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Written In Durham, By: Matt Hawkins
she came to me at night.descending after turbulence;seeking the key to unlock her pastand know a heart that had always been her own;she deposited a surge on the back of my necklike an ebbing tide of warm wishes for my safety and pride to be soothed, and tended. I knew her.I had been waiting on…
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September 1819, By: William Wordsworth
The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fieldsAre hung, as if with golden shields,Bright trophies of the sun!Like a fair sister of the sky,Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,The mountains…
A Definition Of Marriage, By: Michael H. Brownstein
My wife, we share the same shape,taste the smell of what is to come. Sometimes our feet collect shoelaces,other times sweat between toes. Why have you written the…
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September 1, 1802, By: William Wordsworth
We had a female Passenger who cameFrom Calais with us, spotless in array,A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay,Yet downcast as a…
Scorn Not The Sonnet, By: William Wordsworth
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,Mindless of its just honours; with this keyShakespeare unlocked his heart; the melodyOf this small…
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Spring Clippings, By: Mary Bone
My rose vines are trimmed back.Winter’s harsh climate dida number on them.The clipping continue along withover grown toenails lyingon the porch.