Best Famous Peepers Poems

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

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• All Famous Peepers Poems

Written by Carol Ann Duffy | Stuffed I put two yellow peepers in an owl. Wow. I fix the grin of Crocodile. Spiv. I sew the slither of an eel. I jerk, kick-start, the back hooves of a mule. Wild. I hold the red rag to a bull. Mad. I spread the feathers of a gull. I screw a tight snarl to a weasel. Fierce. I stitch the flippers on a seal. Splayed. I pierce the heartbeat of a quail. I like her to be naked and to kneel. Tame. My motionless, my living doll. Mute. And afterwards I like her not to tell.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Smoke and Steel SMOKE of the fields in spring is one, Smoke of the leaves in autumn another. Smoke of a steel-mill roof or a battleship funnel, They all go up in a line with a smokestack, Or they twist … in the slow twist … of the wind. If the north wind comes they run to the south. If the west wind comes they run to the east. By this sign all smokes know each other. Smoke of the fields in spring and leaves in autumn, Smoke of the finished steel, chilled and blue, By the oath of work they swear: “I know you.” Hunted and hissed from the center Deep down long ago when God made us over, Deep down are the cinders we came from— You and I and our heads of smoke. Some of the smokes God dropped on the job Cross on the sky and count our years And sing in the secrets of our numbers; Sing their dawns and sing their evenings, Sing an old log-fire song: You may put the damper up, You may put the damper down, The smoke goes up the chimney just the same. Smoke of a city sunset skyline, Smoke of a country dusk horizon— They cross on the sky and count our years. Smoke of a brick-red dust Winds on a spiral Out of the stacks For a hidden and glimpsing moon. This, said the bar-iron shed to the blooming mill, This is the slang of coal and steel. The day-gang hands it to the night-gang, The night-gang hands it back. Stammer at the slang of this— Let us understand half of it. In the rolling mills and sheet mills, In the harr and boom of the blast fires, The smoke changes its shadow And men change their shadow; A ******, a wop, a bohunk changes. A bar of steel—it is only Smoke at the heart of it, smoke and the blood of a man. A runner of fire ran in it, ran out, ran somewhere else, And left—smoke and the blood of a man And the finished steel, chilled and blue. So fire runs in, runs out, runs somewhere else again, And the bar of steel is a gun, a wheel, a nail, a shovel, A rudder under the sea, a steering-gear in the sky; And always dark in the heart and through it, Smoke and the blood of a man. Pittsburg, Youngstown, Gary—they make their steel with men. In the blood of men and the ink of chimneys The smoke nights write their oaths: Smoke into steel and blood into steel; Homestead, Braddock, Birmingham, they make their steel with men. Smoke and blood is the mix of steel. The birdmen drone in the blue; it is steel a motor sings and zooms. Steel barb-wire around The Works. Steel guns in the holsters of the guards at the gates of The Works. Steel ore-boats bring the loads clawed from the earth by steel, lifted and lugged by arms of steel, sung on its way by the clanking clam-shells. The runners now, the handlers now, are steel; they dig and clutch and haul; they hoist their automatic knuckles from job to job; they are steel making steel. Fire and dust and air fight in the furnaces; the pour is timed, the billets wriggle; the clinkers are dumped: Liners on the sea, skyscrapers on the land; diving steel in the sea, climbing steel in the sky. Finders in the dark, you Steve with a dinner bucket, you Steve clumping in the dusk on the sidewalks with an evening paper for the woman and kids, you Steve with your head wondering where we all end up— Finders in the dark, Steve: I hook my arm in cinder sleeves; we go down the street together; it is all the same to us; you Steve and the rest of us end on the same stars; we all wear a hat in hell together, in hell or heaven. Smoke nights now, Steve. Smoke, smoke, lost in the sieves of yesterday; Dumped again to the scoops and hooks today. Smoke like the clocks and whistles, always. Smoke nights now. To-morrow something else. Luck moons come and go: Five men swim in a pot of red steel. Their bones are kneaded into the bread of steel: Their bones are knocked into coils and anvils And the sucking plungers of sea-fighting turbines. Look for them in the woven frame of a wireless station. So ghosts hide in steel like heavy-armed men in mirrors. Peepers, skulkers—they shadow-dance in laughing tombs. They are always there and they never answer. One of them said: “I like my job, the company is good to me, America is a wonderful country.” One: “Jesus, my bones ache; the company is a liar; this is a free country, like hell.” One: “I got a girl, a peach; we save up and go on a farm and raise pigs and be the boss ourselves.” And the others were roughneck singers a long ways from home. Look for them back of a steel vault door. They laugh at the cost. They lift the birdmen into the blue. It is steel a motor sings and zooms. In the subway plugs and drums, In the slow hydraulic drills, in gumbo or gravel, Under dynamo shafts in the webs of armature spiders, They shadow-dance and laugh at the cost. The ovens light a red dome. Spools of fire wind and wind. Quadrangles of crimson sputter. The lashes of dying maroon let down. Fire and wind wash out the slag. Forever the slag gets washed in fire and wind. The anthem learned by the steel is: Do this or go hungry. Look for our rust on a plow. Listen to us in a threshing-engine razz. Look at our job in the running wagon wheat. Fire and wind wash at the slag. Box-cars, clocks, steam-shovels, churns, pistons, boilers, scissors— Oh, the sleeping slag from the mountains, the slag-heavy pig-iron will go down many roads. Men will stab and shoot with it, and make butter and tunnel rivers, and mow hay in swaths, and slit hogs and skin beeves, and steer airplanes across North America, Europe, Asia, round the world. Hacked from a hard rock country, broken and baked in mills and smelters, the rusty dust waits Till the clean hard weave of its atoms cripples and blunts the drills chewing a hole in it. The steel of its plinths and flanges is reckoned, O God, in one-millionth of an inch. Once when I saw the curves of fire, the rough scarf women dancing, Dancing out of the flues and smoke-stacks—flying hair of fire, flying feet upside down; Buckets and baskets of fire exploding and chortling, fire running wild out of the steady and fastened ovens; Sparks cracking a harr-harr-huff from a solar-plexus of rock-ribs of the earth taking a laugh for themselves; Ears and noses of fire, gibbering gorilla arms of fire, gold mud-pies, gold bird-wings, red jackets riding purple mules, scarlet autocrats tumbling from the humps of camels, assassinated czars straddling vermillion balloons; I saw then the fires flash one by one: good-by: then smoke, smoke; And in the screens the great sisters of night and cool stars, sitting women arranging their hair, Waiting in the sky, waiting with slow easy eyes, waiting and half-murmuring: “Since you know all and I know nothing, tell me what I dreamed last night.” Pearl cobwebs in the windy rain, in only a flicker of wind, are caught and lost and never known again. A pool of moonshine comes and waits, but never waits long: the wind picks up loose gold like this and is gone. A bar of steel sleeps and looks slant-eyed on the pearl cobwebs, the pools of moonshine; sleeps slant-eyed a million years, sleeps with a coat of rust, a vest of moths, a shirt of gathering sod and loam. The wind never bothers … a bar of steel. The wind picks only .. pearl cobwebs .. pools of moonshine.

Written by Anne Sexton | It Is A Spring Afternoon Everything here is yellow and green. Listen to its throat, its earthskin, the bone dry voices of the peepers as they throb like advertisements. The small animals of the woods are carrying their deathmasks into a narrow winter cave. The scarecrow has plucked out his two eyes like diamonds and walked into the village. The general and the postman have taken off their packs. This has all happened before but nothing here is obsolete. Everything here is possible. Because of this perhaps a young girl has laid down her winter clothes and has casually placed herself upon a tree limb that hangs over a pool in the river. She has been poured out onto the limb, low above the houses of the fishes as they swim in and out of her reflection and up and down the stairs of her legs. Her body carries clouds all the way home. She is overlooking her watery face in the river where blind men come to bathe at midday. Because of this the ground, that winter nightmare, has cured its sores and burst with green birds and vitamins. Because of this the trees turn in their trenches and hold up little rain cups by their slender fingers. Because of this a woman stands by her stove singing and cooking flowers. Everything here is yellow and green. Surely spring will allow a girl without a stitch on to turn softly in her sunlight and not be afraid of her bed. She has already counted seven blossoms in her green green mirror. Two rivers combine beneath her. The face of the child wrinkles. in the water and is gone forever. The woman is all that can be seen in her animal loveliness. Her cherished and obstinate skin lies deeply under the watery tree. Everything is altogether possible and the blind men can also see.

Written by Donald Hall | Mount Kearsarge Shines Mount Kearsarge shines with ice; from hemlock branches snow slides onto snow; no stream, creek, or river budges but remains still. Tonight we carry armloads of logs from woodshed to Glenwood and build up the fire that keeps the coldest night outside our windows. Sit by the woodstove, Camilla, while I bring glasses of white, and we'll talk, passing the time, about weather without pretending that we can alter it: Storms stop when they stop, no sooner, leaving the birches glossy with ice and bent glittering to rimy ground. We'll avoid the programmed weatherman grinning from the box, cheerful with tempest, and take the day as it comes, one day at a time, the way everyone says, These hours are the best because we hold them close in our uxorious nation. Soon we'll walk -- when days turn fair and frost stays off -- over old roads, listening for peepers as spring comes on, never to miss the day's offering of pleasure for the government of two.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | The Boogah Man W'en de evenin' shadders Come a-glidin' down, Fallin' black an' heavy Ovah hill an' town, Ef you listen keerful, Keerful ez you kin, So 's you boun' to notice Des a drappin' pin; Den you 'll hyeah a funny Soun' ercross de lan'; Lay low; dat's de callin' Of de Boogah Man! Woo-oo woo-oo! Hyeah him ez he go erlong de way; Woo-oo, woo-oo! Don' you wish de night 'ud t'un to day? Woo-oo, woo-oo! Hide yo' little peepers 'hind yo' han; Woo-oo, woo-oo! Callin' of de Boogah Man. W'en de win 's a-shiverin' Thoo de gloomy lane, An' dey comes de patterin' Of de evenin' rain, W'en de owl's a-hootin', Out daih in de wood, Don' you wish, my honey, Dat you had been good? 'T ain't no use to try to Snuggle up to Dan; Bless you, dat's de callin' [Pg 186]Of de Boogah Man! Ef you loves yo' mammy, An' you min's yo' pap, Ef you nevah wriggles Outen Sukey's lap; Ef you says yo' "Lay me" Evah single night 'Fo' dey tucks de kivers An' puts out de light, Den de rain kin pattah Win' blow lak a fan, But you need n' bothah 'Bout de Boogah Man!