Nocturne
The pantaloons are dancing,
dancing, through the night,
pure white pantaloons,
underneath the moon,
on a jolly wash line,
skipping from my room,
over to Miranda,
who washed them this noon.
This poem is in the public domain.
Poems
Find and share the perfect poems.
More by this poet
Initials
He goes along,
in his thin flesh,
narrow bones,
slow blood,
old hat,
old clothes,
old shoes,
singing for love, battling for love.
He will go down,
1920
Dance
Moon dance,
you were not to blame.
Nor you,
lovely white moth.
But I saw you together.
1916
Old Manuscript
The sky
is that beautiful old parchment
in which the sun
and the moon
keep their diary.
To read it all,
one must be a linguist
more learned than Father Wisdom;
and a visionary
more clairvoyant than Mother Dream.
But to feel it,
one must be an apostle:
one who is more than intimate
in having been, always,
the only confidant –
like the earth
or the sea.
2017