There will be a rusty gun on the wall, sweetheart,
The rifle grooves curling with flakes of rust.
A spider will make a silver string nest in the
darkest, warmest corner of it.
The trigger and the range-finder, they too will be rusty.
And no hands will polish the gun, and it will hang on the wall.
Forefingers and thumbs will point casually toward it.
It will be spoken among half-forgotten, whished-to-be-forgotten things.
They will tell the spider: Go on, you're doing good work.
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Tue 10.05.2010 at 18:43
Sunday night and the park policemen tell each other it
is dark as a stack of black cats on Lake Michigan.
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Fri 09.24.2010 at 19:58
Let a joy keep you.
Reach out your hands
And take it when it runs by,
As the Apache dancer
Clutches his woman.
I have seen them
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Wed 09.15.2010 at 07:37
Out of your many faces
Flash memories to me
Now at the day end
Away from the sidewalks
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Wed 09.15.2010 at 07:26
A man saw the whole world as a grinning skull and cross-bones. The rose flesh of life shriveled from all faces. Nothing counts.Read poem...
written by Carl Sandburg, published on Sat 09.11.2010 at 13:58
Flanders, the name of a place, a country of people,
Spells itself with letters, is written in books.