The poet who worries about not being read forgets one thing: his face accompanies him everywhere. moonlight on the vine and the sweet grapes left behind by that old raccoon . Old Grandpa Moon The whole great countryside was asleep. The night was clear and cold, and the stars were winking above the farmhouses and fields. But inside an old stone cottage, there was one little boy who could not […]
A bumblebee asleep on a flower dreams of the last time he danced. August 9, 2020 Bouquet Dahlia buds every which way all pointing homeward and then you say here my love Recently Banned Literature, September 26, 2016 [ 833 ]
little grasshopper my thoughts lead nowhere oh! you have such pretty wings! [ 823 ]
The news is a mass addiction. Every minute of every day, millions of people return to it, in quiet desperation, in anger, in distraction, for another dose, another fix. It’s a form of collective hysteria, this thirst and hunger for the negative and obvious, this fear of not knowing what is already known, and which represents only a tiny portion of what it means to be alive in this wondrous […]
Summer one day, spring the next. The sky wondering which clothes to wear. Gray, blue, none but the pollen in her hair. on an old clay pot a bee waits just long enough for me to catch up May 30, 2020 [ 764 ]
Butterfly, why was I given this stone tablet, chisel, and hammer? “Wings” Poems, Slightly Used, March 17, 2009 [ 746 ]
I wrote the first line and thought haiku. Then it sprouted leaves. The last line fell from the oak’s highest branch. Each of its seventeen syllables is an acorn, at the center of which is mist. Survivor I was once like that — a crushed plant on the path, my flowers smiling back. Then I was an oak, with a swing tied to my lowest branch, and a hole […]
May it be said, that between sleeps, I was as drunk as any flower. [ 744 ]
I wonder if it’s understood that each page is written with a smile. I wonder if my saying so can possibly make this clear. In Season To pine is to yearn — love blesses the ripened cones. [ 743 ]
Almost dawn — the first dove — as if love is a sweet eccentricity [ 735 ]
