Before and now seems infinite though encircled by gradual doubts
Of whatever came over us. Perhaps the old chic was less barren,
More something be looked forward to, than this
Morning in the orchards under an unclouded sky,
This painful freshness of each thing being exactly itself.

Perhaps all that is wanted is time.
People cover us, they are older
And have lived before. They want no part of us,
Only to be dying, and over with it.
Out of step with all that is passing along with them

@csalisbury Thanks for keeping this going. This is my 10,000th post and if I could distil from that mass of writing as much wisdom as can be found in a few lines of poetry of this level, it would have been worthwhile. :love:

:party: :fire: :sparkle: Happy Ten Thousandth! :sparkle: :fire: :party:
(& glad you're digging the poems)

But living with it deep in the midst of things.
It it is civilization that counts, after all, they seem
To be saying, and we are as much a part of it as anybody else
Only we think less about it, even not at all, until some
Fool comes shouting into the forest at nightfall

Cheers bro'.

Before and now seems infinite though encircled by gradual doubts
Of whatever came over us. Perhaps the old chic was less barren,
More something be looked forward to, than this
Morning in the orchards under an unclouded sky,
This painful freshness of each thing being exactly itself. — csalisbury

That's fucking brutal.

News of some thing we know and care little of,
As the distant castle rejoices to the joyous
Sound of hooves, releasing rooks straight up into the faultless air
And meanwhile weighs its shadow ever heavier on the mirroring
Surface of the river, surrounding the little boat with three figures
in it.

[end of poem]

New Poem : Farm

A protracted wait that is also night.
Funny how the white fence posts
Go on and on, a quiet reproach
That goes under as day ends
Though the geometry remains,
A thing like nudity at the end
Of a long stretch. "It makes such a difference."
OK. So is the "really not the same thing at all,"
Viewed through the wrong end of a telescope
And holding up that bar.

Living with the girl
Got kicked into the sod of things.
There was a to-do end of June,
Comings and goings
Before the matter is dropped.
But it stays around, like her faint point
Of frown, or the dripping leaves
of pie-plant and hollyhock,
Also momentary in defeat.
No one has the last laugh

[end of poem]

New Poem : Farm II

I was thinking
Now that the flowers are
forgotten
A whole new frontier
Backing around the old one are
Swamping its former good ideas
Plowing under the errors to
In its tin maelstrom : the overloaded
Ferryboat slowly moves away from the dock
Are these dog-eared things

Weeds what you call them
These things sitting like mail to be read
Toward the end of afternoon
Things the mailman brought

I would like to enroll
In the new course
At the study center

Why is 'in' capitalized in the title of this thread?

Mistake on my part

Mistake On your part

:blush:

A lattice-work crust
Holes are blobs of darkness
Has been placed across the road
You can't walk out too far that way any more
They say the children are demolishing
The insides of the woods
burnt orange
That it's spectacular

But it doesn't
Take us into the open sea
Only to the middle of a river
Fumbling which way to go.

[end of poem]

New Poem : Farm III

Small waves strike
The dark stones. The wife reads
The letter. There is nothing irreversible:
Points to the last sibilants
Of invading beef and calico.

Pretty soon oil has
Taken up the place of
The dark around you. It was all
As told, but anyway it never came out just right:
A fraction here, a lisp where it didn't matter.
It has to be presented
Through a final gap: pear trees and flowers
An ultimate resinous wall
Basking in the temperate climate
Of your identity. Sullen fecundity
To be watched over.

[end of poem]

New Poem : Hop o' My Thumb

The grand hotels, dancing girls,
Urge forward under a veil of "lost illusion"
The deed to this day or some other day.
There is no day in the calendar
The dairy company sent out
That lets you possess it wildly like
The body of a dreaming woman in a dream:
All flop over at the top when seized,
The stem too slender, the top too loose and heavy,
Blushing with fine foliage of dreams.
The motor cars, tinsel hats,
Supper of cakes, the amorous children
Take the solitary downward path of dreams
And are not seen again.
What is it, Undine?
The notes can scarcely be heard
In the hubbub of the flattening storm,
WIth the third wish unspoken.