DPF / Mazur

For mothers and daughters, from poetryfoundation.org.

from I Wish I Want I Need / by Gail Mazur

In Byfield,
in the snowstorm, we bought things
at an antiques mall, she a miniature
Sunbonnet Baby creamer and saucer—
a bargain!—I, a chrome ice bucke
stamped with penguins, with Bakelite handles.

DPF / Frost

For peace, from poetryfoundation.org.

from What the Dove Sings / by Carol Frost

The mourning dove
wearing noon’s aureole
coos from the rhododendron,
oo-waoh, shadow o-
ver what to do. Oh.

DPF / Erdrich

For a time far off in our future just now, from poetryfoundation.org.

from Last Snow / by Heid E. Erdrich, b. 1963

Last snow melts as it falls, piles up slush, runs in first light
making a music in the streets we wish we could keep.

DPF / Tomlinson

For the force, from poetryfoundation.org.

from Snow Signs / by Charles Tomlinson (1927-2015)

As though it were promising a protection
From all it has transfigured, scored and bared,
Now we shall know the force of what resurrection
Outwaits the simplification of the snow.

DPF / Corso

For birthdays. Happy birthday to my newly-minted 10-year old! From Mom and poetryfoundation.org.

from Writ on the Eve of my 32nd Birthday / by Gregory Corso

And the eyes, ah the eyes get better all the time.

DPF / Franklin

For the month, from poetryfoundation.org.

from DECEMBER [1757] XII Month / by Benjamin Franklin

Would you be well receiv’d where’er you go

DPF / Holmes

For firmament and fire, from poetryfoundation.org and 19th-Century American Poetry.

from The Flâneur / by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.

I leave my mortal self below,
As up the star-lit stairs I climb,
And still the widening view reveals
In endless rounds the circling wheels
That build the horologe of time.

DPF / Sorley

For the love of running, from poetryfoundation.org.

from The Song of the Ungirt Runners / by Charles Hamilton Sorley (1895–1915)

The winds arise and strike it
And scatter it like sand,
And we run because we like it
    Through the broad bright land.

DPF / Spahr

For all the keys on the keyboard which never got so much use as they do now, from poetryfoundation.org.

from Turnt / by Juliana Spahr, b. 1966/Ohio

I texted love you some forty-three times in the last few years.
I texted ❤ some thirty-three times.
Lub u, eighteen times.
Miss you, thirty-eight.

 

DPF / Skinner

For the love of books and for a day more like heaven than not, from poetryfoundation.org.

from The Bookshelf of the God of Infinite Space / by Jeffrey Skinner

You would expect an uncountable number,
Acres and acres of books in rows
Like wheat or gold bullion. Or that the words just
Appear in the mind, like banner headlines.