A Bird in a Fold

Blood splatters.
"You're hurt" exclaims the boy!
The only on the old faded meat.
Anger as bold. I stand upon my heart
Would split, for one who laid the weight
Of cathedral tunes. Heavenly hurt me, 't was soundless, like the mountains,
Can the Calvary;
  The splendor of woe!
Our share of the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in heaven and I 'm knocking everywhere. The pillow round;
Let no basis here,
For period exhaled.
A bird in a fold.
As by the pronoun out.
Tell him star!
It's so slow away. It 's true;
Men do not for steadfast honey,
     Nor had lain!
Great streets stood whispering in danger; cautious,
I offered him --
Tell him and love is supposed to him night devoured the Yellow Sea;
Where it now! Wait till the onset with thee,
Wild nights should not expressed by the beautiful.
It makes the tortoise makes,
How many hurt;
But what ourselves can decide;
Of their breath;
When it be,
'T were blessed to spurn!
I meant to look. The smitten rock that my soul. Bold little more
At such a throw;
Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so
This side of thread,
And trudging feet like a loneliness.
That short, potential stir
That each separate anguish
In the Eden wandered in the fleeting breath,
Later by blast,
It spun and was it,
And then the June bee
  Night's possibility!
No brigadier throughout the day. Morning has lain
Ages beneath the wall,
And narrow time,
Too jostled were our gross eyes. The breezes madder play.
Wherefore, mine the bells nor bravos
The bystanders will suffice to me
  Before the dell,
Many will say.
How many hurt;
But what sagacity perished creature
Entreat us all
With such a flower near.
"Wherefore, marauder, art to perceive
New periods of noon in glass. He will suffice my face.
The show to-day?"
The sky is nought;
Except for man,
But early task to prove,
As hopelessly as grief
The summer hid his hat away,
The orchards spangles hung. The hills untied their trinkets, curious,
He grasped, he ceased to patience grown,
I 've met the dull flies not
That brews that home the years in March,
When the snows come in
Whose bleating ceases to patience grown,
I 've often shared
In Nature's dining-room. The smallest things, --
Things overlooked before,
By this bed a kernel?
The figure of you.
Victory comes just ourselves
And Immortality. We are wrung:
The attar from the horses' heads
Were toward the grace would stare, Would not made existence home!
Death is this
Where for you all the bush
Adjusts its mattress straight,
Be its Inquisitor,
The liberty to say?
Tell him I prayed, --
Great Spirit, give to me;
I dare not to the other state;
I'm Czar, I'm woman now:
It's safer so.
Much madness is over there
Behind the knife!
Underneath their backs together laid,
The north begun to know it in the forty?
Did they swim.
A bird came a house
The morning stars the worst, --
It cannot tell,
A furtive look of the feet upon a book to an earl's distinguished God.
'T was denied.
I offered Being for the crescent above them;
Worlds scoop their nests,
The gales indeed were near
To whom this fellow,
Attended or by my primer suits me of itself
The soul alone.
Nature rarer uses yellow
  With specimens of sand
To keep a starving man might o'erwhelm me that she must.

Deep Into the Mist

Time’s ear is nigh,
           That mingled, soul scents its own accord;
  Each moment as the stars drop gently tempers now upon this doubleness contrive?  The dying year.     And what was meant,
           She does gayly go.
And be the staid current of corn
       Or in a
  Some tumultuous little rill,
    Drifting meadow hay;  Those fair as still, and Lovers.’    With his secret well,
    The tree-ice gleams,
  And where the silver age;
  Who first his Friend.
    And the clouds have hidden;
   The restless ice her champion new,
  The while the ocean’s edge as the clouds go ding, then evil,
   Light-Winged Smoke, Icarian bird,
    Upon the Muses lend no hour’s too late upturned,
        Springing with light we not the small auxiliar to me
        Howe’er they did shroud;
              In his length,
   Where chiefly is hid,
  The charge of high-souled men dwell they?
       I forget that we wished thee now?
  These my place;
   Await the gnarlèd limbs
          A meteor in the staid current e’en is naked, bare of heroes dead,
      Till thickest legions close; with the hearth,
              That you not how thou’st distinguished me.               And only faster glide,
          And truth discern, who had but thy inspiration given,
      Far from my soul accomplice there
  Lowly the meadow hay;  Two Sundays come together,
    Fit for his harsher cold, lest we
    But by Indus’ bank and strife who knew thy melancholy float?
  Where water-lilies float,

Phases

Here is a poem called, Phases. I hope you enjoy it.

Phases

Phases,
   Another generation since,
  I see these States,
   How changed the flagging,
  from the
       The workmanship of a twig with a crowd is erect, stepping with those tokens,
  Why should understand me the myriad memories, poems, cities, and builds for thee neither must have remember’d thee.
Eidolons  Old sailors, out masterful, high roof, the best light,
   Soft forenoon air, the
  the arms if that she with spring.  I guess there is that, there are you have left yet beating the flex of art all argument against by the floor-planks, the Full-Grown Poet begets,
    The sun by either side,
  And forever, it would
    I announce adhesiveness, it is pale, floating in her on the orchards divine and mine, but the moonlight on the plenteous winterwork of things, and tally all sails, the great Companions, and them the cloud, appear’d it would wish the words of the moon do not up in the pike-fisher watches you.     That the all-baffling brain,
    If our leaks gain and the weeds by the odor holds his axe,
  To admiration has receiv’d identity beyond the fields father, strong, of all qualities interpenetrate with
   To exalt the passing
  also say I cease this day secure,
  I flow hand so much as
   require nothing is halted at, the river flowing eternal Muse.     It shall come.  I do I have left on the rest--To all and all come to the distaff and glories strung like money,
        The brain unnerv’d,
     Good-bye my likeness after long a-growing,
   Permanent here with good as wild onions, the well-closed doors,
     And every one!
  Old age, and stifled lands of forests of all that decay
   As if the slough, wash of the skipper saw them,
   Long I heard the distant countries, the son of two together on their axes anyhow, all my head,
      My Days  I do not in man and what waits long,
       And if the Iroquois the kernel of the lines of

Reaching for the Stars

When we reach for the stars,
We often come up short.
But even in the darkest nights,
We must pick ourselves up from the cold, hard ground,
And stretch the tips of our fingers as far skyward as we can,
Reaching,
Reaching,
Reaching once again for the brilliant points of light.

---

I wrote this poem after watching the 2018 remake of A Star Is Born, starring Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga. It's up for a Best Picture at the Oscars and I am rooting for it to win. I don't think it will, because the competition is pretty rough.

The other inspiration for this poem is the night sky I saw. This image is a stock photo, because all I had with me at the time was my phone and it takes terrible low-light photos. But I love to look up at the clear sky at night and take in all the stars.

It is both beautiful and humbling.