For poets, Sinatra, Sundays, 1963, The Central Valley, and poetry, from the marvelous mind of Mr. Sam Pereira.
from Swagger with Microphone, 1963 / by Sam Pereira
He’d briefly say
Something like, This is
A marvelous song
From the mind of
Mr. Sam Pereira,
Arranged by
Nelson Riddle.
Henri to Henry. My 86-year-old father-in-law can recite the first stanza of this poem from memory, a stanza he learned to recite in 5th or 6th grade, around 1938. So today, a memory in celebration of memory and in celebration, a Happy Birthday, to his forever-lovely bride.
from A Psalm of Life / by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Mothers and daughters. Thank you for all you leave behind for us. Today, visiting with Mother? And, Anne, who always needed you.
from Where I Live / by Maxine Kumin
Violets,
landlocked seas I swim in.
I used to pick bouquets
for her, framed them
with leaves. Schmutzige
she said, holding me close
to scrub my streaky face.
from Snow Moon Flower / by Henri Cole
as if the dark tops of the trees shone complacently
and a changing light filtered and breathed
against the lonely surface of everything.
Mothers and daughters.
from Momentum / by Cherri Randall
I’m filled with wonder for the things I know
that defy verse, that fill my daughter’s gaze.
Mothers and daughters. from Mother, / by Nicelle Davis
Through you I am born
again, again, again. In a gathering of light.
from Songs of Innocence: The Book of Thel / by William Blake
Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole?
Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?
Or Love in a golden bowl?
from Whether it says, you’re sick, go to the doctor / by Noelle Kocot
It was austere in its way, like dandelions.
Unlike dandelions, it bled furies.
Like dandelions, it shed everything.
Last football game of the season.
from Crossing Brooklyn Ferry / by Walt Whitman
Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers!
Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta! stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn!
from Family Portrait / by Carlos Drummond de Andrade trans. by Elizabeth Bishop
I don’t distinguish those
that went away from those
that stay. I only perceive
the strange idea of family
travelling through the flesh.
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