Gone
Today it’s official.
The icemen are all dead.
Tongs are gone the way of all tongs.
Picks are rusted away.
No one throws a burlap rag on his shoulder
To haul dripping translucent blocks up stairs.
No one grunts as fresh-cut ice rattles in the bin.
No one.
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.
Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| The Nature of Information | 0 | 06/05/2009 |
| Computer Composition | 0 | 06/05/2009 |
| Gone | 0 | 06/05/2009 |
| Budding | 1 | 05/31/2009 |
| Writer's Block | 3 | 05/31/2009 |
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