New York City Hard Time Blues (Miguel Pinero Poems)
NYC BluesBig time time hard on on me bluesNew York City hard sunday morning bluesyeahJunkie waking upbones ache trying to ...
NYC BluesBig time time hard on on me bluesNew York City hard sunday morning bluesyeahJunkie waking upbones ache trying to ...
We are accused of terrorism:if we defended rose and womanand the mighty verse...and the blueness of sky...A dominion... nothing left ...
Original FrenchDictes moy ou, n'en quel pays,Est Flora la belle Rommaine,Archipiades ne Thaïs,Qui fut sa cousine germaine,Echo parlant quant bruyt ...
THERE a tattered marigoldAnd dead asters manifold,Showed him where the garden oldOf time bloomed:Briar and thistle overgrewCorners where the rose ...
What path is left for you to tread When hunger-wolves are slinking near-- Do you not know the West is dead? The "blanket-stiff" ...
All alone I went a-walking by the London Docks one day,For to see the ships discharging in the basins where ...
The watchfires died away from the bivouac on the hill,And o'er the mountain-tops the dawn crept cold and slow,And in ...
Our muddy tongue is frightful, it has so foul a sound.With what shall I compare it, in song can praise ...
Adown the lanes of memory bloom all the flowers of yesteryear,And looking back we smile to see life's bright red ...
All through the little prairie town'Mid dusty levels broad and brownI saw the Circus pacing on;I felt its vague barbaric ...
(_For a Drama_) Toll no bell and say no prayer, Let no rose die on my bier. All I hoped ...
Do not accept these rains that come too late. Better to linger. Make your pain An image of the desert. ...
The first rain reminds me Of the rising summer dust. The rain doesn't remember the rain of yesteryear. A year ...
Our game was his but yesteryear; We wished him back; we could not know The self-same hour we missed him ...
I walked to-day, but not alone, Adown a windy, sea-girt lea, For memory, spendthrift of her charm, Peopled the silent ...
Only a long, low-lying lane That follows to the misty sea, Across a bare and russet plain Where wild winds ...
I The arts are old, old as the stones From which man carved the sphinx austere. Deep are the days ...
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