Tag: #poetry
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Have you ever wanted to be inside and outside at once? Wished to be there and here? Missed what you have, while you still have it?
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Apple Crisp Start with apples. The best thing is to pluck them heavy handful by heavy handful, from laden trees on a sunny day as the bees suck the sweet from the windfalls at your feet Otherwise, handpick them at the market – the farmer’s market, not the hypermarket. The apples need to be relaxed,…
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No and You Cannot Rinsing a dish, I think: When I grow up, I want to be a poem! flaring, burning, writhing, flaming, feel my body shrivel to ash, feel my soul drift heavenward… “Ri-dic-u-lous!” the twins chorus No and You Cannot, that pair who live in my head, have lived there my whole life,…
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Waxing moon/July 28 How many times we all cooed at the newborn moon, cradled in the ghostly arms of the Sycamore we oohed, we ahhed, we sighed— moonstruck Tonight the waxing moon’s gotten herself tangled in the twisty-fingered Sweet Gum just outside my new window I ooh, I ahh, I sigh— still moonstruck
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Invasion Oh, I love the honeysuckle sucking the air from the mouths of tenderer locals— love it though it overtakes, sprawls without shame Oh, honeysuckle, I breathe you in. It’s an awful love. In your exhalations I smell my own perfume thick foreign scent Oh, I try not to overshadow but like the honeysuckle, I might,…
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That May the peonies were my countdown— I knew they would bloom when she did. That heady hot spring of unfurling expectation, of watching marching ants making their incredible journeys across Planet Peony while I marked the days. Oh, the heaviness in my ankles, the humidity, the wonder of my belly swelling like a bud…
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Ten thousand flowers in spring, the moon in autumn, a cool breeze in summer, snow in winter. If your mind isn’t clouded by unnecessary things, this is the best season of your life. – Wu Men, 12c Chinese poet (transl: S. Mitchell)
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night suddenly pink under streetlamp moon drizzle wets black mulch fragrant as perfume heady cedar, pencil-shaving, sandalwood scent a half-gallon of milk swinging in my hand I drink darkness, taste the sky, swollen with tulip poplar blooms waving in the wind
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To pray you open your whole self To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon To one whole voice that is you. – from “Eagle Poem,” by Joy Harjo
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Another 7×7 poem (seven lines, seven syllables per line.) This one inspired by endings—of seasons, of eras. Marcescence Sometimes we hold on too hard; cling to what should be released— old, winter-worn, transparent from time and weather, rattled, beaten, tattered— it’s hard to let the familiar fall away, let new growth emerge Note: Marcescence is…
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