Friday, July 12, 2013

The curtain waits.
It hangs patiently biding,
motionless, composed, imperturbable.

Heaped with stillness,
     as a song without a voice,
     as a hand without a wave,
unmoving as the enduring desire for love.

The curtain sleeps and the endured remains.
Beyond the window
even a decent night falls slowly.

Friday, July 05, 2013


Flowing satin fiber, weeping purple.
    of all fucking things
Love, more lingering love, forever looking down.
    he had good energy
Moaning violins confess a sound that makes me bleed.
    you hurry back
If only he had shoes and my purple coat.

Sunday, January 06, 2013

Daddy, I miss you when the whipping wind across my face, blows.
             I miss you when I see the lazy blue sky.
             I miss you as the green grass beneath my feet silently grows.

             I’ll miss you until I die.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

A poem by Michael Ryan

In this poem, the poet interprets an ordinary scene in his own highly unique way. Few would see poetry in such an occurance. Poetry is truly a personal and sometimes an ineffable experience.

Here I am

on a subway station bench
next to two teens, one pretty, one not:
the pretty one keeps saying how much
she’ll miss the unpretty one, kissing her cheeks,
while the unpretty one looks down at her lap
saying no you won’t no you won’t until the train comes
and on goes the pretty one still smiling,
twirling her red plastic clutch, singing goodbye
I’ll call you, and the unpretty one just sits here
like a stone, even after the train is gone,
even after I write this down.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

A poem by Anna Akhmatova

Anna Akhmatova is a poet who lived in Russia at the turn of the last century and led a life that was full of hardship and tragedy. Here is a poem that uses tight language and great imagery and reflects the difficult life that was hers. This poem was originally written in Russian but nothing seems lost in translation.

The Sentence

And the stone word fell
On my still-living breast.
Never mind, I was ready.
I will manage somehow.

Today I have so much to do:
I must kill memory once and for all,
I must turn my soul to stone,
I must learn to live again—

Unless . . . Summer's ardent rustling
Is like a festival outside my window.
For a long time I've foreseen this
Brilliant day, deserted house.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

A poem by Wislawa Szymborska

Beautiful poetry takes us to that intriguing realm just beyond the boundaries of speech. This is one.

Any Case

It could have happened.
It had to happen.
It happened earlier. Later.
Closer. Farther away.
It happened, but not to you.

You survived because you were first.
You survived because you were last.
Because alone. Because the others.
Because on the left. Because on the right.
Because it was raining. Because it was sunny.
Because a shadow fell.

Luckily there was a forest.
Luckily there were no trees.
Luckily a rail, a hook, a beam, a brake,
A frame, a turn, an inch, a second.
Luckily a straw was floating on the water.

Thanks to, thus, in spite of, and yet.
What would have happened if a hand, a leg,
One step, a hair away?

So you are here? Straight from that moment still suspended?
The net’s mesh was tight, but you? through the mesh?
I can’t stop wondering at it, can’t be silent enough.
How quickly your heart is beating in me.

A poem by Peter Everwine

Poet Peter Everwine brings us this quiet poem of reflection. We all know these times when one thought brings another and soon we are lost in the moment and filled with thoughful reflection.


Toward evening, as the light failed
and the pear tree at my window darkened,
I put down my book and stood at the open door,
the first raindrops gusting in the eaves,
a smell of wet clay in the wind.
Sixty years ago, lying beside my father,
half asleep, on a bed of pine boughs as rain
drummed against our tent, I heard
for the first time a loon’s sudden wail
drifting across that remote lake—
a loneliness like no other,
though what I heard as inconsolable
may have been only the sound of something
untamed and nameless
singing itself to the wilderness around it
and to us until we slept. And thinking of my father
and of good companions gone
into oblivion, I heard the steady sound of rain
and the soft lapping of water, and did not know
whether it was grief or joy or something other
that surged against my heart
and held me listening there so long and late.

Saturday, May 05, 2012

A poem by May Sarton

I always wonder what creatures wander in the snow at night, too. The results always tell in the morning.

December Moon

Before going to bed
After a fall of snow
I look out on the field
Shining there in the moonlight
So calm, untouched and white
Snow silence fills my head
After I leave the window.
Hours later near dawn
When I look down again
The whole landscape has changed
The perfect surface gone
Criss-crossed and written on
Where the wild creatures ranged
While the moon rose and shone.
Why did my dog not bark?
Why did I hear no sound
There on the snow-locked ground
In the tumultuous dark?
How much can come, how much can go
When the December moon is bright,
What worlds of play we'll never know
Sleeping away the cold white night
After a fall of snow.