An extra one today, for the rain. The poem that carried me to Florida.
from Bus Stop / by Donald Justice
And the last bus
Comes letting dark
Umbrellas out —
Black flowers, black flowers.
20th-Century American Poetry
DPF / Forche
from Sequestered Writing / by Carolyn Forché
What ghost comes to the bedside whispering You?
— With its no one without its I —
DPF / Hugo
War, dreams, home.
from In Your War Dream / by Richard Hugo
You ask, “Why must I do this again?” A man
replies, “Home.” You fly over one country
after another. The nations are bright, like a map.
DPF / Hughes
Fathers and sons (written on the back of one of his father’s letters) and rivers.
from The Negro Speaks of Rivers / by Langston Hughes
I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the
flow of human blood in human veins.
DPF / Wright
Fathers and sons.
from Youth / by James Wright
I know his ghost will drift home
To the Ohio River, and sit down, alone,
Whittling a root.
DPF / Ryan
Mothers and daughters and a prayer.
from Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard / by Kay Ryan
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
DPF / Tufariello
Mothers and daughters.
from Twenty Weeks / by Catherine Tufariello
In every weather,
Wisdom and grace guard you together
And shelter you from harm and storm,
Who now lie heedless, dreamless, warm,
Curled in your dark honeycomb
Asleep, exactly halfway home.
DPF / Wilbur
Fathers and daughters.
from The Writer / by Richard Wilbur
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
DPF / Logan
Mothers and sons. And, ongoing mentor, friend, teaching us, one by one, to dive into the wreck and to grasp something worth bringing to light.
from The Farm / by William Logan
The kerosene lamp had gone out.
There was a ragged Bible in this dream,
open to Isaiah.
DPF / Berryman
from #29 / by John Berryman
There sat down, once, a thing on Henry’s heart
so heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry’s ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
Daily Poetry Fragments {Semi-Daily} 