For balloons and lions, from Poets.org.
from Kristin’s Dream in November / by Bernadette Mayer, b. 1945
Frozen petals fell behind the red curtain
So slowly they woke me like a knock on door #7
21st Century American Poetry
DPF / Newman
For a week early, from Domestic Fugues, by Richard Newman.
from Bless Their Hearts / by Richard Newman
In a week it would be Thanksgiving,
and we would each sit with our respective
families, counting our blessings and blessing
the hearts of family members as only family
does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please
DPF / McGrath
For a little bit of needed magic, from Poetryfoundation.org.
from Nights on Planet Earth / by Campbell McGrath
In the night I will walk the towpath among satellites and cosmic dust.
In the night I will cry to the roots of potted plants in empty offices.
In the night I will gather the feathers of pigeons in a honey jar.
DPF / Jordan
For Novembers past, from poetryfoundation.org.
from The Flash Reverses Time / by A. Van Jordan, b. 1965
and the people look, look in that bewildered way,
in my direction, I imagine
walking slowly into my past
DPF / Rankine
Among so many unforgettable images and moments, let this one be for the rain. From Citizen, by Claudia Rankine.
from I / by Claudia Rankine
The rain this morning pours from the gutters and everywhere else it is lost in the trees.
DPF / Skurnick
For clocks whose hands move backwards, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Grand Central, Track 23 / by Elizabeth Skurnick
The laureled, relentless clocks. The sceptered row
Of columns dreams one o’clock, immense,
Inviolate. What time is it? I don’t know.
DPF / Berkson
For the new month and the hopeful-small showers it brought already, from poetryfoundation.org.
from October / by Bill Berkson, b. 1939
Three strangers appeared at the door, demanding ribbons.
The October wind . . . nests
DPF / Weigl
For deer, from poetryfoundation.org.
from My Autumn Leaves / by Bruce Weigl, b. 1949
They know the boy
who lives inside me still won’t go away.
The deer are ghosts who slip between the light
DPF / Bergin
For writers, from poetryfoundation.org.
from Appointment with Jane Austen / Tara Bergin
I looked out at the wet; I looked out at the southwest rain,
and the redbrick houses. I watched the famous silhouette,
gently swinging back and forth above the gate.
DPF / Kunitz
While this should be a “first-day-of-autumn” poem, as it turns out, it’s a last-day-of-summer poem for centenarians from a centenarian, from poetryfoundation.org.
from End of Summer / by Stanley Kunitz (1905-2006)
I stood in the disenchanted field
Amid the stubble and the stones,
Amazed, while a small worm lisped to me
The song of my marrow-bones.
Amid the stubble and the stones,
Amazed, while a small worm lisped to me
The song of my marrow-bones.
Daily Poetry Fragments {Semi-Daily} 