For the JFK roses blooming under the front window, from Poetry, June 2015.
from The Last Luxury, JFK, Jr. / by Alex Dimitrov
Born of the sun, we traveled a short while toward the sun.
Where there were seasons and sky. Where there were monuments.
Like a single engine plane in a July haze.
For a yesterday I’ll call today, from Poetry, July/August 2015.
from Memento / by Lily Cao
We might have been twins, I born in May
and she of the blistered January
For happy 4th to you! From Poetry Foundation.
from Firework / by Stacie Cassarino
I was a keeper of breath,
of hay. I walked a field, collecting bones.
For a field of burning stars, from The American Poetry Review, July/August 2015.
from Mass / by R.A. Villanueva
her son colors in a book of
heralds and dragons, traces his palm.
Now: the Magnificat. Now: I am
For those who have no listeners: may they find one to begin. From Poetry, July/August 2015.
from Too Much / by Tyler Ford
all i want you to know is that you deserve to be heard
for 3 minutes
for 10 minutes
for 2 hours
forever.
For superstition, from Poetry Foundation. The rest of the poem may be found here:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/249760
from Mal Agueros / by Nick Carbo, b. 1964
For a nod to Kafka, from A Book of Luminous Things, edited by Czeslaw Milosz.
from Ordinance on Arrival / by Naomi Lazard, b. 1936
These things have always been
in short supply; now
they are impossible to obtain.
For dust of all kinds and train travel, from A Book of Luminous Things, edited by Czeslaw Milosz.
from Vacation / by William Stafford (1914-1993)
One scene as I bow to pour her coffee:–
Three Indians in the scouring drouth
huddle at the grave scooped in the gravel,
lean to the wind as our train goes by.
Someone is gone.
For mountains and parts of life that appear to be mountains, from A Book of Luminous Things, edited by Czeslaw Milosz.
from Magnificent Peak / by Muso Soseki (1275-1351) translated by W.S. Merwin
From the four directions
you can look up and see it
green and steep and wild.
For intimate moments in the landscape’s immense spaces, a fitting metaphor for how a poem sits in the mind, from A Book of Luminous Things, edited by Czeslaw Milosz.
from The Train Stops at Healy Fork / by John Haines (1924-2011)
We saw the scattered iron
and timber of the campsite,
the coal seam
in the river bluff,
the twilight green of the icefall.
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