Best Famous Des Moines Poems
Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Des Moines poems. This is a select list of the best famous Des Moines poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Des Moines poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of des moines poems.
Search and read the best famous Des Moines poems, articles about Des Moines poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Des Moines poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.
See Also:
Written by
Carl Sandburg |
IT’S going to come out all right—do you know?
The sun, the birds, the grass—they know.
They get along—and we’ll get along.
Some days will be rainy and you will sit waiting
And the letter you wait for won’t come,
And I will sit watching the sky tear off gray and gray
And the letter I wait for won’t come.
There will be ac-ci-dents.
I know ac-ci-dents are coming.
Smash-ups, signals wrong, washouts, trestles rotten,
Red and yellow ac-ci-dents.
But somehow and somewhere the end of the run
The train gets put together again
And the caboose and the green tail lights
Fade down the right of way like a new white hope.
I never heard a mockingbird in Kentucky
Spilling its heart in the morning.
I never saw the snow on Chimborazo.
It’s a high white Mexican hat, I hear.
I never had supper with Abe Lincoln.
Nor a dish of soup with Jim Hill.
But I’ve been around.
I know some of the boys here who can go a little.
I know girls good for a burst of speed any time.
I heard Williams and Walker
Before Walker died in the bughouse.
I knew a mandolin player
Working in a barber shop in an Indiana town,
And he thought he had a million dollars.
I knew a hotel girl in Des Moines.
She had eyes; I saw her and said to myself
The sun rises and the sun sets in her eyes.
I was her steady and her heart went pit-a-pat.
We took away the money for a prize waltz at a Brotherhood dance.
She had eyes; she was safe as the bridge over the Mississippi at Burlington; I married her.
Last summer we took the cushions going west.
Pike’s Peak is a big old stone, believe me.
It’s fastened down; something you can count on.
It’s going to come out all right—do you know?
The sun, the birds, the grass—they know.
They get along—and we’ll get along.
|
Written by
Anthony Hecht |
Third Avenue in sunlight.
Nature's error.
Already the bars are filled and John is there.
Beneath a plentiful lady over the mirror
He tilts his glass in the mild mahogany air.
I think of him when he first got out of college,
Serious, thin, unlikely to succeed;
For several months he hung around the Village,
Boldly T-shirtet, unfettered but unfreed.
Now he confides to a stranger, "I was first scout,
And kept my glimmers peeled till after dark.
Our outfit had as its sign a bloody knout,
We met behind the museum in Central Park.
Of course, we were kids.
" But still those savages,
War-painted, a flap of leather at the loins,
File silently against him.
Hostages
Are never taken.
One summer, in Des Moines,
They entered his hotel room, tomahawks
Flashing like barracuda.
He tried to pray.
Three years of treatment.
Occasionally he talks
About how he almost didn't get away.
Daily the prowling sunlight whets its knife
Along the sidewalk.
We almost never meet.
In the Rembrandt dark he lifts his amber life.
My bar is somewhat further down the street.
|