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Tim Bovee, Private Trader: The left brain side of my life.
mamabluefoot & the mountain
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A Poet on a Magical Journey Home
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Tina Blue's Beginner's Guide to Prosody, exactly what the title says, and well worth reading.
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pink.popomo.net, More projects from Portland
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Save Point 0.8.1, a Portland, Oregon, exhibit, Aug. 13-Sept. 5, 2004, at Disjecta.
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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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At Gibraltar, by George Edward Woodberry
I
England, I stand on thy imperial ground,
Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,
I feel within my blood old battles flow --
The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found
To Be a Unicorn, by Janet Tedford
Sometimes I often wonder was I
at one time or another a unicorn running wild and free
in a land of unicorns oh so very far away
if I was I wish I was one again
oh to run wild and free with others would be a joy
To His Coy Mistress, by Andrew Marvell
HAD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
The Dreamer, by Nicholas Vachel Lindsay
"~Why do you seek the sun,
In your Bubble-Crown ascending?
Your chariot will melt to mist,
Your crown will have an ending.~"
"Nay, sun is but a Bubble,
Mater Dolorosa, by William Barnes
I'D a dream to-night
As I fell asleep,
O! the touching sight
Makes me still to weep:
Of my little lad,
Phillis 1, by Thomas Lodge
MY Phillis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her;
And Phillis hath morn-waking birds
Her risings still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-feather'd flowers,
The Enchantment, by Thomas Otway
I DID but look and love awhile,
'Twas but for one half-hour;
Then to resist I had no will,
And now I have no power.
To sigh and wish is all my ease;
Time and Grief, by William Lisle Bowles
O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last,
The Great Hunt, by Carl Sandburg
I cannot tell you now;
When the wind's drive and whirl
Blow me along no longer,
And the wind's a whisper at last --
Maybe I'll tell you then --
The Buried City, by George Sylvester Viereck
My heart is like a city of the gay
Reared on the ruins of a perished one
Wherein my dead loves cower from the sun,
White-swathed like kings, the Pharaohs of a day.
Within the buried city stirs no sound,
O sleep, my Babe, by Sara Coleridge
O SLEEP, my babe, hear not the rippling wave,
Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling'ring strays
To drink thy balmy breath,
And sigh one long farewell.
Soon shall it mourn above thy wat'ry bed,
Red Roses, by Anne Christian
These red tears run down my wrists, falling onto a forgotten floor, laying in a pool of lost hope.
And it could have been a maddened angel who stole the virgins fate. No one will ever know, because no one ever cared.
And these red petals will continue to fill my outstretched palms, the thorns my back.
And I will transcend into oblivion, nothing more than an evaporating mist.
The DayPoems web site, www.daypoems.net, is copyright 2001-2012 by Timothy Keith Bovee. All rights reserved.
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