By Edwina Attlee
from here
I can see a rave and a jingling bell
an early morning settling around the edges
of the car…
I can see a rave and a jingling bell
an early morning settling around the edges
of the car…
Explore Poems: Labor Day
Showing 1-17 of 17 poems
- By Alan DuganGod, I need a job because I need money.
Here the world is, enjoyable with whiskey,
women, ultimate weapons… - By Alan DuganHe had a back office in his older brother’s
advertising agency and understood the human asshole.
He … - By Langston HughesClean the spittoons, boy.
Detroit,
Chicago,
Atlantic City,
Palm Beach.
Clean the spittoons.
The steam… - By Robert PinskyThe back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams,
The nearly invisible stitches along the collar
Turned… - By Elizabeth Barrett BrowningDo ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years ?
They are leaning … - By Benjamin FranklinBUSINESS, thou Plague and Pleasure of my Life,
Thou charming Mistress, thou vexatious Wife;
Thou Enemy… - By W.D. EhrhartEach day I go into the fields to see what is growing and what remains to be done. It is always the same…
- By Sandra McPhersonThe names of things—sparks!
I ran on them like a component:
Henries, microhenries, Blue
Beavers, wee… - By James WrightWhen I was a boy, a relative
Asked for me a job
At the Weeks Cemetery.
Think of all I could
Have raised… - By Alice Moore Dunbar-NelsonGod washes clean the souls and hearts of you,
His favored ones, whose backs bend o’er the soil,
Which… - By Anne WintersFour-fifty. The palings of Trinity Church
Burying Ground, a few inches above the earth,
are sunk in … - By William MeredithHere at the seashore they use the clouds over & over
again, like the rented animals in Aïda.
In the … - By Robert PinskyAnd Summer turns her head with its dark tangle
All the way toward us; and the trees are heavy,
With… - By Charles WrightDarkened by time, the masters, like our memories, mix
And mismatch,
and settle about our lawn furniture… - By Rachel HadasSweet smell of phlox drifting across the lawn—
an early warning of the end of summer.
August is fading… - By Weldon Kees“I want to get away somewhere and re-read Proust,”
Said an editor of Fortune to a man on Time.
But the…