September 17, 2014
Black Horizons

Black Horizons by Carl Sandburg

Black horizons, come up.
Black horizons, kiss me.
That is all; so many lies; killing so cheap;
babies so cheap; blood, people so cheap; and
land high, land dear; a speck of the earth
costs; a suck at the tit of Mother Dirt so
clean and strong, it costs; fences, papers,
sheriffs; fences, laws, guns; and so many
stars and so few hours to dream; such a big
song and so little a footing to stand and
sing; take a look; wars to come; red rivers
to cross.
Black horizons, come up.
Black horizons, kiss me.

This poem is in the public domain.

July 3, 2014
"(let’s go said he not too far said she what’s too far said he where you are said she.)"

  E. E. Cummings ("May I Feel Said He" )

He wants you to pause and think about it.

Erotic Poems by E.E. Cummings

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via iamcharliesangel)

June 13, 2014
Today is the birthday of poet William Butler Yeats. He was born June 13, 1865, in Sandymount, Republic of Ireland, he died January 28, 1939 in Menton, France.
A poem of his that I have always liked and that may be apprpriate now that he gone but still remembered…
When You are OldWhen you are old and grey and full of sleep,And nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true,But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face;And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Today is the birthday of poet William Butler Yeats. He was born June 13, 1865, in Sandymount, Republic of Ireland, he died January 28, 1939 in Menton, France.

A poem of his that I have always liked and that may be apprpriate now that he gone but still remembered…

When You are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

May 26, 2014
"

To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things: to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

"

— Mary Oliver, from “In Blackwater Woods

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via alighthouseofwords)

May 4, 2014
There’s A Poem In That

There’s A Poem In That

Telling a friend about an ironic incident,

he comments “There’s a poem in that.”

People tell poets that. It’s not true.

Every beginning has an end. Every end

has a beginning. No poem in that.

laptop_writing_446x251

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April 29, 2014
"Today I’m flying low and I’m
not saying a word.
I’m letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep."

— from "Today" by Mary Oliver from A Thousand Mornings: Poems

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April 18, 2014
""O primavera! Gioventit dell’ anno."
The first warm buds that break their covers,
The first young twigs that burst in green,
The first blade that the sun discovers,
Starting the loosened earth between…"

by Edith Wharton

continue reading

April 17, 2014

"Some Days" a poem by Billy Collins animated and read by the poet

(Source: christyeffinger)

March 27, 2014
The Handle

William Stafford said, “The hotter the coffee

the more important it is to extend

the handle of the mug” in offering

poem or lesson to a thirsty reader.

This poem is hot. Take this handle.

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March 12, 2014
Walking Alone in Late Winter

Walking Alone in Late Winter

I read this poem by Jane Kenyon yesterday and this morning I thought “She has written one of my daily poems for me. No need to write it again.” It reminds me of my early morning walk today by a local pond.

I’ll have to find another moment from today to preserve here.

Walking Alone in Late Winter

How long the winter has lasted—like a Mahler
symphony, or an hour in the dentist’s chair.
In the fields…

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February 14, 2014
cummings for Valentine's Day


i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again…

e.e. cummings

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Filed under: love poem e.e.cummings 
February 14, 2014
Touch Me

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that’s late,
it is my song that’s flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it’s done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am

"Touch Me" by Stanley Kunitz.

A love poem written by a old Stanley about a love of many years that I find very hopeful.

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February 12, 2014
Reading Tree Rings
Spring layers grow fast and are lighter. Slower summer growth is denser and darker. Count the rings and know the age. Shape and patterns show weather and damage. All rings show when cut after life.

Reading Tree Rings

Spring layers grow fast and are lighter.
Slower summer growth is denser and darker.
Count the rings and know the age.
Shape and patterns show weather and damage.
All rings show when cut after life.

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Filed under: poem ken ronkowitz 
February 12, 2014
"Choices" by Tess Gallagher


Choices

I go to the mountain side
of the house to cut saplings,
and clear a view to snow
on the mountain. But when I look up,
saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in
the uppermost branches.
I don’t cut that one.
I don’t cut the others either.
Suddenly, in every tree,
an unseen nest
where a mountain
would be.

by Tess Gallagher from Dear Ghosts

via writersalmanac.publicradio.org

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February 11, 2014
"My father would lift me
to the ceiling in his big hands
and ask, How’s the weather up there?
And it was good, the weather
of being in his hands, his breath
of scotch and cigarettes, his face
smiling from the world below.
O daddy, was the lullaby I sang
back down to him as he stood on earth„,"

from “Weather” by George Bilgere

read the rest of the poem at http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org

George Bilgere has published six collections of poetry, most recently Imperial .

George’s poems are featured on Garrison Keillor’s “The Writer’s Almanac” and Ted Kooser’s newspaper project “American Life in Poetry.” He has also been a guest on Keillor’s “A Prairie Home Companion” live radio variety show.

George hosts a weekly radio show, WORDPLAY, an offbeat mix of poetry, comedy, and an ongoing exploration of the possibilities of the spoken word.

His website is http://www.georgebilgere.com/

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