o wisdom come —
come again
All articles filed in poetry
radix
oh papa, the fields are plowed under oh papa, the seeds are all salt oh papa, the tree’s burned to cinders oh papa, we know it’s our fault oh papa, the babies are crying oh papa, the streets run with blood oh papa, look, everyone’s dying oh papa, how can this bring good? oh papa,…
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one more day ’til december
one more day ’til december it’s nearly the last spoke on the wheel of the year out my window i can see the desolation of the garden where limp brown leaves still cling to rusty tomato cages sunday’s snow has all but melted and here and there the grass is defiantly green, but it knows…
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all things considered
now it’s november; the world grows cold once when i was young and full of myself i tried to imagine the nuances of human nature how swiftly a life runs away born away by the violent disappointed idealists they all had stories but maybe that’s wishful thinking … inside my mind exists another world and…
Read Morea little night music
someone is snoring or is that the dog growling? there’s an owl in the backyard but maybe that’s wishful thinking a cough, a rumble, a faraway dog howl an airplane cuts its way through the sky the humidifier purrs, gurgles (my stomach gurgles in reply) the clock ticks, the traffic hums by someone still is…
Read Moremood can be a fickle beast especially when spelled backward
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some things remain
beep, beep the chair lift warns us out of the way as granny rides slowly down the fifteen white-carpeted stairs past the picture frames filled with memories of earlier days; we have all grown older. in the kitchen grandpa rattles through the cupboard looking for baking sheets for the cinnamon rolls do you want cantaloupe…
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thwarted
when we are young we think we have the power to change the world when we grow older we find we lack the power to change ourselves the road to hell would be paved with disappointed idealists were it not for the grace inbetween
Read Morea wooden floor
i once saw a photograph of an old farmhouse kitchen with a wooden floor painted robin’s egg blue it was faded and worn in spots from a tireless tread up and down and round and round the table i tried to imagine the woman who worked there baking biscuits, churning butter mixing, rising, kneading rising,…
Read Morepopcorn, ginger beer miracle on 34th — Christmas has begun
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