to the honey-
  (buzz)
here to there
   rose!
dandelion
   humming-
                       swaying
    relaying
pollen.

The Daisy
                 stands
awaiting her visit.
    All
her petals unfolded,
worlds
          sweetest scents,
   the bee
visits.

The poems of my generation are sad
The poets got hurt and now they’re mad
Easy lives filled with human pain
They cry out to the night in vain
The poems speak of love too oft
Yet at monogamy they all have scoffed
The poets can’t compose alone
They need to drink until they moan
Until they make yet more mistakes
More material for the poems they make
I too have fallen down
Into the poems that gain renown
I have tried to please the world
To validate souls bent and curled
Now I know the truth to tell
The night is not a wishing well
Poems should reflect God’s own heart
Each one with a moral to impart
Poems should express things pure and true
That doesn’t mean they can’t be sad or blue
Just that our hearts should be nobler things
Than a metal shell that hollowly rings

1764

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,
  The maddest noise that grows,—
The birds, they make it in the spring,
  At night’s delicious close.

Between the March and April line—
  That magical frontier
Beyond which summer hesitates,
  Almost too heavenly near.

It makes us think of all the dead
  That sauntered with us here,
By separation’s sorcery
  Made cruelly more dear.

It makes us think of what we had,
  And what we now deplore.
We almost wish those siren throats
  Would go and sing no more.

An ear can break a human heart
  As quickly as a spear,
We wish the ear had not a heart
  So dangerously near.

1509

Mine Enemy is growing old—
I have at last Revenge—
The Palate of the Hate departs—
If any would avenge

Let him be quick—the Viand flits—
It is a faded Meat—
Anger as soon as fed is dead—
’Tis starving makes it fat—