Poetry Catalog

You try to summon mefaux pleasantries,a bouquet in the boneyard. Spritzmy favourite scentAgent provocateur. Hauntingall the placesI used to go. I’m not thereI’m not hereI’m not anywhere. From the mirrormy reflectionhas been exorcized. Texts go unanswered.A cold whisper,calls to voice mail. My toothbrush is gonefrom the bathroomMy knickers too from the … [Read more...] about For Simonette, On Ghosting: By: Donna Faulkner née Miller

List 'twas the Cuckoo. O with what delightHeard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint,Far off and faint, and melting into air,Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again!Those louder cries give notice that the Bird,Although invisible as Echo's self,Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy Creature,For this unthought-of greeting!            While alluredFrom vale to hill, from hill … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XIV. – The Cuckoo At Laverna – May 25, 1837, By: William Wordsworth

For action born, existing to be tried,Powers manifold we have that interveneTo stir the heart that would too closely screenHer peace from images to pain allied.What wonder if at midnight, by the sideOf Sanguinetto, or broad Thrasymene,The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms glide,Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen;And singly thine, O vanquished Chief! whose … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XIII. – Near The Same Lake, By: William Wordsworth

Have seen thingsthat are not writtenin screenplays. They have seenbeyond arrogance and insults,torture and secrets, broken trust,and the hidden pages of medicalmanuals. They have absorbedmore than the obscene picturesthat can never be erasedfrom the terrifying storieswomen dare to whisper,more than the isolating painof forbidden love.They are not pools;rather, they are … [Read more...] about Rooney Mara’s Eyes, By: Diane Elayne Dees

When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came,An earthquake, mingling with the battle's shock,Checked not its rage; unfelt the ground did rock,Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly aim.Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's shame,Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure,Save in this Rill that took from blood the nameWhich yet it bears, sweet Stream! as crystal pure.So … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XII. – Near The Lake Of Thrasymene, By: William Wordsworth