The Journey –Mary Oliver From Dream Work One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice— though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old…
Poem: Catechism for a witch’s child
Catechism for a witch’s child –J.L. Stanley When they ask to see your gods your book of prayers show them lines drawn delicately with veins on the underside of a bird’s wing tell them you believe in giant sycamores mottled…
Poem: There is a land
There is a land – a Motherland of vast imaginative spaces and absolute belonging her open heart a deep well where all draw and drink freely and fully the waters of life, where we meet unknown immediately recognized neighbors share…
Poem: Nine Spice Mix
Nine Spice Mix –Zeina Azzam This spice mix is featured in many of the dishes in this book, lending them a uniquely Palestinian flavor. —Reem Kassis, The Palestinian Table First they tango on my tongue, nimble couples careening, then together…
Poem: Sunday
Sunday –Cecily Parks So this is Sunday evening under the live oak behind the kitchen where the Rose of Sharon spills purple tea onto the grass, the yellow bells sound yellow alarms from tall stalks, and the sunflowers peep over…
Poem: Mr. Chairman Takes His Leave
Mr. Chairman Takes His Leave –Rosemary Catacalos As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles. —Walt Whitman en memoria William Rashall Sinkin, 1913–2014 Whitman, you once told me, is democracy on the page, messy and imperfect as we…
Poem: April Chores
April Chores by Jane Kenyon When I take the chilly tools from the shed’s darkness, I come out to a world made new by heat and light. The snake basks and dozes on a large flat stone. It reared and…
Poem: A Modified Villanelle for My Childhood
A Modified Villanelle for My Childhood –Suzi F. Garcia with some help from Ahmad I wanna write lyrical, but all I got is magical. My book needs a poem talkin bout I remember when Something more autobiographical Mi familia wanted…
Poem: The Dark Night (XVIII)
The Dark Night (XVIII) –May Sinclair Our love is woven Of a thousand strands— The cool fragrance of the first lilac At morning, The first dew on the grass, The smell of wild mint in the wood, The pungent and…
Poem: pity this busy monster, manunkind
pity this busy monster, manunkind –e. e. cummings pity this busy monster, manunkind, not. Progress is a comfortable disease: your victim (death and life safely beyond) plays with the bigness of his littleness — electrons deify one razorblade into a…