By Andrew Frisardi
PRIMEAt dawn, the shapes of cypresses in fog
Were fingers pointing up from graves, as if what's born…
Were fingers pointing up from graves, as if what's born…
Explore Poems: Rhymed Stanza
Showing 1-20 of 1,721 poems
Filter Results
- By Andrew FrisardiThe city lies back in its winding-sheet
While little digits drum a steady beat
On roofs and terraces, … - By Joyce KilmerNow by what whim of wanton chance
Do radiant eyes know sombre days?
And feet that shod in light should… - By J. V. CunninghamPlato, despair!
We prove by norms
How numbers bear
Empiric forms,
How random wrong
Will average right… - By J. V. CunninghamThere is no stillness in this wood.
The quiet of this clearing
Is the denial of my hearing
The sounds… - By J. V. CunninghamYou are the problem I propose,
My dear, the text my musings glose:
I call you for convenience love.
… - By William BlakeSweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the Ball room among the Fair;
The young Men… - By Sterling A. BrownI
When Ma Rainey
Comes to town,
Folks from anyplace
Miles aroun’,
From Cape Girardeau,
Poplar Bluff… - By Anne BrontëA dreadful darkness closes in
On my bewildered mind;
O let me suffer and not sin,
Be tortured yet resigned… - By Edmund WallerGo, lovely rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee… - By Lydia Maria ChildOver the river and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way
To carry … - By Wendy VidelockDear Writers, I’m compiling the first in what I hope is a series of publications I’m calling artists…
- By Anne SextonThe end of the affair is always death.
She’s my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself… - By Anne SextonChild, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie,… - By Anne SextonI have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have… - By Anthony HechtThird Avenue in sunlight. Nature’s error.
Already the bars are filled and John is there.
Beneath a… - By Anne SextonGone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride… - By Anne SextonFather, this year’s jinx rides us apart
where you followed our mother to her cold slumber;
a second … - By Robert FrostThe living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living… - By Robert FrostSpades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make …