One more sky. From Thrush Poetry Journal, May 2014. A beautiful poem chosen by Helen Vitoria, editor. Complete poem (and two others by Ms. Goodfellow) here:
http://www.thrushpoetryjournal.com/may-2014-jessica-goodfellow.html
from Hover / by Goodfellow
Hover, canopy, the endless falling snow a shroud
More clouds-sky. From Fairy Tale Review: The Emerald Issue, March 2014.
from Dorothy / by Lindsay Lusby
Be the green sky.
More clouds-sky. Love this! From Ploughshares, Spring 2014. More at:
http://www.pshares.org/
from House of Wigs / by Jonathan Wells
The sky was low. His head was a vase of
sorrows he wanted to fill with blossoms.
More clouds-wind-sky. From Fairy Tale Review: The Emerald Issue, March, 2014.
from White Snake, Green Snake / by Su-Yee Lin
A string of kites fly into the hazy sky, the sun a shrouded fiery marble.
From APR, May/June 2014. How about a wind-sky-cloud theme for the week? More on Allen at:
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/dick-allen
from The Zen Master Speaks of Unaccountable Days
It’s true, they went like the wind,
but they also went like the blue sky sometimes does
out over the Atlantic
Rivers.
from Water Bottoms / by Aase Berg trans. by Johannes Goransson
And here a feather moves toward the river surface, as she who loves water sinks back through the bottoms of light.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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