my soul With a snare which bled me to death, Till I, once strong of will, lay broken, indifferent, Living with Nig in a room back of a dingy office. Under my jaw-bone is snuggled the bony nose of Nig- Our story is lost in silence. Go by, mad world! |
| Mrs. Benjamin Pantier by Edgar Lee Masters I know that he told that I snared his soul With a snare which bled him to death. And all the men loved him, And most of the women pitied him. But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes, And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions. And the rhythm of Wordsworth's "Ode" runs in your ears, While he goes about from morning till night Repeating bits of that common thing; "Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" And then, suppose: You are a woman well endowed, And the only man with whom the law and morality Permit you to have the marital relation Is the very man that fills you with disgust Every time you think of it-while you think of it Every time you see him? That's why I drove him away from home To live with his dog in a dingy room Back of his office. |
| Into my Own by Robert Frost One of my wishes is that those dark trees, So old and firm they scarecly show the breeze, Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom, But stretched away unto the edge of doom. I should not be withheld but that some day Into their vastness I should steal away, Fearless of ever finding open land, Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand. I do not see why I should e'er turn back, Or those should not set forth upon my track To overtake me, who should miss me here And along to know if still I held them dear. They would not find me changed from him they knew- Only more sure of all I thought was true. |
| Key Ring by Virginia Hamilton Adair When my grandfather was very old to one small room confined he gave me his big bunch of keys to hold. I asked, "Do they unlock every door there is? And what would I find inside?" He answered, "Mysteries and more mysteries. You can't tell till you've tried." Then as I swung the heavy ring around the keys made a chuckling sound. |
| Grief by William Matthews E detto l'ho perche doler ti debbia -inferno, xxiv, 151 Snow coming in parallel to the street, a cab spinning its tires (a rising whine like a domestic argument, and then the words get said that never get forgot), slush and backed-up runoff waters at each corner, clogged buses smelling of wet wool... The acrid anger of the homeless swells like wet rice. This slop is where I live, bitch. a sogged panhandler shrieks to whom it may concern. But none of us slows down for scorn; there's someone's misery in all we earn. But like a bur in a dog's coat his rage has borrowed legs. We bring it home. It lives like kin among the angers of the house, and leaves the same sharp zinc taste in the mouth: And I have told you this to make you grieve. |
| The Moon Over L.A. by Martha Ronk The moon moreover spills onto the paving stone once under foot. Plants it there one in front. She is not more than any other except her shoulders forever. Keep riding she says vacant as the face of. Pull over and give us a kiss. When it hangs over the interchange she and she and she. A monument to going nowhere, a piece of work unmade by man. O moon, rise up and give us ourselves awash and weary- we've seen it all and don't mind. |
| Sympathy by Paul Laurence Dunbar I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And when the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals- I know what the caged bird feels! I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting- I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's core But a plea, that upward to heaven he flings- I know why the caged bird sings! |
| Summer Solstice by Judy Light Ayyildiz Go out through the stale breath, slip past the thirst, escape to New River. Be seduced by stippled specks in a cape of sun. Let your thoughts gossip with wet tounges come down from the hills. Listen to the tales they make of pasture, and primrose, and shale, and warm rain. Crouch in the cool limbs of iridescent trees. Feel the fan of white butterflies dusting a footbridge. Hear the drunken gnats serenade about the wide-rimmed sombrero of a lamp they once knew. See up the bank, veiled in jade shadow, how the unruffled glories sleep way past noon. Let the signe of the dragonflies mate on your cheeks. Lose heated senses in the mind-shattering gurgle, then bob on the ripples where it's always mid-June. |