Poetry for your Thursday: Rearview Mirror

Rearview Mir­ror –Robert Mor­gan This lit­tle pool in the air is not a spring but sink into which trees and high­way, bank and fields are sipped away to minute­ness. All split on the present then merge in stretched per­spec­tive, radi­ant in reverse, the wide world…

And More Poetry: Water On The Lens

Water On The Lens –John Isbell There is water on the lens. There is dust in the gears. There is snow on the screen. There is noise on the line. When­ev­er we push THIS but­ton, We get THIS junk. We took out the whole cen­tral unit,…

Poetry: Metamorphosis

Meta­mor­pho­sis –May Sar­ton Always it hap­pens when we are not there– The tree leaps up alive into the air, Small open para­sols of Chi­nese green Wave on each twig. But who has ever seen The latch sprung, the bud as it burst? Spring always manages…

Poetry Fix

Both brought to you cour­tesy of osp_feed. Water­front Café By John Isbell I sat at the water­front café. The stone bridge’s near side was root­ed in the soil, While the oth­er dis­ap­peared into infin­i­ty. I saw a bird fly across it From a…

Poetry: The First Fruit Salad

Have I men­tioned how much I love hav­ing good poet­ry just appear in my email and LJ feeds each day? It is soul-sus­tain­ing. The First Fruit Sal­ad by Joanne Lim­burg from femenis­mo One June night she left her hus­band sleep­ing in the…

Sunday Poetry Fix

The Day I Walked To Aca­pul­co By John Isbell I set out just before dawn, After much con­sult­ing of maps and trigonom­e­try. My first step took me to Tul­sa. It was 10 a.m., and peo­ple were going about their busi­ness. I…

Spring

Spring –Mary Oliv­er from New and Select­ed Poems Some­where     a black bear       has just risen from sleep         and is star­ing down the moun­tain.      All night        in the brisk and shal­low rest­less­ness          of ear­ly spring I think of her,      her four…

More Poetry

The Oth­er Door By John Isbell This poem, if read right, Unlocks the secrets of the uni­verse. It con­tains a galaxy. It con­tains an arch­i­pel­ago of galax­ies. It con­tains an ant. It con­tains a sun­set. It con­tains num­ber and geom­e­try. It con­tains every…

Poem: Angels

Angels –Mau­rya Simon from Ghost Orchid Who are with­out mer­cy, Who con­fide in trum­pet flow­ers, Who car­ry loose change in their pock­ets, Who dress in black vel­vet, Who wince and fid­get like bats, Who bal­ance their haloes on hatracks, Who watch reruns of…

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