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

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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

7:24pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/Zv4pby17QRjqy
  
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.

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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Filed under: tess gallagher poem 
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/

February 7, 2014
"My heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow."

Billy Collins

(Source: allthereisiswhatyousee)

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Filed under: billy collins poem 
January 27, 2014
"The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun."

— from The Song of Wandering Angus by William Butler Yeats

January 17, 2014
"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul."

—   Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

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Filed under: pablo neruda love poem 
January 11, 2014
Ephemeral Stream

This is the way water 
thinks about the desert. 
The way the thought of water 
gives you something 
to stumble on. A ghost river. 
A sentence trailing off 
toward lower ground. 
A finger pointing 
at the rest of the show

Willis is the author of numerous books of poetry, including Address (Wesleyan University Press, 2012). She currently serves as the Shapiro-Silverberg professor of literature and creative writing at Wesleyan University.

December 31, 2013
The End of This Year

The best place to be is here,
at home, the two of us, while

others ski or eat out. It will be
quiet. We won’t watch the ball

fall, the crowd in Times Square.
They will celebrate while here

there is this night. Tomorrow
some will start over, or vow

to stop something; maybe try
again. Here the snow will

fall through the light over
the back door and gather

on the steps. We will hope
our daughter will be safe.

She will wonder what
the year will bring. Maybe

we will say a prayer.

via http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2013/12/31 

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Filed under: poem new year 
December 15, 2013
Too Much Snow


Too Much Snow
by Louis Jenkins

Unlike the Eskimos we only have one word for snow but we have a lot of modifiers for that word. There is too much snow, which, unlike rain,does not immediately run off. It falls and stays for months. Someone wished for this snow. Someone got a deal, five cents on the dollar, and spent the entire family fortune. It’s the simple solution, it covers everything. We are never satisfied with the arrangement of the snow so we spend hours moving the snow from one place to another. Too much snow. I box it up and send it to family and friends. I send a big box to my cousin in California. I send a small box to my mother. She writes “Don’t send so much. I’m all alone now. I’ll never be able to use so much.” To you I send a single snowflake, beautiful, complex and delicate; different from all the others.

"Too Much Snow" by Louis Jenkins, from Just Above Water

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