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My Love For You

My love for you is like the blackest pitch
that runs in a narrow furrow down a wall,
pools on the floor in a heart-shaped scrawl
or then again, like albumen,

white, pearlescent, watery-thick
glowing in the fried-and-eaten dark
half-part scratch and half-part itch-
my love for you is like the blackest pitch.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Moral rhymes [Apolog]

The sower let the seeds to fall down to the ground
And some by storm were taken to feed the birds around,
Some on the barren rocks died quickly when they fell
And some arrived in high grass, which all of them would quell,
But those which stayed in furrow repaid him hundredfold.
To sow it is a duty...
This surely I can hold.

poem by Alexandru Macedonski, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Enthusiastic partisans of the idea of progress are in danger of failing to recognize — because they set so little store by them — the immense riches accumulated by the human race on either side of the narrow furrow on which they keep their eyes fixed; by underrating the achievements of the past, they devalue all those which still remain to be accomplished.

quote by Claude Levi-Strauss
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Age of Emptiness

In an age of emptiness
in the ways of nonsense
the meaning of life
is meaningless

If we stand
do we each alone
single thoughts under
single days and nights

'The fertile fallow furrow
fleeting under flurries of fressly
fallen snow.'

for sure...

And we are the huskless stalks
shivering in the wind
row upon row
thousands upon thousands

[...] Read more

poem by Midnights Voice
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Paying Tribute To Depression

you grow seeds of sorrow
on the earthen pots
i don't know if you grow them for me
so i may see what buds what flowers
have sorrows
days and years
they have become trees of your depression
i have seen how you thank
each leaf and twig
for all the poems spread to the winds
of change to the fields of time
filling in each space each furrow
each empty interstices in your marrow

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Being Emily

She stomped on my ground
To furrow my heart,
This girl Emily.
Far and far away
With cinnamon hair
And glorious eyes,
She wrote tasty poems
For me and my kind.

Being Emily, however,
Was a curse.
Her husband was a wild-eyed puncher
Who pulled her around by her cinnamon hair,
Pretending to choke her
For the least infraction.
It burns me to distraction:
For Emily is my girl.

poem by Stan Petrovich
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Sorrow

SORROW, on wing through the world for ever,
Here and there for awhile would borrow
Rest, if rest might haply deliver
Sorrow.

One thought lies close in her heart gnawn thorough
With pain, a weed in a dried-up river,
A rust-red share in an empty furrow.

Hearts that strain at her chain would sever
The link where yesterday frets to-morrow:
All things pass in the world, but never
Sorrow.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Further in Summer than the Birds

1068

Further in Summer than the Birds
Pathetic from the Grass
A minor Nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive Mass.

No Ordinance be seen
So gradual the Grace
A pensive Custom it becomes
Enlarging Loneliness.

Antiquest felt at Noon
When August burning low
Arise this spectral Canticle
Repose to typify

Remit as yet no Grace
No Furrow on the Glow
Yet a Druidic Difference

[...] Read more

poem by Emily Dickinson
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SONNET. Dry those fair, those chrystal eyes

Dry those fair, those chrystal eyes
Which like growing fountains rise
To drown their banks. Griefs sullen brooks
Would better flow in furrow'd looks.
Thy lovely face was never meant
To be the shoar of discontent.
Then clear those watrish starres again
Which else portend a lasting rain;
Lest the clouds which settle there
Prolong my Winter all the Year:
And the example others make
In love with sorrow for thy sake.

poem by Henry King
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The Late last Rook

The old gilt vane and spire receive
The last beam eastward striking;
The first shy bat to peep at eve
Has found her to his liking.
The western heaven is dull and grey,
The last red glow has followed day.
The late, last rook is housed and will
With cronies lie till morrow;
If there's a rook loquacious still
In dream he hunts a furrow,
And flaps behind a spectre team,
Or ghostly scarecrows walk his dream.

poem by Ralph Hodgson
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