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Nomad
walk thin
without being observed
bag people get ash
and air for dinner
brother see me
leaving here again
Poems on the topic: brother
Poems on the topic “brother” on Poets.by.
The perils of indolence
An ape should be locked up
in case he should die.
Do not sit down,
my brother Leg,
my brother Stick!
The latter I carried and feared—
of all brethren, the king.
War correspondence
I found a war
every morning,
a falling out, a field
men killed
friends and brothers for,
stopped like a seal
in a well.
Leavings
The way, though poor,
was a good companion.
I left my wife,
my brother, my wife,
my uncle, my wife,
my father, my wife
without a thing.
Hat speech
My fat hat is an angry hat,
a troublesome hat, a weary hat,
a staid hat, a yesterday hat,
a war hat, a Big Brother hat.
Sound of the Sea
My brother the sea,
who lay so late awake,
I find by his voice.
His only child died
last night at home.
Guilt trip
am I a villain not to see
a brother
lodged in a box
these pleasures
are not sweet to me now
for which I am sorry
The Hollow (44)
tall hemlock
nearly dead from adelgids
unfeathered
every year more rain
railroad noise burrows
into the ferns
that ice avalanche
my brother’s mark on a tree
lost to moss
two faces
on the side of a beech
one has no mouth
"Your Brother Can Come Visit But You Can't"
I looked forward to every other Friday
Like it was a holiday made just for me
But it seemed like everyone was
Just a little to busy to celebrate it
"It's alright," Mama would say.
"You can go visit next time."
But the promises she made were just
As hurtful as the ones he broke
And even though I knew better
I would choose to swallow the lies
Because lies give you hope
Lies give you a reason to believe
Then your weekend came along
(They always called it your
Weekend, as if you'd paid for it
And therefore owned it)
The Highlanders
From this ledge
you can see my brothers'
camp fires after dark.
They are not afraid to be
spotted at night;
Goat sure in the dark,
A dirk in every pleat.
You'll hear their pipes
across ravines
mentioning their dead.
Jack Rose
With crafty brooding life turned to Jack Rose
And made him heroin-peddler, and his pose
Was sullenly reflective since he feared
That life, regarding him, had merely jeered.
His vanity was small and could not call
His egoism to the dubious hall
Of fame, where average artists spend their hour.
Doubting his powers he was forced to cower
Within the shrill, damp alleys of his time,
Immersed in that brisk midnight known as crime.
He shunned the fiercely shrewd stuff that he sold
To other people, and derived a cold
Enjoyment from the writhing of their hearts.
A speechless artist, he admired the arts
Of blundering destruction, like a monk
Viewing a play that made him mildly drunk.
I, Too
I, too, sing America.
I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.
Tomorrow,
I’ll sit at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,”
Then.
Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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