For things happening all around us which we can sometimes see, and sometimes cannot, but still they happen, from The Collected Poems.
from The Parable of the Poppy / by Czeslaw Milosz
On a poppy seed is a tiny house,
Dogs bark at the poppy-seed moon,
And never, never do those poppy-seed dogs
Imagine that somewhere there is a world much larger.
For may your muse be kinder and gentler than Ms. Hawley’s, from The Collected Poems.
from The Muse / by Beatrice Hawley
or she stands with her face
pressed against my window
trying to shatter glass
by turns with ice, with fire.
For if we can save them, we may only be able to save them one at a time, from Reasons for Moving.
from The Babies / by Mark Strand
Let us hurry.
Let us save the babies.
Let us try to save the babies.
For gardens and all their blooming, from Song.
from The Pear Tree / by Brigit Pegeen Kelly
Leave off
Your weeping. The rain will keep falling. The crows
Will keep flying. Sit on the ground and wait. Sit
On the ground and wait. Perhaps the bird you planted
Beneath the pear tree…will become…another pear tree.
For the end of a long, many-win, cloud-cover, track-&-field day, from The Waste Land.
from The Waste Land: A Game of Chess / by T.S. Eliot
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
For no longer needing to follow one’s horoscope, if one does, when the days have passed for doing so, from horoscopes for the dead.
from Horoscopes for the Dead / by Billy Collins
But you will be relieved to learn
that you no longer need to reflect carefully before acting,
nor do you have to think more of others,
and never again will creative work take a back seat
to the business responsibilities that you never really had.
For marriage, from Poems of Akhmatova.
from ‘Three Things Enchanted Him’ / by Anna Akhmatova, translated by Stanley Kunitz with Max Hayward
Three things enchanted him:
white peacocks, evensong,
and faded maps of America.
For mothers, from North.
from Mossbawn: Two Poems in Dedication: for Mary Heaney / by Seamus Heaney
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove
sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.
For time and its non-linearity, from The Widening Spell of the Leaves.
from The Spell of the Leaves / by Larry Levis
Each morning she would watch her son, a boy of seven,
Yawn before mounting the steps, glinting like a sea,
When the doors of the school bus opened.
For whatever you celebrate and cherish, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Easter 1933 / by Haniel Long
Anyway, it’s good to stretch out
in the warm white sands,
one’s head in the shade of a dwarf tree,
and look at the Enchanted Mesa —
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