I feel as old and empty as this longest of nights
The post I Feel | Mónika Tóth appeared first on Best Poetry.
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Author: Best Poetry Online
I feel as old and empty as this longest of nights
The post I Feel | Mónika Tóth appeared first on Best Poetry.
Go to Source
Author: Best Poetry Online
Lost and alone No one to turn to Homeless, on the Street An abundance of Friends, acquaintances Came and went Old haunts became Mere streets, Cities became blurred Lost in a haze Hostels became one Unloved, always seen, Yet never looked Upon. The post Imagine Being Me | Chris Byrne appeared first on Best Poetry….
As the mob sludge-hovels homeex-executioners wash their hands in the clubhousewhile guillotine stray dogs roam. CATS SCRATCH CATS!BATS BATTER BATS!And beer mats get soaked in ale foam. As the saints come marching inone has blessed a mousewhile can-can dancers have anointed a tin. STEAM TRAINS STEAM!GILT-HEAD BREAM BREAM!Washed up with a gleam and a bottle…
Marianne Moore at Yankee Stadium throwing out the first pitch of the 1968 season. Photo: Bob Olen. Marianne Moore Collection, Rosenbach Museum & Library, Philadelphia. Molly Arden’s prose poem, “So Many Literalists,” draws a distinction between “literalists” and “literalists of the imagination.” The latter is a phrase from Marianne Moore’s signature poem “Poetry” (the full-length…
My throwaway delinquent pack of lies go over, fly over birds’ wings in a soulless search, into sudden dreams. The post Sudden Dreams | Ananya S. Guha appeared first on Best Poetry. Go to Source Author: Best Poetry Online
The water contained everything. It was an ocean, a river, a tide. Rolling its passions forward. Calling out, Ride with me. Float into my flowers. Smooth touches. Reflections of light. The gaiety as it bends. Surely one can feel these blue waters. Cupping ones hands together. Splashing another. Water everywhere and so is your laughter….
Mr. X By the time you’re forty, you’ve met so many people their features fit together as little bits from other people, like the Identi-Kits that victims piece together with the police. The felon is memory, which takes a face and slices up what once was very simple. People you loved, the waiter you saw…