what is this? some poems I like and maybe some inspiration for your writing fuel
today is a good day to prune to encourage growth
The Atom No. 18 by Sarah Mangold
haiku by Jacquie Pearce
a boy swings a branch swings a boy
Visitors by Joan Naviyuk Kane:
Every door stands an open door:
our human settlements all temporary.
We share together the incidental shore
and teach the young to tend the lamp’s wick,
weary of anyone small enough to bar our entry.
What I Believe By Kimberly Blaeser
I believe the weave of cotton
will support my father’s knees,
but no indulgences will change hands.
I believe nothing folds easily,
but that time will crease—
retrain the mind.
I believe in the arrowheads of words
and I believe in silence.
I believe the rattle of birch leaves
can shake sorrow from my bones,
but that we all become bare at our own pace.
I believe the songs of childhood
follow us into the kettles of age,
but the echoes will not disturb the land.
I believe the reach of the kayak paddle
can part the blue corridor of aloneness,
and that eyes we see in water are never our own.
Haibun With Insects by Megan Kim
here’s the haiku portion
Lightning bug, firefly
I say grass lit like heaven
Is it a violence?
from A Year’s Supply of Poetry by Patricia Finney:
So quality is a difficult thing to pin down
And the fault might very likely be with me
And not him and his convoluted effusions.
To Sturgeon’s Principle, I add Finney’s Corollary
Which says that at least 10% of everything
Might be good.
this selection is in honor of the thrush whose morning today turned out to be its last, after a window
Second Crow by Matthias Göritz, translated by Mary Jo Bang:
From the balcony, sliced light
leaves behind an arm.
higher than goose
it is called the sky
from Oblivion by Kevin Young:
In the field the cows consider
it over. They & their many
stomachs know nothing
stays lost forever—that grass, almost
cruel, resurrects again,
again. They know even
drought will end
a butterfly— Basho Society (@BashoSociety) September 21, 2022
is also made
from How to Write by Anne Waldman:
Once, on the Sixth Avenue bus
I got a sudden sensation
I had been alive before
That I was a man at some other time
You would think this strange if you were a woman
If I were a man right now I’d be getting out of the draft
but I think I’d want to be a poet too
Which simply means alive, awake and digging everything
Even that which makes me sick and want to die
I don’t really, you know
I just don’t want to be conscious sometimes
because when you’re conscious in the ordinary way
you have to think about yourself a lot
Dull thoughts like what am I doing?
A lot of drugs can change you if you want
because you too are made of what drugs are made of
In fact you are just a bundle of drugs
when you come right down to it
I don’t want to go into it
but you’ll see what I mean when you catch on
Who are all these strange ghosts rooted to the silly little adventure of earth with me?— Daily Kerouac (@DailyKerouac) August 27, 2022
abandoned gas station
paper cups bleaching
in the weeds
A Blank White Page by Francisco X. Alarcón:
is a meadow
after a snowfall
that a poem
hopes to cross
from A Coast-Nightmare by Christina Rossetti:
Only ghosts in flocks and shoals:
Indistinguished hazy ghosts surround there
Meteors whirling on their poles;
Indistinguished hazy ghosts abound there;
from J. Drew Lanham’s Sparrow Envy
Door in the Mountain by Jean Valentine
Die while you’re alive, and be absolutely dead, Then do what ever you want: it’s all good.