Three secrets that never were said:
The stir of the sap in the spring,
The desire of a man to a maid,
The urge of a poet to sing.
by BLISS CARMAN (WILLIAM) (1861-1929)
Public Domain Poetry
Three secrets that never were said:
The stir of the sap in the spring,
The desire of a man to a maid,
The urge of a poet to sing.
by BLISS CARMAN (WILLIAM) (1861-1929)
Public Domain Poetry
i’ve wandered far from the shadow where i fell
‘tween the rotted roots of concrete monuments
& the ever glacial drift of meaning
they call me cottonmouth behind my back but
who among can boast of less complicity
or with forethought exercise restraint
& concede that less could be more
at least i’ll admit i am not here to teach you
so learn for yourselves of the self & its value
in this late stage cage of crumbling margins
they call me cottonmouth behind my back but
who among comprehend the half-life of aeons
or can find wisdom so thoroughly hidden
& concede the point without the question
i’ve wandered far from the shadow where i fell
‘tween the monetised myths & wholesale burnings
& the never-ending grift beyond meaning
by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2023
i looked on high at a dark sky
with some lonely clouds thin & wan
like strands of grey hair combed over
to hide a barber’s disappointment
the lunar crescent arched on itself
it bristled like a wild white ferret
as undecided as god’s weather
to snug with lume or pounce the hand
youth once held such gilded hope
but everything tends towards decay
the pleaides winked down on me
‘tween those wispy bars of thraldom
as i staggered o’er the aging earth
yearning there to feel more grounded
the head feels all that the heart cannot
guidance through the lack of direction
in high pastures and greener heavens
lies the mathematics of destiny
youth once held such gilded hope
but everything tends towards decay
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024
her paintings are on display
in the gallery’s endmost room
where there are only dull bulbs
and long, timid shadows
away from the greedy eyes
away from the greasy hands
away from the eco idiots
armed with their cup-a-soups
her paintings are on display
in the endmost of memories
where there is only yearning
for the might-have-been past
where sweet melancholy slumbers
where there’s no desire for awakening
where a soft nightsong is
sung by cicada ensemble
by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024
it’s winter but the wind is warm
like a giant’s hearth breathing
where is the forest’s ghost white shroud
where are the grand glaciers of old
when was the last time you heard the raven cry
when was the last time you saw the mirror smile
change is but a turning of tides
the lazy sky yawns and stretches
though swaddled in blankets of cloud
not even the rain shall fall
not even the earth shall swallow
when was the last time you heard the raven cry
when was the last time you saw the mirror smile
change is but a turning of tides
the trees slumber in dreams so fey
where the woodcutter loses his axe
dull all meaning with the seasons
dull the blade of understanding
when was the last time you heard the raven cry
when was the last time you saw the mirror smile
change is but a turning of tides
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2024