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#Post#: 374045--------------------------------------------------
Re: Poems
DIR By: Talitha
Date: February 14, 2026, 2:36 pm
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for R... out in the stardust
stand with your lover on the ending earth-
and while a(huge which by which huger than
huge)whoing sea leaps to greenly hurl snow
suppose we could not love,dear;imagine
ourselves like living neither nor dead these
(or many thousand hearts which don't and dream
or many million minds which sleep and move)
blind sands,at pitiless the mercy of
time time time time time
-how fortunate are you and i,whose home
is timelessness:we who have wandered down
from fragrant mountains of eternal now
to frolic in such mysteries as birth
and death a day(or maybe even less)
~ e. e. cummings
#Post#: 378290--------------------------------------------------
Re: Poems
DIR By: LesserGoddess
Date: March 9, 2026, 1:56 pm
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by Seth Brady Tucker
The Road to Baghdad
Is less a road than a floral
collection of spongy and soft
bodies, a gathering of the myriad
colors of nations—burnt umber,
puce, kiln red, olive drab, hot
steel. It is a road that stretches
eternally into the ochre mocha
of the horizon. The road
to Baghdad has its own atmosphere
and sound, so unlike the roads
I have driven in the States—here,
the road is silent but for the pops
and spits of flame where trucks
clutch the bright and colorful
bodies of the unfortunate dead.
The road to Baghdad is like the aftermath
of a Fourth of July parade—streets
littered with the chaos of celebration,
where dyed paper and the bright
hulls of fireworks gather in the gutter.
Sometimes, I look for the road
to Baghdad in old maps or on
the web, but I can never find
it—the distance of time has cleared
it from the record books, has erased
it from everywhere but my mind, and
from the minds of those soldiers who saw
it with me. Today, I awake in the morning
with unexplained scratches on the bridge
of my nose, and I ask my empty room, where
has that road gone? I understand that if there
is no road, then there is no me. But if none
of this ever really happened, how do I awaken
every morning to the sun burning my outline
into the wild asphalt of that beautiful highway?
#Post#: 382739--------------------------------------------------
Re: Poems
DIR By: LesserGoddess
Date: April 2, 2026, 6:19 pm
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To His Coy Mistress
By Andrew Marvell
Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust;
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
#Post#: 386468--------------------------------------------------
Re: Poems
DIR By: LesserGoddess
Date: April 23, 2026, 1:20 pm
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Sonnet 27 by William Shakespeare
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo! Thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.
#Post#: 390828--------------------------------------------------
Re: Poems
DIR By: LesserGoddess
Date: May 19, 2026, 5:53 pm
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"What is love? ’Tis not hereafter.
Present mirth hath present laughter.
What’s to come is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.
Youth’s a stuff will not endure."
~ Twelfth Night - 2. III
#Post#: 393758--------------------------------------------------
Re: Poems
DIR By: LesserGoddess
Date: June 6, 2026, 9:06 am
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Let this darkness be a bell tower, by Rainer Maria Rilke
Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,
what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.
And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.
#Post#: 397988--------------------------------------------------
Re: Poems
DIR By: LesserGoddess
Date: July 4, 2026, 7:12 am
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excerpt, Langston Hughes, Let America Be America Again
O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine—the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.
Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!
#Post#: 407638--------------------------------------------------
Re: Poems
DIR By: Lurknomore
Date: September 3, 2026, 12:59 pm
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RIP Wendell Berry…
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
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