This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level. Look at it talking to you. You look out a window Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don’t have it. You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other. The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and […]
The new iPhone, the surprise delightful note, the six hours of sleep, the rabbit trail of PC(USA) ordination standards reviewed for to follow because it’s easier to walk to a bureaucratic end and say, hmm, perhaps not than to do the opposite. All these, plus a piece of work that grabbed me by the nape […]
Some candle clear burns somewhere I come by. I muse at how its being puts blissful back With yellowy moisture mild night’s blear-all black, Or to-fro tender trambeams truckle at the eye. By that window what task what fingers ply, I plod wondering, a-wanting, just for lack Of answer the eagerer a-wanting Jessy or Jack […]
The birds are in their trees, the toast is in the toaster, and the poets are at their windows. They are at their windows in every section of the tangerine of earth— the Chinese poets looking up at the moon, the American poets gazing out at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise. The clerks […]
At the earliest ending of winter, In March, a scrawny cry from outside Seemed like a sound in his mind. He knew that he heard it, A bird’s cry, at daylight or before, In the early March wind. The sun was rising at six, No longer a battered panache above snow . . . It […]
Love and forgetting might have carried them A little further up the mountainside With night so near, but not much further up. They must have halted soon in any case With thoughts of the path back, how rough it was With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness; When they were halted by a tumbled […]
So how have I lived my life since 1999 and not known that March 21 (the day after my anniversary) is World Poetry Day as declared by the UN / UNESCO?!? PROLOGUE Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour, […]
I have cast the world, and think me as nothing. Yet I feel cold on snow-falling day, And happy on flower day.
Brighter than fireflies upon the Uji River Are your words in the dark, Beloved
The scum has come, My cocoa’s cold. The cup is numb, And I grow old. It seems an age Since from the pot It bubbled, beige And burning hot– Too hot to be Too quickly quaffed. Accordingly, I found a draft And in it […]
