Penny's Poetry Blog

      The morns are meeker than they were — The nuts are getting brown — The berry's cheek is plumper — The Rose is out of town. ...

   No!                     No sun — no moon!                     No morn — no noon — No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day —     ...

        November Night Listen . . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the...

        A Scroll By the river I saw geese fly Like black angels, far and high — Trees were cracks in a scarlet sky — A scent of smoke...

     November He has hanged himself  — the Sun.       He dangles A scarecrow in thin air.  He is dead for love  — the Sun;       He...

     Waste Land Briar and fennel and chincapin,       And rue and ragweed everywhere; The field seemed sick as a soul with sin,      ...

        On Receiving News of the War Snow is a strange white word. No ice or frost Has asked of bud or bird For Winter's cost. ...