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Kissing gate
would a gate have equal share
in the translation between us
touching at first
and open as a road
giving both me and you
our own past
Poems on the topic: gate
Poems on the topic “gate” on Poets.by.
Sleepwalker
sleep to me
is a bad journey taken
in the country of a corpse
where night and day
quarrel and point
and turn in at one gate
Front Gate
Black with ivy,
my heart is a gate,
shut since I found my wife.
I let it go to him
that shall hire my house.
Defogging
Agog at the morning mist,
I met the sun at the gate
where a barber trimmed me.
Urban renewal
Our work was art,
we gave meat to the poor
but the best gates of the town shut
for fear of the town—
a design to prevent tomorrow,
that we might err.
Cemetery tourist
A little churchyard:
graves tempt
with stone and gates,
old walls
and seeing nothing.
The Hollow (12)
a self-closing gate
among 200-year-old oaks
its rusty note
smothered in leaf duff
the violet’s self-fertilized
alter ego
ah to be
both dapper and invisible
striped wintergreen
ignored by
a pileated woodpecker
the dust from her drill
Sunny Day
sunny day
an old man repainting
the cemetery gate
French Pink
There are two climbing roses by her gate,
one to each side, with velvet blooms, small,
but heavily scented, suitable for soaps, salves
and potpourri. They blossom out together,
several hundred, perhaps a thousand whorls
French pink, shading to cream, the haunt
of matching shy arachnids. How tall they'd grow
she doesn't know, having twined an arch of willow
whips atop her gate, to bind them to.
In her middle years, her family took this place
and named it for the stony creek, dry
in summer, rolling through between house
and garden. A storm year came; that garden up
and vanished down a river to the sea,
leaving them three dead plum trees and a rose.
She started fresh, by the house. For the rose
Paying Respects
The iron garden-gate
was hard and wondrous to open.
Ornamentation dated it.
Up the walkway then,
into her stifling house,
where she sat in her purple
dress and parchment skin,
saying what she thought
her whole life
had taught. She was too old
to pity, too austere to embrace.
The voice seemed to come
from years ago.
Our minds assured us
we would never grow
that weird if we ever
Sandy Star: Exit
No, his exit by the gate
Will not leave the wind ajar;
He will go when it is late
With a misty star.
One will call, he cannot see;
One will call, he will not hear;
He will take no company
Nor a hope or fear.
We shall smile who loved him so--
They who gave him hate will weep;
But for us the winds will blow
Pulsing through his sleep.
Wisdom
When I have ceased to break my wings
Against the faultiness of things,
And learned that compromises wait
Behind each hardly opened gate,
When I can look Life in the eyes,
Grown calm and very coldly wise,
Life will have given me the Truth,
And taken in exchange--my youth.
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