For fall, from poetryfoundation.org.
from In October 1914 (Antwerp) / by Ford Maddox Ford
L’Envoi
And it was for this that they endured this gloom;
This October like November,
That August like a hundred thousand hours,
And that September,
A hundred thousand dragging sunlit days,
And half October like a thousand years. . .
For language, from Villanelles, edited by Annie Finch and Marie – Elizabeth Mali.
from The Grammar Lesson / by Steve Kowit
A noun’s a thing. A verb’s the thing it does.
An adjective is what describes the noun.
In “The can of beets is filled with purple fuzz,”
For basketball and yesterdays, from Villanelles, edited by Annie Finch and Marie -Elizabeth Mali.
from For Lindsay Whalen / by Stephen Burt, b. 1971
The shots you make surround you like a breeze.
When someone wins, then someone has to lose.
For the drowning books, from Selected Translations, by W.S. Merwin.
from Yscolan / by Myrddyn (Welsh, ca. 6th century)
I am Yscolan the seer
my thoughts fly they are covered with clouds.
For journeys, from The Academy of American Poets at poets.org
from Theories of Time and Space / by Natasha Tretheway
Bring only
what you must carry—tome of memory
its random blank pages. On the dock
where you board the boat for Ship Island,
someone will take your picture:
the photograph—who you were—
will be waiting when you return
For the season, from poetryfoundation.org.
from October / by Bobbi Katz
October is when jack-o’-lanterns
grin in the darkness
and
strange company crunches
across the rumple of dry leaves
For October, fairytales and brothers, from poetryfoundation.org.
from The Witch Has Told You a Story / by Ava Leavell Haymon
He will lean toward the maw
of the oven as it opens
every afternoon, sighing
better and better smells.
For sparrows, from The Rose Metal Field Guide to Prose Poetry.
from Pancake House Is Made of Pancakes / by Gerry LaFemina
Pancake house is made of pancakes. Treehouse is made of trees. Townhouse is made of towns
For autumns, from poetryfoundation.org.
from The Country Autumns / by Clark Coolidge
Two plates, and on the other side all the
forest pieces. The clock says stay.
The books lower the earth, and in gardens
flat stones spin.
For Mom’s 74th birthday today, from poetryfoundation.org.
from 44th Birthday Evening at Harris ‘ s/ by Ted Berrigan.
44 years I’ve loved these dreams today
17 years since I wrote for the first time a poem
On my birthday, why did I wait so long?
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