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Best Famous Charles Webb Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Charles Webb poems. This is a select list of the best famous Charles Webb poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Charles Webb poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Charles Webb poems.

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by Charles Webb | |

Post-Vacation Tristesse

 The Jumbo Jet has barely shuddered off
The ground, and I'm depressed.
My scuba mask And fins, my fly rod and beach hat Crush each other in an overhead locker Dark as the bedroom closet they're returning to.
Already the week's good times melt Together like caramels in a hot car.
My vow to "Do this more often!" recedes With the jade palms and sun-stroked beaches I can barely see through my scratched window As the pilot thanks us for "flying United," and climbs through ectoplasmic Clouds into the jet stream that circles Earth's head like a tedious tune, And like a kick in the rear, hustles us Homeward through a sky which, though it looks blue enough to house heaven, is colorless As life without you, and just goes on and on.


by Charles Webb | |

Blind

 It's okay if the world goes with Venetian;
Who cares what Italians don't see?--
Or with Man's Bluff (a temporary problem
Healed by shrieks and cheating)--or with date:
Three hours of squirming repaid by laughs for years.
But when an old woman, already deaf, Wakes from a night of headaches, and the dark Won't disappear--when doctors call like tedious Birds, "If only.
.
.
" up and down hospital halls-- When, long-distance, I hear her say, "Don't worry.
Honey, I'll be fine," is it a wonder If my mind speeds down blind alleys? If the adage "Love is blind" has never seemed So true? If, in a flash of blinding light I see Justice drop her scales, yank off Her blindfold, stand revealed--a monster-god With spidery arms and a mouth like a black hole-- While I leap, ant-sized, at her feet, blinded By tears, raging blindly as, sense by sense, My mother is sucked away?


by Charles Webb | |

Giant Fungus

 40-acre growth found in Michigan.
— The Los Angeles Times The sky is full of ruddy ducks and widgeon's, mockingbirds, bees, bats, swallowtails, dragonflies, and great horned owls.
The land below teems with elands and kit foxes, badgers, aardvarks, juniper, banana slugs, larch, cactus, heather, humankind.
Under them, a dome of dirt.
Under that, the World's Largest Living Thing spreads like a hemorrhage poised to paralyze the earth—like a tumor ready to cause 9.
0 convulsions, or a brain dreaming this world of crickets and dung beetles, sculpins, Beethoven, coots, Caligula, St.
Augustine grass, Mister Lincoln roses, passion fruit, wildebeests, orioles like sunspots shooting high, then dropping back to the green arms of trees, their roots sunk deep in the power of things sleeping and unknown.


by Charles Webb | |

The Death Of Santa Claus

 He's had the chest pains for weeks,
but doctors don't make house
calls to the North Pole,

he's let his Blue Cross lapse,
blood tests make him faint,
hospital gown always flap

open, waiting rooms upset
his stomach, and it's only
indigestion anyway, he thinks,

until, feeding the reindeer,
he feels as if a monster fist
has grabbed his heart and won't

stop squeezing.
He can't breathe, and the beautiful white world he loves goes black, and he drops on his jelly belly in the snow and Mrs.
Claus tears out of the toy factory wailing, and the elves wring their little hands, and Rudolph's nose blinks like a sad ambulance light, and in a tract house in Houston, Texas, I'm 8, telling my mom that stupid kids at school say Santa's a big fake, and she sits with me on our purple-flowered couch, and takes my hand, tears in her throat, the terrible news rising in her eyes.


by Charles Webb | |

The Wife of the Mind

 Sharecroppers' child, she was more schooled
In slaughtering pigs and coaxing corn out of
The ground than in the laws of Math, the rules
Of Grammar.
Seventeen, she fell in love With the senior quarterback, and nearly Married him, but—the wedding just a week Away—drove her trousseau back to Penney's, Then drove on past sagging fences, flooding creeks, And country bars to huge Washington State, Where, feeling like a hick, she studied French to compensate.
She graduated middle-of-her-class, Managed a Senior Center while she flailed Away at an M.
A.
, from the morass Of which a poet/rock-singer from Yale Plucked her.
He loved her practicality; She adored his brilliance.
Sex was great.
They married in a civil ceremony.
He played around, for which she berated Herself, telling friends things were "hunky-dory.
" Resentment grew.
.
.
oh, you said "life"? That's another story.