haiku stringlengths 5 2.3k | source stringlengths 1 74 |
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doc said: it's a syndrome
you've got it
classic | img2poems |
wallet on bench
wallet at home
wallet at rest | img2poems |
i am at rudder at bow at mast at rigging
at deck at halyard at stern when the hold
explodes with screaming | img2poems |
one boy has stolen the other's marble
the boat shifts tilts
a wallet washes up against us | img2poems |
if you read our work let it not be an extension of our airs
but to correct our errs
in the book of agony | img2poems |
don't ask anyone: who am i
you know who your mother is
as for your father be your own | img2poems |
if you fall in love with a woman
be the one not she
who desires his end | img2poems |
you are like me but my abyss is clear
and you have roads whose secrets never end
they descend and ascend descend and ascend | img2poems |
example is not easy to attain
so be yourself and other than yourself
behind the borders of echo | img2poems |
ardor has an expiration date with extended range
so fill up with fervor for your heart's sake
follow it before you reach your path | img2poems |
don't place two stars in one utterance
and place the marginal next to the essential
to complete the rising rapture | img2poems |
you won't disappoint me
if you distance yourself from others and from me
what doesn't resemble me is more beautiful | img2poems |
wingless they build and repair
the mansions of what we have thought to be our inheritance
caution and candor they labor to maintain | img2poems |
to where they are mending their mansions beside of whose doors
they are standing at ease they are lifting the fans
of unburdenable wings | img2poems |
won't open to me it's shackled
inside its cage: love and rage
whose bars are meant to be broken | img2poems |
no one here remembers
the love of a chair for its ottoman
or the privacy of a shut door | img2poems |
windows grieve in their sashes
they burn with interior light
like blood oranges | img2poems |
as two who could not pretend
to love each other
we stared through grief | img2poems |
what i don't know
but learn to dread
turns over slowly in my bed | img2poems |
i don't want to be a clown but i'm
sure to be one
my mother was a clown | img2poems |
when i get back
i'm shooting everybody
[line omitted in memory of_____ | img2poems |
and somewhere
we were living
this mood | img2poems |
of terror or border
or all organized
minorities | img2poems |
fixation anne was no one's obsession so she was
admitted to a psychiatric ward with the unbidden
associations she could not be induced to abandon | img2poems |
triangle on every surface she saw be it phallic or
concave and sometimes this triangle was isosceles
sometimes it was equilateral and often it was right | img2poems |
say them
raise your hands
holler at me | img2poems |
interjections like flams
wham
bam | img2poems |
every morning
i look for you
on the menu | img2poems |
where are
your eyes and lips
my side order of thighs | img2poems |
what stays with you latest and deepest
of curious panics
of hard-fought engagements or sieges tremendous what deepest remains | img2poems |
he looks away watches the last of his ice
as it melts the way some godlike eye might see
the mighty glaciers in a slow dissolve back into sea | img2poems |
he notes how incommensurate the simile a last
attempt to dignify his shaking gaze and reaches
for the bill he's damned if the goat will pay | img2poems |
on rounds the newborns eyed me each one
like orpheus in his dark hallway saying
i knew i would find you i knew i would lose you | img2poems |
first there was jim clamping to my long black hair
that nine-pound cleopatra wig
with nylon bands and bobbie pins | img2poems |
meanwhile i was on fire for chad who coached me
a bit impatiently tuesday nights
on my joan-of-arc inflection | img2poems |
then terence said i'd be perfect for the lounge-singer
turned-whore and as it turned out
that was a fairly easy gig | img2poems |
max signed me on soon after claiming i was a natural
for eternally aggrieved girl
which in hindsight hurts me deeply | img2poems |
there is so much sweetness in children's voices
and so much discontent at the end of day
and so much satisfaction when a train goes by | img2poems |
i don't know why the rooster keeps crying
nor why elephants keep raising their trunks
nor why hawthorne kept hearing trains at night | img2poems |
a handsome child is a gift from god
and a friend is a vein in the back of the hand
and a wound is an inheritance from the wind | img2poems |
some say we are living at the end of time
but i believe a thousand pagan ministers
will arrive tomorrow to baptize the wind | img2poems |
it's all right if we don't know what the rooster
is saying in the middle of the night nor why we feel
so much satisfaction when a train goes by | img2poems |
in glock magazine sleeves
isn't it also then how why
in a bucket shot full of holes i've been made to believe | img2poems |
a single lilting line a single turn
of phrase: these always proved at last we learn
life cries for joy though it must end in tears | img2poems |
ravens at night hide in an old woman's shoe
a four-year-old speaks some ancient language
we have lived our own death a thousand times | img2poems |
mothers again and again have knelt in church
in wartime asking god to protect their sons
and their prayers were refused a thousand times | img2poems |
how many miles to the border
where all the sky there is
exists for the soul alone | img2poems |
there is a drumming in the shadows
under leaves: a million eight-eyed
spiders on the march | img2poems |
the buckeyes beat themselves
half to death against
some lit-from-within screen | img2poems |
i was just getting to that
but first old age
if you could just let me finish | img2poems |
amp as we rifled the fellow's bags before we fled
amp fled his time flew too
from his cuffs amp collars flapping ahead | img2poems |
i don't move
but the pigeon shudders
on the sill | img2poems |
can you imagine waking up
every morning on a different planet
each with its own gravity | img2poems |
a long time we were separate
o earth
but now you have returned to me | img2poems |
pointing at you at us at the rabble they sigh and say these abracadabra boys they lack jargons
they fail to distinguish between pustules and pistils
they knoweth not how the kumquat cometh | img2poems |
logos in the light is only haze
a honey-head that the shape
be kept as beautiful | img2poems |
weep if you must
and weep open and shameless
before these altars | img2poems |
he balanced fives against tens
and made them sleep together
and love each other | img2poems |
he took sixes and sevens
and set them wrangling and fighting
over raw bones | img2poems |
he woke up twos and fours
out of baby sleep
and touched them back to sleep | img2poems |
he managed eights and nines
gave them prophet beards
marched them into mists and mountains | img2poems |
he added all the numbers he knew
multiplied them by new-found numbers
and called it a prayer of numbers | img2poems |
for each of a million cipher silences
he dug up a mate number
for a candle light in the dark | img2poems |
he knew love numbers luck numbers
how the sea and the stars
are made and held by numbers | img2poems |
he
couldn't even
something about his brother dying | img2poems |
there is an eagle in me and a mockingbird
and the eagle flies among the rocky mountains of my dreams and fights among the sierra crags of what i want
and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone warbles in the underbrush of my chattanoogas of hope gushes over the blue ozark foothills of my wishes and i got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness | img2poems |
tell me how it goes
send me some kind of a letter
and take care of yourself | img2poems |
as the tremendous volume of the music takes
over obscured by their long hair they seem
to be mourning | img2poems |
his mexican cowboy-chauffeur
forgot to take it out of gear
when sam crank-started the car | img2poems |
with white sheets tied around their waists
tonkawa scouts cannibalistically count out
a bag of children's hands | img2poems |
seated in a silver concho saddle
death's dirty sergeant lights up
his ceremonial breathing leaf | img2poems |
at the red river
ute chief cuts my guitar strings
ute women love punk | img2poems |
a great crime: she has
plunged a dagger into the heart
of her mother | img2poems |
the strangest thing: a mocking little pride with
a sinister click as of a fitting together of bad
pieces | img2poems |
somebody in dickens
attaching
diminutive eggs | img2poems |
amp if you feel guilty when i say so
this is not about postcolonial rhetoric
it is about an identity crisis | img2poems |
she'll remark casually
sweet water
good to wash my hair | img2poems |
i know not my endurance and i know not my own power
i have died with heart exploded 'neath the cheering in the stands
calmly stood beneath the hanging noose of vigilante bands | img2poems |
so i'll run on middle fingernail until the curtain closes
and i will win your triple crowns and i will wear your roses
toward you who took my freedom i've no malice or remorse | img2poems |
he is thankful for strong knees
for momentum that lives
in the mouth and the hands | img2poems |
they climb the staircase clenching branches of pens filled with ducks' blood
and follow the butcher's bed into this room
goose feathers thorning out of their eyes | img2poems |
they promise to never look down again
down is just a speck of globe dust
just coins clanking in the tin box | img2poems |
now sleepless as the door-guard
the train rattles like dirt in his teeth
straw in his eyes | img2poems |
at sixteen he dismisses his mother with contempt
she hears with dread the repulsive wave's approach
and her fifty-year-old body smothers under water | img2poems |
an old man loses half his weight as if by stealth
but finds in his shed his great-grandfather's knobbly cane
and hobbles toward youth beside the pond's swart water | img2poems |
she listens to the dun-colored whippoorwill's
three-beat before dawn and again when dusk
enters the cornfield parched and wanting water | img2poems |
he imagines but cannot bring himself to believe
that the dead woman enters his house disguised
or that the young rabbi made vin rouge from water | img2poems |
within the poem he and she hot cold and luke
converge into flesh of vowels and consonant bones
or into uncanny affection of earth for water | img2poems |
we are like lanzmann
who cried when he learned
of the death of stalin | img2poems |
as for ideas
and theories
that's not my bag | img2poems |
are you worried about
death right now
at your age | img2poems |
while birds swept over the water
like pot-bellied angels
beautiful bells rang to assist the hoist | img2poems |
she stands at the top of the stair
as childless tom
saw her weep | img2poems |
now late in the years the wind lays
burnished gold leaves
on her feet | img2poems |
what godsend fiddles with sadness
careful
about cheekbones songs including the atlantic | img2poems |
father lay moaning her fault was sore
yet ah to bless her my child once more
for heart is failing: the end is nigh | img2poems |
daughter my daughter my girl i cried
woe for the wish if till morn ye bide
dark was the welkin and wild the sky | img2poems |
heavily plunged from the roof the snow
she answered my mother 'tis well i go
sparkled the north star the wrack flew high | img2poems |
first at his head and last at his feet
kneeling i watched till his soul did fleet
none else that loved him none else were nigh | img2poems |
i sought her afar through the spectral trees
the fells were all muffled the floods did freeze
and a wrathful moon hung red in the sky | img2poems |
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