Poems

How clear, how keen, how marvellously brightThe effluence from yon distant mountain's head,Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed,Shines like another sun, on mortal sightUprisen, as if to check approaching Night,And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread,If so he might, yon mountain's glittering headTerrestrial, but a surface, by the flightOf sad mortality's … [Read more...] about November 1, By: William Wordsworth

I shouldn’t have,but I gave an inchto temptation,and oh my Godit took me througha green riverwith salt water,stinging my loneliness,and flowing throughmy veins. I had an itchto call Avato drop herlove bombs. She had a prettyname for a torturedsoul with an afterglowof God’s favorite angel. Ava’s long, red hair spiraledto the small of her backback when I lookedher over … [Read more...] about Temptation And Love, By: Andrew Cyr

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell,Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strangeNot these 'alone' inspire the tuneful shell;But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,There also is the Muse not loth to range,Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange,Skyward ascending from a woody dell.Meek aspirations please her, lone … [Read more...] about Not Love, Not War, Nor The Tumultuous Swell, By: William Wordsworth

It’s time to put an endTo the myth of Jesse JamesA cold, blue eyed killerUnlike most of the claims A confederate guerillaAt the age of sixteenHis exploits were ruthlessExtremely savage and mean He was mentored by bushwackersWho were not afraid to killHe was also tutored by a manThat they called Bloody Bill The loss of the civil warCaused bitterness and spiteThe James … [Read more...] about The Real Jesse James, By: Steven Mcdonald

Not in the lucid intervals of lifeThat come but as a curse to party-strife;Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sighOf languor puts his rosy garland by;Not in the breathing-times of that poor slaveWho daily piles up wealth in Mammon's caveIs Nature felt, or can be; nor do words,Which practiced talent readily affords,Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords;Nor has her … [Read more...] about Not In The Lucid Intervals Of Life, By: William Wordsworth