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Index »
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Poetry Forum
Page: Previous 1 , 2 , 3 , ... 211 , 212 , 213 Next
buddy
Location: Rocky Mountain Way Gender:
Posted:
Aug 27, 2024 - 2:52pm
Seven In The Woods
~ Jim Harrison
Am I as old as I am?
Maybe not. Time is a mystery
that can tip us upside down.
Yesterday I was seven in the woods,
a bandage covering my blind eye,
in a bedroll Mother made me
so I could sleep out in the woods
far from people. A garter snake glided by
without noticing me. A chickadee
landed on my bare toe, so light
she wasn't believable. The night
had been long and the treetops
thick with a trillion stars. Who
was I, half-blind on the forest floor
who was I at age seven? Sixty-eight
years later I can still inhabit that boy's
body without thinking of the time between.
It is the burden of life to be many ages
without seeing the end of time.
ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Aug 27, 2024 - 12:02pm
Quite Frankly
by Mark Halliday
They got old, they got old and died. But firstâ
okay but first they composed plangent depictions
of how much they lost and how much cared about losing.
Meantime their hair got thin and more thin
as their shoulders went slumpy. Okay but
not before the photo albums got arranged by them,
arranged with a niftiness, not just two or three
but eighteen photo albums, yes eighteen eventually,
eighteen albums proving the beauty of them (and not someone else),
them and their relations and friends, incontrovertible
playing croquet in that Bloomington yard,
floating on those comic inflatables at Dow Lake,
giggling at the Dairy Queen, waltzing at the wedding,
building a Lego palace on the porch,
holding the baby beside the rental truck,
leaning on the Hemingway statue at Pamplona,
discussing the eternity of art in that Sardinian restaurant.
Yes! And so, quite franklyâat the end of the dayâ
they got old and died okay sure but quite frankly
how much does that matter in view of
the eighteen photo albums, big ones
thirteen inches by twelve inches each
full of such undeniable beauty?
Antigone
Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley Gender:
Posted:
Jul 27, 2024 - 11:03am
Isabeau
Location: sou' tex Gender:
Posted:
Jul 23, 2024 - 8:18am
ScottFromWyoming wrote:
NoEnzLefttoSplit
Gender:
Posted:
Jul 23, 2024 - 7:57am
ScottFromWyoming wrote: been there
ScottFromWyoming
Location: Powell Gender:
Posted:
Jul 23, 2024 - 7:50am
oldviolin
Location: esse quam videri Gender:
Posted:
Jul 18, 2024 - 8:40pm
Manbird
Location: La Villa Toscana Gender:
Posted:
May 27, 2024 - 7:20pm
Easter
If this were a man
if this man were poisoned
if phosgene invades
the man inhales
the phonograph issues
broken
sanded
washed
if this were a man
and his photogravure
his image
etched
scratched
came to my life
representing life
coloured
measuring light
walked and spoke
eyes shining and alive
I was convinced
if a man came buckling
up from the hide
seasoned
cured
had rotted in his blanket
at night
if my man had steamed
like Jesus
in a cave
delivered
a man a philosophy
a phobia
a blue knuckling voice
sang and cried
warbling
bloody
if this man died
in 1914
in a war he inhaled
and he curdled
down into himself
resurrected his death
flocked
his tall tall tree
his reverse breath
dimpled his reverse breath
his cheeks collapsed
livid
purple
as his eight day rock
and his sap let loose
if this man had sap
he was then wrapped loosely
and tied whitely
if this were a man
his burning watermark remains
his bearded water stamp
remains
- Rob Diebold
oldviolin
Location: esse quam videri Gender:
Posted:
May 27, 2024 - 11:16am
Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow; I am the diamond glints on the snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain; I am the gentle autumn's rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft star that shines at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there; I did not die. author is somewhat disputed
ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
May 12, 2024 - 6:32am
The Republic of Motherhood I crossed the border into the Republic of Motherhood
and found it a queendom, a wild queendom.
I handed over my clothes and took its uniform,
its dressing gown and undergarments, a cardigan
soft as a creature, smelling of birth and milk,
and I lay down in Motherhood's bed, the bed I had made
but could not sleep in, for I was called at once to work
in the factory of Motherhood. The owl shift,
the graveyard shift. Feeding cleaning loving f eeding.
I walked home, heartsore, through pale streets,
the coins of Motherhood singing in my pockets.
Then I soaked my spindled bones
in the chill municipal baths of Motherhood,
watching strands of my hair float from my fingers.
Each day I pushed my pram through freeze and blossom
down the wide boulevards of Motherhood
where poplars bent their branches to stroke my brow.
I stood with my sisters in the queues of Motherhood –
the weighing clinic, the supermarket – waiting
for its bureaucracies to open their doors.
As required, I stood beneath the flag of Motherhood
and opened my mouth although I did not know the anthem.
When darkness fell I pushed my pram home again,
by lamp-light wrote urgent letters of complaint
to the Department of Motherhood but received no response.
I grew sick and was healed in the hospitals of Motherhood
with their long-closed isolation wards
and narrow beds watched over by a fat moon.
The doctors were slender and efficient
and when I was well they gave me my pram again
so I could stare at the daffodils in the parks of Motherhood
while winds pierced my breasts like silver arrows.
In snowfall, I haunted Motherhood's cemeteries,
the sweet fallen beneath my feet –
Our Lady of the Birth Trauma, Our Lady of Psychosis.
I wanted to speak to them, tell them I understood,
but the words came out scrambled, so I knelt instead
and prayed in the chapel of Motherhood, prayed
for that whole wild fucking queendom,
its sorrow, its unbearable skinless beauty,
and all the souls that were in it. I prayed and prayed
until my voice was a night cry,
sunlight pixellating my face like a kaleidoscope.
oldviolin
Location: esse quam videri Gender:
Posted:
May 3, 2024 - 9:46am
WORM WOODSTOCK The worms have been up all night writing long lines of crazy, unintelligible poetry in the street. Drunk on spring, they dry out in the sun. Mike Hazard
Manbird
Location: La Villa Toscana Gender:
Posted:
Apr 25, 2024 - 12:30pm
Shadow and Light
By Rumi
How does
a part of the world
leave the world?
How does wetness
leave water?
Dont' try to put out fire
by throwing on more fire!
Don't wash a wound
with blood.
No matter how fast you run,
your shadow keeps up.
Sometimes it's in front!
Only full overhead sun
diminishes your shadow.
But that shadow
has been serving you.
What hurts you,
blesses you.
Darkness
is your candle.
Your boundaries
are your quest.
I could explain this,
but it will break
the glass cover
on your heart,
and there's no fixing that.
You must have
shadow and light source
both.
Listen,
and lay your head
under the tree of awe.
When from that tree
feathers and wings
sprout on you,
be quieter than a dove.
Don't even open your mouth
for even a coo.
photo by rob diebold
oldviolin
Location: esse quam videri Gender:
Posted:
Apr 12, 2024 - 8:45am
ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Feb 14, 2024 - 6:52am
A Valentine's Day poem from our recent Minnesota Poet Laureate,
Joyce Sutphen
Secret Agent Man
You looked so good at the top of the stairs that I wonder if you might consider standing at the bus stop near Franklin and 22nd at about 6:30 AM, wearing a dark overcoat and a red scarf, nodding (just slightly) when I pass, and I wouldn't mind looking Out my office window at about 10 AM and seeing you (so small I couldn't be sure) waving from the far corner of the parking lot, and then, at lunch, you could be the mysterious man sitting in the bar, the one who never turns around until I am almost out the door with friends who would have no idea who you are, and it would be wonderful to see you disguised as a UPS man, coming in at 3 PM with a large package full of various useless things and a note, telling me exactly where I could find you later on tonight.
oldviolin
Location: esse quam videri Gender:
Posted:
Feb 11, 2024 - 9:58am
Crow's Theology
Crow realized God loved him-
Otherwise, he would have dropped dead.
So that was proved.
Crow reclined, marvelling, on his heart-beat.
And he realized that God spoke Crow-
Just existing was His revelation.
But what Loved the stones and spoke stone?
They seemed to exist too.
And what spoke that strange silence
After his clamour of caws faded?
And what loved the shot-pellets
That dribbled from those strung-up mummifying crows?
What spoke the silence of lead?
Crow realized there were two Gods-
One of them much bigger than the other
Loving his enemies
And having all the weapons.
Ted Hughes
ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
Posted:
Jan 28, 2024 - 4:51am
YES by William Stafford
It could happen any time, tornado, earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen. Or sunshine, love, salvation.
It could, you know. That’s why we wake and look out — no guarantees in this life.
But some bonuses, like morning, like right now, like noon, like evening.
Antigone
Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley Gender:
Posted:
Jan 26, 2024 - 8:42pm
oldviolin wrote:
Breathtaking. Thank you.
oldviolin
Location: esse quam videri Gender:
Posted:
Jan 26, 2024 - 7:27pm
Fred Chappell
Poem within a poem
Antigone
Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley Gender:
Posted:
Jan 26, 2024 - 12:56pm
oldviolin wrote:
Epitaph- The Poet
I never truckled.
I never pandered.
I was born
To be remaindered.
Fred Chappell
oldviolin
Location: esse quam videri Gender:
Posted:
Jan 26, 2024 - 10:01am
Epitaph- The Poet
I never truckled.
I never pandered.
I was born
To be remaindered.
Fred Chappell