For Valentine’s, from poetryfoundation.org.
from To My Dear and Loving Husband / by Anne Bradstreet
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
American Poetry
DPF / Revard
For weeds more green and baby rabbits, from Poetry Foundation.
from Another Sunday Morning / by Carter Revard, b. 1931
What I walked down to the highway for,
through the summer dawn,
was the Sunday funnies,
or so I thought—
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 / Bishop
Dreams, automated objective correlatives.
from The Man-Moth / by Elizabeth Bishop
Each night he must
be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams.
DPF / Mark
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.
from The Disasters / by Sabrina Orah Mark
“What are you doing in there, my little shipwreck?” “Commodifying my disasters,” said Beatrice. “That’s nice,” said Walter B. “Will you need some batteries?” “No,” said Beatrice. “Better save the batteries for the children.”
DPF / Plath
More like a GPS than not. Mothers and daughters.
from The Disquieting Muses / by Sylvia Plath
Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born,
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
DPF / Tate
Sort of like a GPS, only minutely different.
from Conjuring Roethke / by James Tate
I wish you were here.
The calendar is red,
a candle closes
the room.
If this is the life
we are all leaving
it’s half as bad.
Hello again mad turnip.
Let’s tango together
down to the clear
glad river.
Daily Poetry Fragments {Semi-Daily} 