I DON'T blame the kettle drums -- they are hungry. And the snare drums -- I know what they want -- they are empty too. And the harring booming bass drums -- they are hungriest of all. ..... The howling spears of the Northwest die down. The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song. A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ALIEN WOMEN; SONGKHLA, THAILAND by KAREN SWENSON TO MUSIC; A FRAGMENT by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY SONGS OF TRAVEL: 44 by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE SETTLER: AMERICA IN THE MAKING by ALFRED BILLINGS STREET A FISH STORY by HENRY AUGUSTIN BEERS PEDDLER WOMAN by ALICE ELODY BREDESON |