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Poetry

Li Po was correct about collecting

books for a writer’s personal pleasure.

Reading copies just don’t last forever.

They are subject to mold, worms; common dust

damages them. Pages turn pale yellow,

fray, become brittle, even turn to dust.

If they are any good—like Homer or James Joyce—

they are reprinted each generation.

 

A writer should not overly admire

another writer, not even great ones

because in the end that’s a distraction.

Best to heave your shoulder to the iron plow

and drive your crooked furrow as you will

without ever thinking of our great Will!


Crack, Crack, Crack

sings sheet ice in winter when the sun shouts

and ice melts slowly with drip, drip, drip

while geese land in flurry on frozen pond.

 

Tweet, Tweet, Tweet

say bright birds when the first buds of Spring bloom

from apple, cherry, and promising plum

on the rolling hills of heavenly breath.

 

Moo, Moo, Moo

say brindled cows in drowsy summer heat

as they eat green grass and dandelion

under blue sky until haloed moonrise.

 

Clop, Clop, Clop,

halt, hooves of horses on rural lane

when Autumn leaves turn ocher, yellow, brown

as sun sets orange over western hills.


At six I had a yellow bike, 
its pedals thick with wooden blocks, 
so that my rubber soles could reach. 
I rode up to the empty school, 
then racing downhill, missed the turn
and pitched into a vacant lot,
tangling legs, spokes, and rocks.

I visit that place now and then, 
see little slope, little danger in 
a crash. There’s no mnemonic scar.
But facts can’t curb the quickening 
of that leap into air....


The stolid turkey in my freezer

has been hibernating a full year,

a left-over from the year before.

 

Melting in my kitchen sink

like some sci-fi experiment,

I expected his wings to furl, fly

into the oven and blush red-brown

like leaves littering the landscape

of a pastoral that was habitual

under my wandering feet in autumn

as I walk unconscious in a world

teaming with wonder sleeping

under the crackling patina of morning frost

which evokes humble Thanksgiving.


First snowfall is usually a mere prank,

as it was this morning with a dusting

of snow, roads and skies clear as a whistle.

But during the night coydogs were howling

as if they had cornered over-sized prey—

deer most likely, maybe two miles away

in deep darkness before rain turned to snow.

 

That snow was so exciting for my son

who, at almost four, built his first snowman

last winter with hat, coal eyes, scarf, straw broom.

I don’t know what it is that attracts him

to snow sculpture: I admit doing it

when I, too, was that age decades ago,

frolicking in fluffy, malleable snow!


by Marcelo Quevedo, translated by Liz McNicoll in Poetry
Fri Apr 8th, 2016

When sunlight beams off balconies

and cumulous clouds barely move

while grass sleeps in green contentment,

I pretend to stroll in blue air

along a gurgling embankment

with a froth...

by Loredana Ingenito in Poetry
Fri Mar 18th, 2016
What are they there for
What’s their purpose
Elevated there in the galaxy, looking beautiful
All those planets
No life on them
I am perplexed by the things that don’t...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat Mar 5th, 2016

Sub-zero weather, bluebird on bent bough,

snow crunching nearly up to knobby knees--

memory of fire flickering flame

in my mind like long-lost childhood dreams.

Do bluebirds dream of sky...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Feb 15th, 2016

Writing names in snow with my grandson,

we celebrate our temporality

before wind, wandering eyes, history,

which appears fleeting as mountain snow-melt

or roadside plough-sludge in the valley.

When children...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Feb 7th, 2016

Striped brown chipmunk scrabbled into food pantry—

Bully cat Willie chased him through the door.

Once the thing settled amid canned bottles

Of pickles, jams and jellies, wee tin cans,...

by Rennie McQuilkin in Poetry
Tue Jan 26th, 2016

The Digging

 

It's that time of year,
the hedgerows hung with bittersweet.
Potato time.

How early the freeze, I'd say
if we were speaking. We're

...
by Jonathan Wells in Poetry
Fri Jan 22nd, 2016

His sandals were found

pointing south from the cave

next to his drinking cup. The vines

he’d staked tailed into the ravine

where the river was sinewy

over the rocks....

by Michaela Coplen in Poetry
Fri Jan 15th, 2016

where they were basically giving away food for free.

Of course that’s why we went there—each of us empty-bellied

and wanting warmth, the blood rising to blush

on our wind-chapped cheeks. The butternut squash soup...

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