It Is Late
BIGHEAD
it can war
with little pointed
cannibal teeth
it can make
hairs of people spring
it is frightening
close the door
it comes
screaming out of capture
it spys
smiling smiling lords
its fists
pound your furniture
parents
it is crazy
Poems on the topic: door
Poems on the topic “door” on Poets.by.
Abstraction on His Father
The fire doors
open out going down
hinged at the left
to the outside frame.
In the intricacy of the stacks,
tier on tier,
turning always right
it was possible
for a man
to remain unnoticed.
incurved
the frame's vault
the door's metal
the hand opens
in the gesture
of closing
* * *
In the face of the full moon
the morning glory closes its door.
* * *
i open
the
door to
spit
a mockery
in
that space
my
mouth is
dry.
* * *
how can I be there for you
when you wont let me in?
The Door in the Dark
In going from room to room in the dark,
I reached out blindly to save my face,
But neglected, however lightly, to lace
My fingers and close my arms in an arc.
A slim door got in past my guard,
And hit me a blow in the head so hard
I had my native simile jarred.
So people and things don’t pair any more
With what they used to pair with before.
The Lockless Door
It went many years,
But at last came a knock,
And I thought of the door
With no lock to lock.
I blew out the light,
I tip-toed the floor,
And raised both hands
In prayer to the door.
But the knock came again.
My window was wide;
I climbed on the sill
And descended outside.
Back over the sill
I bade a ‘Come in’
To whatever the knock
At the door may have been.
Seventy-Four
You showed me
the door. Now
I am alone
in wilderness.
Ah! That then
was kindness.
Nineteen
How beautiful
your hands, tapping
my door, thirty
years ago.
Your heart knocked,
a fist against
my ribs. You
have been dead
half those years.
The Front Door
It was always the place where our farewells were taken,
When we travelled to the north.
I remember there was one who made some journey,
But did not come back.
Many years they waited for him,
At last the one who wished the most to see him,
Was carried out of this selfsame door in death.
Since then all our family partings
Have been at another door.
The Cellar
Faintly lit by a high-barred grating,
The low-hung cellar,
Flattens itself under the house.
In one corner
There is a little door,
So low, it can scarcely be seen.
Beyond,
There is a narrow room,
One must feel for the walls in the dark.
One shrinks to go
To the end of it,
Feeling the smooth cold wall.
Why did the builders who made this house,
Stow one room away like this?
To A Door
Door, you stand in your darkened frame
Mindful of your wooden might,
Flaunting relentlessly your claim
As guardian of sound and light.
Yet for all your vigil. Door,
Shadows that slip on panting feet
Over your threshold tinge the floor
With what was sunlight on the street.
And sounds fluttering in to die
(Door, you thought I should not know!)
Were started by an echo's cry
That was a voice not long ago.
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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