Ezra Poems - Poems about Ezra

Such great insight, from Ezra Pound.' Concise; and yet? Fantastic.! Truly sound' at this current time he is Fully in stride, voicing all the insanitys.' So should we? ignore him? Then its 'woe betide.! ...

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Ultimately, it's a matter of seasons, waiting for dawn. Through the skylight, tiny as it is, my hope resides. It's a glimpse of the hope I eagerly yearn to meet from my room. I've longed to find belonging, pondered and wondered, if I was meant to have no solace. The doors are shut, and I'm enclosed in the...

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I found your poem. I confess. I was moved. By the thought. Of you. ...

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I decided to keep watch on you from walls, I moved my shoes away to give you a breath, Nevertheless, have I ever moved miles away, I kept a moderate distance to watch every step of you, Look all of the tears I have never wept, When the distance stretched with loose Communications. I lost the ears of the taste...

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He began as an image theorist with the genre never did not persist...

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Life's shadow leaved for centuries before Christ and Anno Domini. maneuvering again and again and its delighted in that. That it's irreversible. Life's shadow moving on waters on mountains on fire and in valleys. free and easy making sure every micro second is felt. Life's shadow moving confidently, in light, where everyone Sees it moving quietly in dark, where no one sees it. And it's still maneuvering for centuries where we might Be no...

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Dear Mr. Pound, Your holiday in Italy Has besmirched your legacy. Your Cantos, they plead, But don’t exonerate, Not as far as I can see. Dear Mr. Pound, Did praise from Hemingway Whet your narcissistic thirst? As an ex-pat abroad, Did you assimilate What enlightened nations curse? Dear Mr. Pound, You made Il Duce smile. There’s evidence that proves it. Was your Republic...

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His name was Ezra but you didn't and wont know him. An observant nihilist, pouring out vile play scripts in 400 word messages. Researching one's hyper-fixation so the insomniac has someone who he may believe will enjoy talking to him, rather than a constant concern of lack of interest in himself. Piss and cock and semen, ripped limbs...

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Once there was a parson named Ezra Heap Whose Sunday sermons were profoundly deep The louder Ezra implored The more his congregants snored He could never arouse them from...

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This is an unfinished Heroic Crown of Sonnets dedicated to a friend's grandchild who was born with serious lower body issues 3 years ago...but he is so perfect and beautiful in every other way that I am certain he will more than overcome his mobility challenges with his gifted mind, beautiful smile and a determination...

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Ezra Schwartz Oct 1, 1997 — Nov 19, 2015 The dice of terror Was cast that day Young Ezra’s life Was taken away He went to Israel For his gap year To study at yeshiva And volunteer During a Mitzvah To feed some soldiers The van was ambushed By Jew hating...

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Little wonderful baby With eyes that shows strength A survivor, breathing into the world like many Such glorious eyes that sees through the eclipse night at birth Baby Ezra Am sure you'll grow And dine on golden tars and stars Many strength shall bring you, tomorrow From my prayers dear baby Ezra I kneel as the trees bend to what the wind blew And...

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Dear Ezra, Violets are blue, roses are red, i hate you and wish you were dead. You have spilt my blood and called me Names, But you have always though it was a game, Ive wondered the desserts, running form You, I shivered in the winter nights and fainted during the summer days, but now...

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Wriggling my way     across the page     I thrash about, lost by perspective and     challenged to     summon only     significant passions expressing clarity     of struggle. The knowing face of     immortality proffers     gracious wisdom from antiqued parchments to     reassert with     fervent hope more than just meter or instinct     until I find Ezra Pound in my     brain with a crayon     hacking away like a swashbuckler, killing out of     joy the weakest     tendencies of     gluttony: convention for the sake of     tradition. I hold my head...

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To the hands that held copper in red, gleaming red in open palms brimming in value, like gold To these hands of faith with utensils and bowls stone upon stone was restored. To the eyes that wept tears in streams, silver streams and saw sleeveless garments rent and unfrayed To these eyes of sorrow penitence stayed to be vessels unearthed for devotion To the wonderment breathing of incense and prayer on...

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