Ridge Reknown
Voice choked
the water
gushes
The operas
buffeted by wads
of blonde hair
Huff huff
I whispered
to the children
But then
the guards
saw us
And came walking
on their
high stilts
We broke our
Poems on the topic: child
Poems on the topic “child” on Poets.by.
Photograph of a Circus in Europe
all the children are gleeful,
except for the ragamuffin whose oval face is shocked,
and her sister, prettier, who is asleep on her shoulder.
all the other children have large open mouths.
her own small mouth is turned down like that occasional
jack-o-lantern one sees.
her eyes are turned down at the corners.
she has caught her breath like a fluttering sparrow.
child, i have seen it too.
it will not go away.
always the others will be wide-mouthed with hysteria
or asleep on our shoulders.
we will go through life looking like pumpkins.
the other kids will say, "how come you always look like a pumpkin?"
and someday even the prettier person asleep on our shoulder
Take 3/16/61
there is a
loaf of datenut bread on the table,
wrapped in waxed paper, a rubber band
around it. a fat man
comes in & out of the back room in his shorts.
the silence is noticiable. i mean, to one
who has lived for four yrs in apartments
facing on a courtyard where they shout
day & night, the silence is noticeable.
the children i am watching are asleep,
the doorbell will ring any minute,
i skim along, typing a libretto
by kenneth koch; avoiding detailed observation
of my emotional state (sic),
the i ching says
that the superior man knows the changes
He-Who-Came-Forth
Somehow nineteen years ago
clumsily passionate
I drew into me the seed
of a man -
and bore it, cast it out
man-seed that grew
and became a person
whose subtle mind and quick heart
though I beat him, hurt him,
while I fed him, loved him,
• now stand beyond me, out in the world
beyond my skin
beautiful and strange as if
I had given birth to a tree.
Biafra
Biafra. Biafra. Biafra.
Small stock of compassion grown in us
(when we would let it by photos of napalmed children
gives out: expended saying
Viet Nam, Viet Nam: trying
to act to end
that war.
Now sluggishly
we turn pages: photos
of children dying in Biafra. Dull
accumulation of overdue statistics: Massacre
of the Ibos. It happened already Now
more of the same. The poisoning
called 'getting used to' has taken place:
we are
the deads: nerve-endings
* * *
I crossed campus, sun warm on my hair,
words on the sign you wore
touched a hungry place inside me
(I stopped tearing leaves
when I realized.
you touched my hand "yes")
3 years later we lie side by side
your child wiggling inside me
miracles.
alla time, miracles.
Rainy Season
Drops falling
Drip! Drip!
On water falling
Splash ! Splash !
Puddles formed here and there
Paper boats sailing here and there
Children sailing paper boats.
Children sailing paper boats.
Rev. Joseph Williams
Being a Man of God
and a child of flesh and blood
my soul thirsting for truth
and my body hungering for eat and drink
realizing that the satisfaction of one
depended upon the survival of the other
and this could best be done
by preserving the Second Baptist Church
and that on the sisters
depended such preservation
you can understand
why the congregation stuck together
and why, when I died
the sisters mourned
and why so many children
will likewise search for truth
The Parents Do Not Die
Mainly the parents do not die.
They just feel lonely
when their children leave the nest,
and they start to miss their own parents.
They go to meet them
and forget to come back.
That’s all.
Hail and Farewell
With tears and a faithful heart and brave mirth,
Once on a time you watched to welcome me.
Waiting and weariness and agony
Until the last were what you thought me worth.
But wearier than the months that wait for birth
Are those that wait for death— How shall I be
Still while you are so still? How shall I see
Unbrokenhearted your slow steps from earth?
So the white watchers gather near to hark
The soul's approach, the heralding of the horn,
And so they strain and listen for the tread
Of the free soul retreating down the dark —
Mothers who wait for children to be born,
Children who wait for mothers to be dead.
Dreams
Be gentle, O hands of a child;
Be true: like a shadowy sea
In the starry darkness of night
Are your eyes to me.
But words are shallow, and soon
Dreams fade that the heart once knew;
And youth fades out in the mind,
In the dark eyes too.
What can a tired heart say,
Which the wise of the world have made dumb?
Save to the lonely dreams of a child,
'Return again, come!'
The Bells
Shadow and light both strove to be
The eight bell-ringers' company,
As with his gliding rope in hand,
Counting his changes, each did stand;
While rang and trembled every stone,
To music by the bell-mouths blown,
Till the bright clouds that towered on high
Seemed to re-echo cry with cry.
Still swang the clappers to and fro,
When, in the far-spread fields below,
I saw a ploughman with his team
Lift to the bells and fix on them
His distant eyes, as if he would
Drink in the utmost sound he could;
While near him sat his children three,
And in the green grass placidly
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