I like this title. What is this world? It is. This one’s from Thrush Poetry Journal: an anthology of the first two years, ed. by Helen Vitoria. Thrush Press is here, and then there’s a brief bio:
from it is / by M.G. Martin
it is inside the return of a sorrow only known on an ocean floor.
More birds. Another from, Bright Wings, ed. by Billy Collins. More here:
from Rose-Breasted Grosbeak / by Juliana Gray
heart’s blood, blush or flush or crush of wine-
dark berries over snow.
An oceany-y one, from the ABZ First Book Poetry Prize 2013, winner: Traceries. More here and here:
from Private Chambers / by Jean A. Kingsley
like the grand armada of gallied whales
who spiral in toward the middle
creating a sleek on the ocean’s surface
For miracles. This one’s from the book, Villanelles, ed. by Annie Finch and Marie-Elizabeth Mali. More here:
from Little Miracle / by Molly Peacock b. 1949
No use getting hysterical.
The important part is: we’re here.
Our lives are a little miracle.
This one’s for hope. I have done this before, too. More here & here:
from Inspire Hope / by Amy Lawless
it is crucial to stack fifty pounds of books on the left-hand side of my bed
A bird day. This one is lovely Thrush Press Broadside 17, a broadside I recently received in the mail.
from Flight / by Sheila Squillante
bright feathers shoulder past the window
you watch them
Another funeral day. Today, a best friend long disconnected and the 10-year-old-part-sheepdog dog he left behind. And so, we welcome Daisy into our home and hope she finds some peace and comfort here among old friends, new children, all new to her.
from “Who is God? So Asked Our Dog” / by Dara Wier b. 1949
How many seasons are there?
Where was God born?
How many stars?
Daily themes this week. Today is a funeral day. Just attended my husband’s 7th and 8th grade football coach’s funeral. Also a Korean War vet with a flag folding and 21-gun salute, he was the kind of coach who got to know his players’ families and who motivated young boys to work harder than they ever thought possible. Complete poem here:
from Dew / by David Musgrave b.1965
Half their lives are spent in clouds
of condensation or the cold heat
of a winter sun where even the crowds
seem like droplets on the concrete
rose of the stadium.
From Poetry 180, ed. by Billy Collins.
from Alzheimer’s / by Bob Hicok
Chairs move by themselves, and books.
Last for the themeless week. This one’s from Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Volume: 1, Issue: 1, posted today. More here:
from [What is the forest language] / by Jennifer Firestone
What is the forest language dark breath of green.