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.
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)
For lions and prose poems, from The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Prose Poetry.
from I stood too close… / by David Keplinger
I stood too close to the lion’s cage and was eaten right up.
For Kandinsky, from poetryfoundation.org. The rest of the poem may be found here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178480.
from Autumn Psalm / by Jacqueline Osherow, b.1956
For this, I would have to be Chinese,
Wang Wei, to be precise, on a mountain,
autumn rain converging on the trees,
a cassia flower nearby, a cloud, a pine,
washerwomen heading home for the day,
my senses and the mountain so entirely in tune
that when my stroke of blue arrives, I’m ready.
Though there is no rain here: the air’s shot through
with gold on golden leaves.
For cemeteries, from The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Prose Poetry.
from Still Life with Gravestone / by Michael Robins
The meter will soon expire, so move along, move along.
For sleep, from Field Guide to Prose Poetry.
from Wish / by Kathleen McGookey
My wish was short — a blue mitten no larger than a dime, a wish so small.
For leaves, from poetryfoundation.org.
from A Crown of Fall Leaves / by Annie Finch
When autumn gathers, the tree
That the leaves sang
Reddens dark slowly, then, suddenly free,
Turns like a key,
Opening air where they hang
For writing, from Poem-A-Day, poets.org.
from When we are on the right track we are rewarded with joy / by Brian Teare
trying to think and all I come up with is a texture without
ideas
For UFO’s, from Crab Orchard Review, Vol. 20, No. 2.
from Still Life with X-Files / by Matt Sumpter
He dreams what life had taught him to dream:
baseball, a yard in Rhode Island where the grass
holds the shapes of his feet
For the love of horses, from Poem-A-Day today at poets.org.
from To Bring the Horse Home / by Julie Bruck
A single bed with blanket the color
of factory-sweepings will suffice,
each day shaped to the same arc,
because days can only end when
the lock slides free on the stall’s
Dutch door, and I lead the horse in
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