#AmericanWriters #FreeVerse
The living quality of the man’s mind stands out and its covert assertions for art, art, art!
Warm sun, quiet air an old man sits in the doorway of a broken house— boards for windows
She sits with tears on her cheek her cheek on her hand
Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow
The half-stripped trees struck by a wind together, bending all, the leaves flutter drily and refuse to let go
Among of green stiff old
Again I reply to the triple winds running chromatic fifths of derisi… outside my window: Play louder. You will not succeed. I am
Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red
The coroner’s merry little childre… Have such twinkling brown eyes. Their father is not of gay men And their mother jocular in no wis… Yet the coroner’s merry little chi…
SORROW is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire
A three-day-long rain from the eas… an terminable talking, talking of no consequence—patter, patter,… Hand in hand little winds blow the thin streams aslant.
You say love is this, love is that… Poplar tassels, willow tendrils the wind and the rain comb, tinkle and drip, tinkle and drip— branches drifting apart. Hagh!
Winter is long in this climate and spring—a matter of a few days only,—a flower or two picked from mud or from among wet leaves or at best against treacherous
Her body is not so white as anemone petals nor so smooth ——nor so remote a thing. It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass
My townspeople, beyond in the grea… are many with whom it were far mor… profitable for me to live than her… These whirr about me calling, call… and for my own part I answer them,…