Short Poems

Sitting idly
and crushing lice on a stupa

If they ask, who here doth lie,
Say, 'tis the Devil's Christmas pie.
Death was the cook, the oven, the urn,
No ward for this, the Pye doth burn:
Yet serve it in, divers did wish
The Devil, long since, had had this dish.

they laugh at me hey farm boy
your cheeks are a little rough
your hat's not very high
and your belt sure is tight
it's not that I don't catch the trends
no money I can't catch up
but one day I'll be rich
and stick a stupa on my head

A little ink more or less!
It surely can't matter?
Even the sky and the opulent sea,
The plains and the hills, aloof,
Hear the uproar of all these books.
But it is only a little ink more or less.

How divine the sunbeams shining
On the young and green leaves!

Fair he is to behold with torch no longer illumined;
But, my good friends, Death is no apostle of art.

You can hear it but never see it,
It can storm or gently touch
In front of the mirror falling powder eddies,
As the lute's last cadence dies away.

Good morning, Algernon: Good morning, Percy.
Good morning, Mrs Roebeck. Christ have mercy!

dogs howling
at the sound of leaves—
storm on the way!

No one is in the street but a sparrow;
it hops on the glittering sidewalk,
and at last flies—into a dusty tree.