Robert P. Cooke

Mountain Flowers

When I was sixteen, / pickup truck, load of hay, / there was nothing I’d rather see / from the window than women’s underwear / hanging on a backyard clothesline.

Lumps of Coal

He was ten and drove a team of mules / through the shadows in mine shafts, / pulling a wagonload of coal / that glinted in the carbide light / anchored to his cotton cap.

Selected Poems

— from “Reading Lu Yu in Winter” | I wonder how he was able to bear the cold of China, / Traveling the rivers and outpost roads. / The fires he wrote about were always small, / A few willow twigs or scraps of bark.

Leaning Back In My Chair, Feet Up On The Garden Table

I find nothing to do / And fall asleep under the sun / Near my wife’s peony beds.

In The Third Century B.C.

I’m growing fatter at each winter’s coming. / My wineglass filling up again / As I sit behind the wall of my garden.

An Anthology Of Chinese Poetry

“All has come to nothing,” he writes. / In old age his clothes are tattered and thin, / His hut without a door; sick, / He suffers bad dreams.

Between The Rows

Getting Ready

Room Off The Kitchen

Turning The Pages