Browsing Tag

poetry

  • borrowed words.

    September After the flare of the match strike, we’re off. I tryto stop to wave, “bye.” by Adriana Stimola…

    September 5, 2019 2 Comments
  • borrowed words.

    I see it as it looked one afternoonIn August,-by a fresh soft breeze o’erblown.The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon,A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.The shining waters with pale currents strewn,The…

    July 23, 2019 2 Comments
  • borrowed words.

    The truth is, I’ve never cared for the National Anthem. If you think about it, it’s not a good song. Too high for most of us with “the rockets’ red glare” and then there…

    July 4, 2019 18 Comments
  • borrowed words.

    Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop. Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control. Open the door, then close it behind you. Take a breath offered…

    April 22, 2019 5 Comments
  • borrowed words.

    “I have a different story to tell at 75 than I did at 25. Fifty years makes a difference and so if there’s a poet listening to us right now, one of the things…

    February 11, 2019 7 Comments
  • how to know it’s september.

    In cakes, plums. At night, breezes. Through hair, brushes.  On heads, pigtails. Over shoulders, backpacks. In pouches, pencils. Inside t-shirts, names. On morning sidewalks, footsteps. Under the fence, asters. Among the milkweed, monarchs. In…

    September 4, 2018 21 Comments
  • how to know it’s july.

    In train cars, beach-bound city folk. On corn cobs, butter. At bedtime, fans. Before dawn, birdsong. For breakfast, birthday cake. Under fingernails, cherry juice. On shoulders, arms, legs, and bellies, still more sunscreen. Between…

    July 2, 2018 8 Comments
  • borrowed words.

    The first of the neighborhood roses and these words: 1 Only now, in spring, can the place be named: tulip poplar, daffodil, crab apple, dogwood, budding pink-green, white-green, yellow on my knowing. All winter…

    May 21, 2018 5 Comments
  • borrowed words.

    Curious Silas and an excerpt from the loveliest springtime poem, in honor of National Poetry Month: Every few minutes, he wants to march the trail of flattened rye grass back to the house of…

    April 5, 2018 11 Comments