For a Monday without bells, and for a seat at my home desk, my tutu mouse smiling to see a human in the seat and to hear Miles Davis play, as Mr. Davis always does if one just tunes in, from Picnic, Lightning.
from In the Room of a Thousand Miles / by Billy Collins
I like writing about where I am,
where I happen to be sitting,
the humidity or the clouds,
the scene outside the window–
a pink tree in bloom,
a neighbor walking his small, nervous dog.
For the season, which is of course, track & field season, from The House on Marshland.
from The Shad-blow Tree / by Louise Glück
One year he focused on a tree
until, through sunlight pure as never afterward, he saw
the season, early spring, work upon those limbs
its white flower
For the angels watching over, from lyrikline.org.
from For Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966) / by Harris Khalique
Time flows, we meet once in a while
your great works, my poems, your son, my loves,
the problems of our times
you lend me a hand when I tremble.
For the box is always there whether you open it or not, from Bigger World.
from Pandora / by Noelle Kocot
But she found love at the bottom
in the faces of her truest friends.
She hesitated, but only for a second,
Which seemed like an eternity,
And joined her light with theirs.
For another one for mothers and blooming lilac and happy first day of National Poetry Month, 2017, and for daughters who are like blooming lilac, from the pedestrians.
from pedestrian / by Rachel Zucker
I
have an idea for a website where mothers shoot
home movies & I upload them as part of my ongoing
project to “accurately depict women’s lives”
For our poet-nurse, amazing Catherine, from Keeping My Name.
from Chemist’s Daughter / by Catherine Tufariello
Thumping the dinner table, Dad would say
it too was atoms – massed in galaxies
made mainly of empty space.
For trying to reach back through the years to parent your own younger self, from The Star by My Head: Poets from Sweden, edited and translated by Malena Mörling and Jonas Ellerström.
from Hold Him There / by Bruno K. Öijer
I had phoned my childhood
listened to the dial tone that went through
and when my mom answered
I asked to speak to myself
For these best clouds ever, which we rarely see here, from poetryfoundation.org. And, this one’s for the magical Kay Ryan, who I met in Lancaster, California, when she read at her community college alma mater, and later in Key West, when she read and spoke and paneled at the 2010 Key West Literary Seminar.
from Cloud / by Kay Ryan
For caves at the bottom of lakes and grief as large as mountains, from Poetry, April 2017.
from Dear, Beloved / by Sumita Chakraborty
It would be winter, with a thin snow. An aged sunbeam
would fall on me, then on a nearby summit, until a mass
of ice would come upon me like a crown of master diamonds
in shades of gold and pink.
For poetry on St. Patrick’s Day, from a poet to whom I passed the handshake passed to me from a hand that shook Emily Dickinson’s, and from The Trouble with Poetry: And Other Poems.
from The Trouble with Poetry / by Billy Collins
But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.
poetry, publishing, and mentoring
A periodic, open discussion of particular poems
a resource for moving poetry
from lined paper, to Royal, to Smith Corona, to floppy disk, to 1TB hard drive...it's all a result of the passing wind.
Writer & Visual Artist
Reading Around The World
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Daily Poetry Fragments {Semi-Daily} 