By Frank X. Walker
at our estates
we sat on the side porch
stared at humble cabins
as young bucks
worked and sweated in the…
we sat on the side porch
stared at humble cabins
as young bucks
worked and sweated in the…
Explore Poems: Town & Country Life
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- By Norma ColeRock or tree, inflexion
of tree, wild asparagusand watercress, weeping
and leaving, parting andfleeing, atmosphere
as always the distance... - By Jessie LeitzelThe end of summer
and our jalapeño plant
is wilting, its stem brittle
as the heat peels
away from us,
though… - By Kate PartridgeI don’t want to get emails from
the wolf people anymore, but
they know where I am—have known
precisely… - By Henry Wadsworth LongfellowUnder a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large… - By Tamsin MooreLong, empty roads stretching as long as the gas tank is willing—
Sixty-seven dollars left from last … - By Remica Bingham-RisherBut for the grace of God
one might begin and
this must be the life of a woman. I will barely touch the… - By James JoyceHe travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they … - By Rosalie MoffettMostly dumb, but hens are finely tuned
to length of days, won’t lay in earnest
till after the equinox, sliver of additional light
they measure from their mud yard,
heads cocked to the sky. Same gut process, spin
of tumblers unlocking a stock of promise... - By Isabel Duarte-GraySunday we lay hands
on a girl of ten hand on hand on
cornsilk hair. We sing
the secret language sung
the day the tin roof of the tower beat
on God’s floorboard
he got cramp in heaven.
Like our crying and our
fornicating so close to his... - By Benjamin GucciardiWe lived in a stone farmhouse at the edge of town.
I’d been assigned to process asylum claims
and you’d come to write about the abandoned homes
in the island’s interior the government was selling cheap.
A family of barn swallows lived inside our... - By Anna TomlinsonSauerkraut festival, sauerkraut ice cream from a tiny paper cup.
Places you could get lost in. Bike path that wound by the old airport,
abandoned playground with its huddle of bouncy animals
on their oversized springs. In the slough, Doritos bags
flashed from the... - By William BlakeSweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the Ball room among the Fair;
The young Men & Maidens around her throng,
And these are the words upon every tongue:
“An Angel is here from the heavenly Climes,
Or again does return... - By Bruce SniderShe lip-syncs “Hello God,” then “9 to 5.”
She struts. Or does she fly? Like the soul,
a rhinestone, she tells us, will never die.
She’s a blush-pink Bible. Patched together,
she’s a cosmic doll. Mirror of a mirror,
she winks, her face the only... - By Tristan TzaraTranslated By Heather Greenthen the clouds rolled in
young is the night that is to say
a cellophane softness ensued
which blew across the sky like wisps of straw
their firearms—a job well done
young is the night
and when the circus tent begins to blaze
beneath the eyes speak... - By CAConradGrowing up in a rural factory town I watched my creative family extend the grind oft monotonous jobs outside the factory walls and into their lives until they were no longer capable of accessing their artistic abilities. The factory essentially...
- By Osip MandelstamTranslated By Peter FranceToo black, too much indulged, living in clover,
all little withers, all air, all charity,
all crumbling, all massing in a choir—
damp clods of soil, my land and liberty...
With early plowing it is black to blueness,
and unarmed labor here is glorified—
a thousand... - By RK FauthTake me to the holler.
I want to see the cows
Big Mamaw’s grave and
something about tobacco fields.
I don’t recall all you said at Barley’s, but you
introduced yourself with an anecdote
about toothbrushes made from
chewed-up willow branches and
coyotes loping along a
wooded backyard—Uncle Clark’s
and... - By Daye PhillippoI have learned to love turning a bar of soap
and the calendar’s empty pages in my hands,
soft lather that soothes, feels like ritual, lifts away
things I don’t need. I have learned to love
the chickens’ ways, the hesitating way they walk
like... - By Pablo OtavaloIn midsentence. Like a pregnant sow
in another mud- and mire-laden trench,
your hay-stuffed midland rests. In mid-crossing:
a locomotive humming through a hymn
on Sunday morning. This is west of Eden.
Vacant field, vacant lots,
and elms holding back the wind.
Across the river, along the...