Classic poem of the day
Turne the agayne o phebus fayre
Earths sole delight and heauens care
O turne thee to ye soutth o turne
Lest wee doe freeze whilest others burne.
Sest thou not how our cloudes doe weepe
And send there sorrowes to the deepe
Sest thou how fieldes and meads doe mourne/
Hast then fayre phebus to returne.
Least the sadd winters wrinkled face
Thrust into merry harvests place
Lest thou doe make our Earth f......
Member poem of the day
In that bathroom, she read the book of Job.
Or it read her, from the first breath she held
as rebel boots trod boards above her head
to sorrow’s exhalation in a sob.
War’s theater, acts of murder ended,
the beads of seven sorrows cool her hands;
she closes family books, understands
(yet opens onto mornings that are void)
why curious visions were debated
till a cursed cockroach grew an angel’s wings.
There’s another who esc......
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