It’s Dark in Here
by Shel Silverstein 

I am writing these poems
From inside a lion
And it’s rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear
But this afternoon by the lion’s cage
I’m afraid I got to near
I am writing these lines
From inside a lion
And it’s rather dark in here 

El Hombre
By William Carlos Williams

It’s a strange courage
you give me ancient star;

Shine alone in the sunrise
toward which you lend no part! 

Arms Like Boulders
By Adam Granduciel 

And so now 
Now that you realized that planets are spheres
With oil on the inside
And your god is only a catapult waiting for the right time to let you go
Into the unknown
Just to watch you hold your breath
Yeah and surrender your fortress
And your thoughts will tumble like rocks do 
Over the valleys of factory oceans
The Turkish carpets are flapping as the wind
Drops you down to the surface
Yeah you’re looking for the sweethearts

And you’re, you’re the kind to hide your eyes from the sun
And in your world, the strong survive
But I won’t take my body down

Let me tell you
Your arms are like boulders
And your shoulders are cliffs 
But your head keeps rolling off
And your spine it is weak and the weights on your shoulders 
From difference of opinion

There is a song you hear on the radio
It’s a funeral march so you change the channel
But it’s all you hear as you’re driving up the 101 from Mexico to California
There’s no snow when you’re looking for your sweethearts
Yeah there’s no snow when you’re looking for your answers

And you’re, you’re the kind to hide your eyes from the sun
And in your world the strong survive 
But I won’t take my body down

And by the time they get your letter of explanation
You’ll be dead and gone
Barking up a new tree
And I’ve got some new friends scaring off the families while tying up your lose ends
Chasing squirrels around your property
Making sure that they know that this is your kingdom
And nothing will stop it
Yeah nothing will stop it
If nothing will stop it
Yeah nothing will stop it

And you’re, you’re the kind to hide your eyes from the sun
And in your world the strong survive
But won’t you lay your body down
Yes and now, now’s the time to wrap your ears around the sound
Of your train coming round
You’ll have to lay everything down 

Meet Me Here at Dawn
By Cass McCombs 

The empty tank is us
Expired milk is us
This is a test of trust
Better meet me here at dawn
Hop the wooden fence
Run past the sleeping hens
If you had any sense
You’d meet me here at dawn
Find the memory erase it from your mind
Just give it up
Our friends and family will all get left befind
Just give them up
I’m gone as light is shot
Where you come or not
I think you know you ought
To meet me here at dawn
Find the memory confront it like a crime
Beat it up
Your clothes and precious things will all get left behind
Give them up
Forget the painful past
Let go of all you grasp
This is the last I’ll ask
To meet me here at dawn 

[I’m off’n wild wimmen] by Ernest Hemingway
c. 1922

I’m off’n wild wimmen
An Cognac
An Sinnin’
For I’m in loOOOOOOOve.

The Foot Washing by Maurice Manning

The sun lays a long light down
the hill as if a spring up top
is full to overflowing and now
the field is streaked and wet, coming
down to me and—why not?—
I go splashing into the wet grass
like a preacher, drunk and primitive,
saving myself all over again.
And understandably, given my state,
something fanciful starts to happen:
it’s a sound, a rattling sound like the clatter
of the weights and their little ringing note
in a rope-drawn window sash
when someone throws the sash up
to holler at someone else outside.
And sure enough—and this is more,
more fancy—there really is a window
in my mind, in the sun-wet field
I’m splashing in, and the window is open
and the delicate woman I call Slinky
is standing there—yes, I know
calling a woman Slinky is fancy,
exaggerated fancy, but
what the hell, I’m a preacher this time
and I’m getting ready to wash her feet
in lilac water or something like that,
very innocent and very sweet.
Further fancy—rhyming feet
with sweet! Slinky Sweetfeet,
in fact, is this woman’s given name—
given by me, for dramatic effect.
And so, she’s standing there in the window,
but before I propose my proposition
to wash her feet and whatnot,
she clears her throat and says, Ahem,
what in the name of the devil’s boots
are you a-doin out there, Cornbread?
A mild oath to my ears, but strong
enough to convince me that washing her feet
was a plan unlikely to succeed,
so I said, I’m thinking, Slinky, thinking—
I even thought your window up,
and thought that little shawl around
your shoulders. She was not impressed,
and drew the shawl around her tighter.
I guess you’re fixin to sing to me,
she said, one of your shanties, maybe?
Maybe, I said, and fished for a tune
in my head. Speaking of which, I speak
of this affair as if it happened
in the not so distant past, when really,
the sun is going down and just
a little is left spilling over
the hill, and I’ve gone up to the light
for a moment, and the window opened
in the light and I thought of a song and the time
I really did sing to a woman
from under her window, which was persuasive,
as I recall. Maybe I have,
maybe I’ve worn the devil’s boots,
but not today, not now in the last
of the sun. And for the record, no one
has ever called me Cornbread—
Yardbird and Hambone, yes,
but Cornbread, no, not yet.