"buccaneering" poems - Hello Poetry

1213 We like March. His Shoes are Purple— He is new and high— Makes he Mud for Dog and Peddler. Makes he Forests dry. Knows the Adder Tongue his coming And presents her Spot— Stands the Sun so close and mighty That our Minds are hot. News is he of all the others— Bold it were to die With the Blue Birds exercising On his British Sky. – We like March—his shoes are Purple. He is new and high— Makes he Mud for Dog and Peddler— Makes he Forests Dry— Knows the Adder’s Tongue his coming And begets her spot— Stands the Sun so close and mighty— That our Minds are hot. News is he of all the others— Bold it were to die With the Blue Birds buccaneering On his British sky—

0

2.9k

Emily Dickinson

We like March

1213 We like March. His Shoes are Purple— He is new and high— Makes he Mud for Dog and Peddler. Makes he Forests dry. Knows the Adder Tongue his coming And presents her Spot— Stands the Sun so close and mighty That our Minds are hot. News is he of all the others— Bold it were to die With the Blue Birds exercising On his British Sky. – We like March—his shoes are Purple. He is new and high— Makes he Mud for Dog and Peddler— Makes he Forests Dry— Knows the Adder’s Tongue his coming And begets her spot— Stands the Sun so close and mighty— That our Minds are hot. News is he of all the others— Bold it were to die With the Blue Birds buccaneering On his British sky—

27

It can be expertly done this Placing for reasons. It is a rook buccaneering Over a black stream bed. Magpie turned black Without a hint of white... Sang of the stabs of life Seen in unhued water.

0

Mar 24, 2012

Mar 24, 2012 at 8:23 PM UTC

infinitetune

Water Forms

It can be expertly done this Placing for reasons. It is a rook buccaneering Over a black stream bed. Magpie turned black Without a hint of white... Sang of the stabs of life Seen in unhued water.

8

Who are these loved ones who cannot begin to mend? If I could see them, brilliantly rejected - like wimping ships dropped under buccaneering waters, watch the slow horizons empty - I might smile. But if I see the hawthorn creak with buds a joy unfolds to tempt me, withers with a bare simplicity. The world is narrowed to a single sound: your crying in an empty room.

0

Jan 4, 2017

Jan 4, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC

jonathan-finch

The World Is Narrowed

Who are these loved ones who cannot begin to mend? If I could see them, brilliantly rejected - like wimping ships dropped under buccaneering waters, watch the slow horizons empty - I might smile. But if I see the hawthorn creak with buds a joy unfolds to tempt me, withers with a bare simplicity. The world is narrowed to a single sound: your crying in an empty room.

14