Famous Short Rg Gregory Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Rg Gregory. A collection of the all-time best Rg Gregory short poems
for what my heart held clear and didn’t have the wit to show for what my path proposed and got lost in its diversions for what my beginnings dreamed and my ends cannot lay hold of for what promises i made and have not had the shine to keep to i ask your understanding for what i have been and could not be another i ask your love
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you have gone away from yourself you walk in a dead way your loins have lost their sweets your breasts deny touch your face exudes cold pain everything you were now you are not the revolution then has nearly been successful
the horses have bolted the one door's been locked the flood can't get out the greasy bilge swills up the walls to the roof hercules is hopeless the manger is mangy fresh myths and sayings are urgently wanted mythmakers get busy
the children played games getting from here to where the truth was without touching a flake needless to say the only ones who got there were liars but while the honest ones shrank back from the touch of snow the liars were where the truth was
each sunset is unique so others tell us fools - with flowers of envy pushing through their teeth i think differently a feeble skill that can't repeat itself i'll have the sun in for a spell to make a proper artist of him by time i finish with this yellow fickle lout his sunset will be perfect
loneliness is a state the lonely cannot reach it carries a grandeur that doesn't fit into bed-sitters or rejected ideas - it's the label stuck on the bottle after the tables have gone
the song wasn't up to the task of getting through the double-glazing into the ears pressed on the outside pane the rest of their bodies had faded away but the ears were straining still towards the music in order to know the good times being had in the room night fell the cold grew and the lights went out but the ears hung around believing in music until they froze and dropped to the ground like slugs that had missed out on the seasons it was a bad christmas for ears
martin’s death has made me scared of the old bat that clings to the eaves waiting to enter the house
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the red man says hello the green tree says i'm here all grown-ups are sleeping only the children hear decorations are delighted presents hug the floor the room in its festive hat hides behind the door through the glittering day two worlds split the one grown-ups lose their tempers children have the fun the red man says goodbye the green tree says next year grown ups are exhausted only the children hear
when the old man said i know everything the young girl replied what is everything when the old man said wisdom is mine the young girl replied what is wisdom when the old man said i am privy to all life’s secrets the young girl replied what is privy when the old man said you don’t know anything the young girl replied what has a bald head a tight mouth and dribbles when it eats when the old man said respect your elders the young girl replied i will when i’m older
the bluefish was surprised i was there to greet it this world it said is mine it feeds on blueness for the first time in my life i felt i'd found my truth bluefish i cried in joy you are my deepest mirror the bluefish gawped in pain it saw no blue in me i set about explaining what we are we are not..... the bluefish looked at me in pity - then swam away since then it's stayed with me in every room i've been in
the man and the horse and the crocodile lay down on the couch together the man said this isn't going to work the horse neighed i love you the crocodile slimy as ever neither complained nor adored idly it snapped its jaws and got on with the feast
for the naming of tara this bowl of joy that her fruits of earth she’ll well employ for the naming of tara this bunch of flowers that she bloom brightly through her natural powers for tbe naming of tara this poem’s desire that (in a full life) she may kindly aspire for the naming of tara three gifts intent on marking her day with love and excitement
In the pathway of the sun, In the footsteps of the breeze, Where the world and sky are one, He shall ride the silver seas, He shall cut the glittering wave. I shall sit at home, and rock; Rise, to heed a neighbor's knock; Brew my tea, and snip my thread; Bleach the linen for my bed. They will call him brave.
fog owns the town in its palm lawyers nibble each other's fingers the churches take their cut at the fat lunch the men of business carve themselves prayers and praises the fog comes to my window and lisping in says i've drained the town of you and you of the town come outside and let me smother you to the border no person calls and only the headless watch and watch in the street
fancy shooting a man dead for an old label but think if there weren't any old labels nobody would ever be shot dead and all those poor people whose livelihood depends on making guns would have to be left to starve make up your mind who would you sooner see living men with bullets in them or thousands of ordinary people going about their decent business there's a lot to thank old labels for
it comes like a convict squeezing through bars and is gone before the promptest siren it suddenly turns in the ear or rides the eye of a thought before dissolving i have it in a faint taste or shudder an ache like a spring high in the mountains it was once called love and now a longing for a song to be heard that doesn't bear singing
be moved by your own time but move it too the sun hasn't all the answers it can be made to listen to you however adamant the pavement it's a book of feet though they need it to take them through town people control the street from the irreproachable mountain wisdom drips down spray it with your own salt manacled clown
my jerusalem my newfoundland juicy as redcurrants with their sweet tang taste my desire my holy requirement caught in a cleft of mountain ever clambered towards my yearning my place of the blood-red fruit my want at the first sherd for the full-bosomed bowl my jerusalem my sinewy prayer where dust and the dry rock are chastened by the cool red juice my jerusalem my revolving love as the year bends and the fruit's pangs purchase my lips
i belch acre upon acre of cotton wool and there is still not enough for his beard