“Approach of Winter”
by William Carlos Williams
The half-stripped trees
struck by a wind together,
snapping before the power of…
Oh shit, do you see that?
“Patience Taught By Nature”
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Meek leaves drop yearly from the forest-trees
To show, above, the unwasted stars that pass
O thou God of Nature, were you not 66 yesterday,
You are like unto a witch’s teat, at 25 degrees
Loudly you threaten a friggin’ polar vortex
Most thoroughly do you fuck my weekend plans.
“April Rain Song”
by Langston Hughes
Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver solid rocks.
Let the small trickle of blood run down your forehead from the caress of,
Oh shit that’s hail.
That’s hail, get in the house!
Close the windows! Where’s Susan? Is Susan inside?
Has anybody seen Susan?
by Sylvia Plath
Halfway up from the little harbor of barren boats,
Halfway down from groves where the thin, bitter almond pips
Fatten in green-pocked pods, the three net-menders sit out,
Weeping in black, mourning the decrease of oysters and shrimp.
They speak of ocean acidification and the radically,
Altering aquatic ecosystems.
Still, I’m pretty sure there’s plenty of fish around.
I mean look at how affordable the bottomless shrimp is at
Tomas Ortunio’s Fisherman Wharf.
by Edgar Allen Poe
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro’ the light
Of the brighter, full moon,
And in high-tide the waves;
Crashing waves encroaching.
Their eager caress,
Reaching for the first time a home,
That had always been dry near the shore.
Hang on, water’s way too
Close to my chamber door;
Good Lord those waves
Are 20-feet high.
Shit. Aw shit, all my stuff!
Uh girl you’re so pretty and I like you;
“The Waste Land”
by T.S. Eliot
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, but
July is super cruel also, scorching
Orange orchards so juice costs
Like $12, and avocados…
You can just forget about avocados.
“The Wild Swans at Coole”
by William Butler Yeats
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
The woodland paths are way too dry.
It hasn’t rained in like two months;
There should be a lake here with
Brimming water and swans among the stones…
My God they’re all dead.
Nine and fifty dehydrated, dead swans.
Poetry, what have you done?