Poetry
I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind, Am urged by your propinquity to find Your person fair, and feel a certain zest To bear your body’s …
Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying; My dog and I are old, too old for roving. Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying, Is soon too lame to march, too cold …
When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charactery, Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain; When I behold, upon …
In the predawn cold and darkness, it was only a pinch of light, not more than a cup of warmth, as a farmer carried it over the snow to the barn where his dozen cows …
With what stillness at last you appear in the valley your first sunlight reaching down to touch the tips of a few high leaves that do not stir as though they had not noticed and …
The rain this morning falls on the last of the snow and will wash it away. I can smell the grass again, and the torn leaves being eased down into the mud. The few loves …
Santa made his rounds and I see lots of folks were blessed with fishing rods and reels and lures and guided trips and such. Most of you were fishing around under the tree, giving and …
For this your mother sweated in the cold, For this you bled upon the bitter tree: A yard of tinsel ribbon bought and sold; A paper wreath; a day at home for me. The merry …
to Mikayo, an emperor among cats I went to bed early the night we attacked Iraq, was awake an hour later as if someone had tapped my shoulder, said, It’s war. I’d had a war …
Chew your way into a new world. Munch leaves. Molt. Rest. Molt again. Self-reinvention is everything. Spin many nests. Cultivate stinging bristles. Don’t get sentimental about your discarded skins. Grow quickly. Develop a yen for …
Standing naked in the front yard of my girlfriend’s house, 3:00 a.m. Sunday morning, a small, delicious defiance, air smelling clean, temperature in the 70s, breeze like cashmere across my skin, each pore open to …
So God throws Adam and Eve out of paradise but they don’t slink away wailing and ashamed like the characters in Italian frescoes. Instead, Adam turns and says, “Ah, You big lug. I’ve been eighty-sixed …