Now once upon a midnight dreary
A young fellow once did ponder weak and weary
Not like anything one has heard before,
But this time is was something more.
As he slumped in evening chair,
Ah too much to have care.
The world around him caved in and saw,
His duties were beckoning him with their claw.
Arose from the chair pondering and pondering,
Out the door he came wandering and wandering.
Down the lowly corners and streets set light,
For he could not understand where we was try as he might.
Pulling and puzzling at his own thoughts jumbled,
Came the swift of his feet towards the soft thunder's rumble.
"What great spirit has led me to this? Upon my neighbor's door,
What such a dream, 'tis this and nothing more."
Without reason or thought upon his mind,
What strange power has caused this ill time?
Upon the chime of the midnight hour,
Stood this man at the door of the neighbor's tower.
Why he was there, that we may never know,
But surely the neighbor heard the commotion below.
A rapping came onto the neighbor's door,
"This is only a dream," the man thought to himself,
"'Tis a dream and nothing more."
He felt the pull of his hand as he tapped his neighbors door,
The force of an entity he never felt before.
Why he was there, we may never know,
But the neighbor did hear the commotion below.
As silent as the grave, the man stood waiting.
Patiently and quietly without hesitating.
Till at once his neighbor shook open the door,
And looked out at the man he had never seen before.
They each stared blankly at one another,
Until the man could no longer stutter.
"No reason here for my being at your door,
Just curious as to the man who lived here before."
The neighbor stared blankly at the man he'd never seen,
Pondering if he himself should scream.
"No sir, you must be mistaken tonight,
I am the only resident here for the years spite."
The man stood coldly, very shaken with hate,
And felt his hands squeeze against the neighbor's weight.
The neighbor's neck at once had snapped,
And he fell to the floor with one fall rapt.
Walking silent as the cold winter despair,
the man came back into his evening chair.
Why he came to the neighbor's house,
We may never know,
But he sat pondering and pondering to and fro.
A rapping came onto the man's door,
"This is only a dream," the man thought to himself,
"'Tis a dream and nothing more."

Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise,
A ******* vile, a beast with rage possessed,
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.

A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers,
Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose,
A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lend to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait.

A fortress foiled, which reason did defend,
A siren song, a fever of the mind,
A maze wherein affection finds no end,
A raging cloud that runs before the wind,
A substance like the shadow of the sun,
A goal of grief for which the wisest run.

A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear,
A path that leads to peril and mishap,
A true retreat of sorrow and despair,
An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure’s lap,
A deep mistrust of that which certain seems,
A hope of that which reason doubtful deems.

Sith then thy trains my younger years betrayed,
And for my faith ingratitude I find;
And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed,
Whose course was ever contrary to kind:
False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu.
Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.

He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He put the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
Into the coffee with milk
With a small spoon
He churned
He drank the coffee
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He emptied the coffee with milk
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He lighted
One cigarette
He made circles
With the smoke
He shook off the ash
Into the ashtray
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
He got up
He put on
A hat on his head
He put on
A raincoat
Because it was raining
And he left
Into the rain
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
And I buried
My face in my hands
And I cried

She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"

We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.

Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried

To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.

Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there.  Good dog.

I have not thought in so long
That spiders are walking on me

In a whisper
Or in a scream
Do not wake me
From the dream
I'm in

The bus is leaving
The clouds are breaking up

Sunlight collects beneath
The old armchair
Dust on my skin
I sit as a statue
My ribs are iron
My eyes cast down
In sorrow or shame

The clock strikes
and a crack appears

Vines grow through
The window and they
Spread silently along the floorboards
Each leaf reflecting in the golden sunlight
Until
Around my ankles they tighten
and around the old chair legs

Out of my mouth they grow
Out of my throat and out of my eyes
That are cast down in sorrow or shame

An old man in a lodge within a park;
  The chamber walls depicted all around
  With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,
  And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
  Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
  He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
  Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
  The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
  Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing ****, I hear the note
  Of lark and linnet, and from every page
  Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.

The dragonfly
can't quite land
    on that blade of grass.

The pine tree of Shiogoshi
Trickles all night long
Shiny drops of moonlight.

All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies