mandingo
August 25, 2008 3:29 PM | quote:
dcomposed wrote:
you are no more mandingo than you are Scyess.
neither are you. no one but me can reply here. i now own this thread. from now on it will be dedicated to the poetry of Carl Sandburg
FOG THE fog comes
on little cat feet. It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
CHILD MOON THE child's wonder
At the old moon
Comes back nightly.
She points her finger
To the far silent yellow thing
Shining through the branches
Filtering on the leaves a golden sand,
Crying with her little tongue, "See the moon!"
And in her bed fading to sleep
With babblings of the moon on her little mouth.
FISH CRIER I KNOW a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street with a
voice like a north wind blowing over corn stubble
in January.
He dangles herring before prospective customers evincing
a joy identical with that of Pavlowa dancing.
His face is that of a man terribly glad to be selling fish,
terribly glad that God made fish, and customers to
whom he may call his wares, from a pushcart.
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