1. It does not take much
2. Half an hour here, half an hour there
3. It's not a "presence" I adore
4. The erotically swollen moon
5. Let me go, friends, companions
6. The soldier watches his kid in a play
7. He seems nothing less or more than "foreigner"
8. Grass. Dirt.
This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. ...Read more
"Four winds blowing thro' the sky,
You have seen poor maidens die,
Tell me then what I shall do
That my lover may be true."
Said the wind from out the south,
"Lay no kiss upon his mouth,"
And the wind from out the west,
"Wound the heart within his breast,"
And the wind from out the east,
The child asks, bringing it to me in handfuls.
We stop at the Walt Whitman Service Area-
No sign of Him save some "Democratic Vistas"
& "Drum Taps" on a plaque near the Micky D's
Let's go find the grass
I say to my two-year-old beauty and
We pick one blade from the median
Then back we go in...Read more
Is the never of childhood, deeper
than the never of adolescence,
which has a whining, stammering
quality, which is a stamped foot
followed by huffing steps, and wholly
unlike the never of adulthood,
has none of the bright spider
cracks of reason multiplying
along its roof, threading its dark
drops from upper air,
to the fresh-cut hair
and the infantry:
the clicking heel, all will
the shrinking light
of wedding rice, of salt,
of sands as fit
a last brassy parade:
the marching ...Read more
Dear columbine, dear engine.
Mere water will force a flower
open. Then with a touch
the beautiful intact collapses
into color filament and powder.
It's all my fault. All hands on deck
to help collect what's spilled.
That could be me beneath
a bridge. Torn up beside the road,
a bloat of skin...Read more
Radiant the delayed calmness
-Do you feel it, I said. -Yes, you said,
of what only each can know,
kernel of radiance, the globo terrestre
of a water drop, not the passing adaptations
of canonical light, but seconds stilled-
our hearts beating through the moments-centuries
of the next tick of a ...Read more
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound. ...Read more
Through all the weary, hot midsummer time,
My heart has struggled with its awful grief.
And I have waited for these autumn days,
Thinking the cooling winds would bring relief.
For I remembered how I loved them once,
When all my life was full of melody.
And I have looked and longed for their return,
The new news is I love you my Nudist
the new news is I love you my Buddhist
my naked body and budding pleasure
in the weather of your presence
not whether your presence but how
oh love a new nodule of neurosis
a posy of new roses proposing
a new era for us nobis pacem
What you said I shattered was the window
but we both know what you meant. I can't
recall a single meadow that didn't slow my pulse.
Though you are far you are on my wing: you
are the sight of an apple in the bathroom
or oils unintended for a wood floor. A fence
ran the length of a field, ...Read more
Its beak peeks
in & out of
an open cage
be large &
We have already
it ...Read more
Catmint-tubular, lavender, an ointment
to blur the scar, bloom the skin. My mouth has begun
the hunt for words that heal.
In the garden, I am startled by a cluster
of sun-colored petals marked, Radiation.
Piles of radiation. Orange radiation, huddled together
like families bound by a hospital...Read more
in rome I got down among the weeds and tiny perfumed
flowers like eyeballs dabbed in blood and the big ruins
said do it my way pal while starlings
kept offering show biz solutions and well the vatican
pursued its interests the palm trees like singular affidavits
the wind succinct and the mountains painted blue<...Read more
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my ...Read more
My river runs to thee:
Blue sea, wilt welcome me?
My river waits reply.
Oh sea, look graciously!
I'll fetch thee brooks
From spotted nooks,-
About this poem
"The Outlet (162)" was not published in Emily Dickinson's lifetime.
History sits on a chair
in a room without windows.
Mornings it searches for a door,
afternoons it naps.
At the stroke of midnight,
it stretches its body and sighs.
It keeps time and loses time,
knows its place and doesn't know its place.
Sometimes it considers the chair a step,
sometimes ...Read more
Down on Comegys Road, two miles
from the Rifle Club that meets Wednesdays,
summer to fall, firing into a blackness
they call night but I know is a body,
in unpaved Kennedyville, not far
from the Bight, on five acres of green
organic farm, next to the algaed pond
that yields the best fishing in all of...Read more
When the afternoon light
touches the broad orange petals
of the tiger lilies, mute tongues
curled, I pray hard
for such joyous sights to continue.
But I pray wrong, selfishly.
I don't know where the words
I struggle to recall
even the names of my old friends.