April 21, 2018 draft one

Posted in Uncategorized

Poem of the Day, April 14, 2018


So long as that woman from the Rijksmuseum
in painted quiet and concentration
keeps pouring milk day after day
from the pitcher to the bowl
the World hasn’t earned
the world’s end.
Wislawa Szymborska (born 1923),
translated by Clare Cavanagh
and Stanislaw Baranczak

Posted in Poem of the day

Poem of the Day, April 10, 2018

My Star

All that I know
Of a certain star,
Is, it can throw
(Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of red,
Now a dart of blue,
Till my friends have said
They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!

Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:
They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
What matter to me if their star is a world?
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.
Robert Browning (1812-1889)

Posted in Poem of the day

Poem of the Day, April 9, 2018

Poem for the Wheat Penny

O beautiful
The amber the clamor the waves of grain
The need for animal feed
And liquor yes the need for heaven

I heard a voice in the midst of beasts say
A measure of wheat for a penny

O spacious
Voice that loafs and voids a day
A voice numismerized
Is it love my one

Nation leaning her cheek upon the grain

O love
The penny cried which wheat which voice
Which night the penny moon
Shall subsidize the need for heaven

I heard a voice need yes a prop abundance
The measured fat of the wheat the penny-wise

Oh say
Say the penny candy prayer
The dawn a gleaming pile
Of trampled swords and friends

The coined and counted nice the penny life
Judith Hall

Posted in Poem of the day

Poem of the Day, April 8, 2017


A desk,
sturdy, useful
fixed in one spot,

used to write letters.
When can I return to you,
the letters say,

and the desk remains unmoved.
I can shove you around, I say,
love, lust, desire,

all written here.
I can move you to another room.

The desk and I live in a neighborhood
split in half like a heart —
along one ridge

white-collar workers
who live among kings
Edison, Galileo, Darwin, Curie —

and on the other, a trailer park.
The two halves are equal,
divided by a single fence.

Cottonwoods stand
in a park near my house
presenting their seeds to the wind,

watching Penelope
weave a web
through her window.

She finishes it,
begins again,
cutting threads,

searching for fresh cloth
she hasn’t worn away
with sewing and mending

loose ends.
I shove the desk around,
this way, that,

and the top half falls,
cracking marble
on an antique washstand.

Mother, grandmother,
great grandmother,
we’ve all stood beside it each morning

checking the clock,
sliding the marble aside
to conceal deeds of trust

insurance policies, stock.
Outside, a calypso orchid grows
beneath my bedroom window

where I sometimes hear footsteps.
What are you after
as you travel through my soul,

what are you looking for
as you breathe in
these white flowers.

Can you hear Penelope say,
Odysseus, Odysseus, come home.

Posted in My poetry, Poem of the day

Poem of the day, April 7, 2018

The Yellow Sweater

Typography and type face,
point size, leading and line length.
I adjust the spaces between your words,

to make sense of the meaning.
The words are there
like the yellow sweater

tangling at the foot of our bed
the night we make love.
The sweater twists in our feet,

jams in the sheets,
tangles in the edge of the covers,
as we fasten and unfasten each other.

Few things in life are clear to people.
They look into their hands
and forget what it is they are holding,

what it is they want to hold
what hesitates in the water between them —
those lips, those lips.

Did you have those so many years ago,
and one willing to see them,
waiting for them to open,

like words on a page to mine.

Posted in My poetry, Poem of the day

Poem Of The Day, April 4, 2018

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

by Maya Angelou (born 1928)
A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.
But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.
Maya Angelou (born April 4, 1928)

Posted in Poem of the day