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  1. TopTop #1951
    Chris Dec's Avatar
    Chris Dec
    Supporting Member

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Death of Her Dishes

    There was a phone call.
    When she got the news, she chipped a plate on the faucet,
    and dropped it in the sink to finish it off.
    Then she grabbed two more and hurled them down hard onto the tile floor.
    This was good, the mass of shards and rubble.
    She could create something with this, as soon as the destruction was done.

    When she got the call, there was no time to think.
    The news spread through her like the blue star that travels
    across the space in the lightbulb
    just before it burns out.

    She stared at the phone.
    It took the last flying plate.

    When so many hours passed that
    She couldn’t remember where the vacuum was,
    she sat and stared at the new and hopeful form the dishes took.

    • • •

    I know someday I will get the call, and perhaps I will be holding a plate.
    Maybe I will let it go, send it crashing into that dark passage from dish to dust.
    Seeing every table set, every saddened supper, how a family fills the space,
    I will look upon that pile of broken bone china and unfulfilled desires.

    Where is forgiveness kept in the household?
    Is it in the cupboard... or on the slipping plate...
    Is it in the pile...
    Is this how the universe began?

    Chris Dec 2001


    Quote Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson: View Post
    The Day Will Come
    And the day will come when you hit the switch, but the room will remain dark.
    Your computer will not hum, your monitor will not glow, and you will have no flashing games to play.
    The gas pump will remain silent, and you will be forced to walk.
    If you don’t know how to start a fire, you will be cold.
    If you are wealthy, you will be greatly inconvenienced.
    If you live under a bridge, you will not notice the difference.

    - Armando Garcia
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  2. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  3. TopTop #1952
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Wet Weather
    Tonight I track them down, slugs in the primroses, snails
    in the hyacinths. Even before their sweet bells open,
    chewed to slippery brown nubs. I cut the slugs in half,
    harvest baby snails off the chrysanthemums, collect
    heavy shells in a plastic bag, crunch them all underfoot,
    empty this slaughter in the compost. Trying to save the vegetables.
    The fog's in, somewhere a dog won't stop barking. In our house
    you're dying, going out of yourself, leaving this world.
    When we say God to one another, I don't know who God is.
    I decide against the snails and slugs, but they keep on,
    greedy for hyacinth and lettuce. From the other side
    of a gate she's too small to open, a child's crying. She
    can't get back to her world of yard and toys, her house.
    Outside the circle of my flashlight, the snails
    leave silver lines, patterns in the dirt. Outdoors
    in this dripping weather, a knife in my hand,
    wet plastic sticking to itself in slime and bits of shell,
    I want the child's mother here, her answering words:
    "It's all right now. Didn't you know I'd come?"

    - Jeanne Lohmann
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  5. TopTop #1953
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Rain Woman

    She wakes me at four in the morning
    although the mad drumming that breaks my sleep
    is more the resistance of corrugated fiberglass
    than the wild velocity of her downpour.

    I’m on the porch, zipped into a sleeping bag.
    She’s glissading in sheets around the porch.
    The roof is running strong interference
    and as the saying goes, three’s a crowd.

    I want to hear her, only her.
    I want to listen with my feathered head
    tucked in a downy wing, to be warm
    and dry in my den, ears alert

    eyes staring into the wet dark. I want to hear
    how she eases silver into velvet moss
    how she spatters the duff, pummels dusty leaves
    so I get up and walk into the storm.

    Just before dawn, she disappears.
    I become a leaf shedding her shining
    a blade of grass silently sipping
    a calm, clean, very cold stone.


    - Cynthia Poten
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  6. Gratitude expressed by 4 members:

  7. TopTop #1954
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Childhood Prayers


    Yes, as a child I prayed,
    because the nights in bed
    were long and dark
    and the days


    had already shattered my mind
    into gleaming fragments
    moving quickly upon
    a flame of fear.


    Yes, I prayed
    into the darkness,
    for there were holes
    in the safe world
    and even my parents
    were not always
    the people I knew.


    I tried to hold our family
    safely in my arms
    so that it would not shatter too,
    along the fault lines I knew,
    and leave me all alone.


    I prayed and never thought
    these prayers trying to find
    their way upward through thick
    layers of tangled, textured shadow


    were answered, but it may be
    the prayers themselves were
    the answer needed then.


    - Max Reif
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    Dre
  9. TopTop #1955
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Having intended to merely pick on an oil company,
    the poem goes awry


    Never before have I so resembled British Petroleum.
    They – it? – are concerned about the environment.
    I – it? – am concerned about the environment.
    They – him? – convey their concern through commercials,
    in which a man talks softly about the importance
    of the environment. I – doodad? – convey my concern
    through poems, in which my fingers type softly
    about the importance of the Earth. They – oligarchs? –
    have painted their slogans green. I– ineffectual
    left-leaning emotional black-hole of a self-sempahore? –
    recycle. Isn’t a corporation technically a person
    and responsible? Aren’t I technically a person
    and responsible? In a legal sense, in a regal sense,
    if romanticism holds sway? To give you a feel
    for how soft his voice is, imagine a kitty
    that eats only felt wearing a sable coat on a bed
    of dandelion fluff under sheets of the foreskins
    of seraphim, that’s how soothingly they want to drill
    in Alaska, in your head, just in case. And let’s be honest,
    we mostly want them to, we mostly want to get to the bank
    by two so we can get out of town by three and beat
    the traffic, traffic is murder this time of year.
    How far would you walk for bread? For the flour
    to make bread? A yard, a mile, a year, a life?
    Now you ask me, when are you going to fix your bike
    and ride it to work? Past the plain horses
    and spotted cows and the spotted horses and plain cows,
    along the river, to the left of the fallen-down barn
    and the right of the falling-down barn, up the hill,
    through the Pentecostal bend and past the Methodist
    edifice, through the speed trap, beside the art gallery
    and cigar shop, past the tattoo parlor and the bar
    and the other bar and the other other bar and the other
    other other bar and the bar that closed, where I swear,
    al-anon meets, since I’m wondering, what is the value
    of the wick or wire of the soul, be it emotional
    or notional, now that oceans are wheezing to a stop?



    - Bob Hicok
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  11. TopTop #1956
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Getting There


    You take a final step and, look, suddenly
    You're there. You've arrived
    At the one place all your drudgery was aimed for:
    This common ground
    Where you stretch out, pressing your cheek to sandstone.


    What did you want
    To be? You'll remember soon. You feel like tinder
    Under a burning glass,
    A luminous point of change. The sky is pulsing
    Against the cracked horizon,
    Holding it firm till the arrival of stars
    In time with your heartbeats.
    Like wind etching rock, you've made a lasting impression
    On the self you were
    By having come all this way through all this welter
    Under your own power,
    Though your traces on a map would make an unpromising
    Meandering lifeline.


    What have you learned so far? You'll find out later,
    Telling it haltingly
    Like a dream, that lost traveler's dream
    Under the last hill
    Where through the night you'll take your time out of mind
    To unburden yourself
    Of elements along elementary paths
    By the break of morning.


    You've earned this worn-down, hard, incredible sight
    Called Here and Now.
    Now, what you make of it means everything,
    Means starting over:
    The life in your hands is neither here nor there
    But getting there,
    So you're standing again and breathing, beginning another
    Journey without regret
    Forever, being your own unpeaceable kingdom,
    The end of endings.




    - David Wagoner
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  12. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  13. TopTop #1957
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Weather Report
    The vultures of this landscape came to call
    this morning—found a bare-limbed tree outside
    my kitchen window, settled in & held
    my gaze, big tar blobs against a milky sky:
    We understand you, their presence informed me,
    And I you, I told them in silence.
    Right now
    this day can’t make up its mind—sun’s half out
    but rain’s in those clouds. It it’s that cold wind—
    driven stuff that swats your eyes like a drink
    full of crushed ice thrown in in your face, I’ll stay
    indoors, count my failures & petty crimes,
    loathe my life, and completely understand
    why friends and loved ones keep their distance.
    The barometer yo-yos my mental state—
    one day I’m a happy old dude, kitchen
    dancer, car-driving harmonizer, hilltop
    walker delighted by the world.
    Next day
    it’s the big not, the mega-never. And where
    are you breeze-blown death birds now that I need you?
    This mean rain’s rotting the starch right out of me.
    Come down from your perch, my beauties, I’m
    opening doors and windows, I’m looking for snacks
    in the back of the fridge. Here—try roosting
    on this chair back. Please just sit with me
    around my table. I’ll hold up both ends
    of our conversation. It’s like forever
    I’ve wanted to talk to you. Here—let me
    turn off these lights—I know you like the dark.
    - David Huddle
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  14. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  15. TopTop #1958
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    After


    after chopping off all the arms that reached out to me;
    after boarding up all the windows and doors;

    after filling all the pits with poisoned water;
    after building my house on a rock of a no,
    inaccessible to flattery and fear;

    after cutting out my tongue and eating it;
    after hurling handfuls of silence and
    monosyllables of scorn at my loves;

    after forgetting my name;
    and the name of my birthplace;
    and the name of my race;

    after judging and sentencing myself
    to perpetual waiting,
    and perpetual loneliness, I heard
    against the stones of my dungeon of syllogisms,

    the humid, tender, insistent
    onset of spring.

    - Octavio Paz
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  16. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  17. TopTop #1959
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Metamorphoses


    There were the stories Ovid wrote.
    There is nothing burning there.
    Read for your life or not at all.
    Curiosity has its fixed bourn.

    Change of Myrrha into pith.
    Change, change, change, what should change
    but the grasp of habit. The refusal
    to abide in change. Fear
    of Proteus, God-Who-Changes-Too-Fast.

    The monkey of the mind seeking
    the next attention fleeting from tree
    to tree, going nowhere for nothing,
    not for food, for fun, for fear.
    Flying as a form of marking time in place.
    Bludgeoning the ground with consistency.

    Myrrha’s Refusal
    births Adonis.
    Yes, and Venus’ oval eye
    falls into the jail of his beauty.
    She spaniels him
    everywhere.

    Atalanta’s dress falls to her feet
    as she preps to race naked.
    And Hippomenes who’s mocked
    her for her slaughtered suitors
    cries out in his brains for her now.

    And she for him.
    He’s so lovely.
    If he outrun her he wins her.
    If she him,
    he dies.

    He wants only three apples
    of red gold
    to do it.
    Yes.

    Her fleet feet fled for the first gold ball.
    Such a trinket. He, from Lady Venus
    tutored how to toss it.
    The second – pitched as she passed him –
    and she caught it in midflight
    flying to the fatal finish.

    Only one left. Far ahead of him she,
    she saw it lob into the arroyo
    dark. Oh, heavy laden with two,
    she hoped to spurn the last
    and win. But Lady Venus said, No. So
    down among the brambles she sought it
    and won the lost loss.

    The gore of slaughtered suitors
    was not to be her rug. And he,
    Hippomenes? He, fool, forgot
    to thank Venus for it. Who made them into
    lions as they fucked.

    Venus only once forgot.
    Aloft she flew with a taunt
    to a youth who hunted, and
    his dogs took scent
    of a boar who gored him up his groin.
    She saw, came down, gathered
    into her arms the perfect dead
    Adonis. Scored her face with anguish
    and with its blood mixed with his
    into pomegranates he was changed.

    So I do not take Lorenzo de’ Medici’s
    “Nothing lasts. Only death” as mine,
    when what is Change but death,
    death coming like a flower of spring
    whose nectar is a venom that can cure?


    - Bruce Moody
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  18. TopTop #1960
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    In honor of National Poetry Month the Sebastopol Center for the Arts invites you to join us for a delightful evening of poetry Thursday, April 10 at 7:00 PM. Twenty poetry lovers from the community, including Sonoma County Poet Laureate Katherine Hastings, will read or recite their favorite poems.

    The event is free and refreshments will be served. Please plan to join us.

    The Sebastopol Center for the Arts is located at 282 South High Street, Sebastopol.




    The Morning’s News

    The morning’s news drives sleep out of the head
    at night. Uselessness and horror hold the eyes
    open to the dark. Weary, we lie awake
    in the agony of the old giving birth to the new
    without assurance that the new will be better.
    I look at my son, whose eyes are like a young god’s,
    they are so open to the world.
    I look at my sloping fields now turning
    green with the young grass of April. What must I do
    to go free? I think I must put on
    a deathlier knowledge, and prepare to die
    rather than enter into the design of man’s hate.
    I will purge my mind of the airy claims
    of church and state. I will serve the earth
    and not pretend my life could better serve.
    Another morning comes with its strange cure.
    The earth is news. Though the river floods
    and the spring is cold, my heart goes on,
    faithful to a mystery in a cloud,
    and the summer’s garden continues its descent
    through me, toward the ground.

    - Wendell Berry
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  19. TopTop #1961
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Master of the Universe

    Master of the Universe
    laid an egg,
    sat upon it for eternity,
    Dreamed it was an oyster
    discovered by a child
    visiting the sea.
    Child pried it open
    found a pearl
    which became the world
    as we know it,
    It hangs to this day
    around the child’s neck
    while the Master rests patiently
    upon the egg
    inside
    of all things.
    - Gary Turchin
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  21. TopTop #1962
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Saturn's Rings


    Last night I saw the rings of Saturn

    for the first time, that brilliant band
    of icy crystals and dust. Mirrors
    shepherding the light, collecting it
    like pollen or manna
    or pails of sweet clear water drawn
    from the depths of an ancient well.
    The gleam poured through my pupils
    into this small, temporary body,
    my wrinkled brain in its eggshell skull,
    my tunneling blood, breasts that remember
    the sting and flush of milk.
    Saturn, its frozen rings fire-white,
    reflecting the sun from a billion miles.
    Maybe there's a word in another language
    for when distance dissolves into time.
    How are we changed when we stand out
    under the fat stars of summer,
    our pores opening in the night?
    The earth from Saturn is a pale blue orb,
    smaller than the heart of whoever you love.
    You don't forget the poles of the earth
    turning to slush,
    you don't forget the turtles
    burning in the Gulf.
    Burger King at the end of the street
    is frying perfectly round patties,
    the cows off I-5 stand ankle deep
    in excrement. The television
    spreads its blue wings over the window
    of the house across from mine
    where someone's husband pressed a gun
    against the ridged roof of his mouth.
    This choreography of ruin, the world breaking
    like glass under a microscope,
    the way it doesn't crack all at once,
    but spreads out from the damaged cavities.
    Still for a moment it all recedes.
    The backyard potatoes swell quietly
    buried beneath their canopy of leaves.
    The wind rubs its hands through the trees.


    - Ellen Bass
    Last edited by Barry; 04-05-2014 at 02:03 PM.
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  22. TopTop #1963
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Mask of Anarchy


    Written on the occasion of the massacre carried out by the British Government
    at Peterloo, Manchester 1819


    As I lay asleep in Italy
    There came a voice from over the Sea,
    And with great power it forth led me
    To walk in the visions of Poesy.


    I met Murder on the way -
    He had a mask like Castlereagh -
    Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
    Seven blood-hounds followed him:


    All were fat; and well they might
    Be in admirable plight,
    For one by one, and two by two,
    He tossed the human hearts to chew
    Which from his wide cloak he drew.


    Next came Fraud, and he had on,
    Like Eldon, an ermined gown;
    His big tears, for he wept well,
    Turned to mill-stones as they fell.


    And the little children, who
    Round his feet played to and fro,
    Thinking every tear a gem,
    Had their brains knocked out by them.


    Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
    And the shadows of the night,
    Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
    On a crocodile rode by.


    And many more Destructions played
    In this ghastly masquerade,
    All disguised, even to the eyes,
    Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.


    Last came Anarchy: he rode
    On a white horse, splashed with blood;
    He was pale even to the lips,
    Like Death in the Apocalypse.


    And he wore a kingly crown;
    And in his grasp a sceptre shone;
    On his brow this mark I saw -
    'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!'


    With a pace stately and fast,
    Over English land he passed,
    Trampling to a mire of blood
    The adoring multitude.


    And a mighty troop around,
    With their trampling shook the ground,
    Waving each a bloody sword,
    For the service of their Lord.


    And with glorious triumph, they
    Rode through England proud and gay,
    Drunk as with intoxication
    Of the wine of desolation.


    O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
    Passed the Pageant swift and free,
    Tearing up, and trampling down;
    Till they came to London town.


    And each dweller, panic-stricken,
    Felt his heart with terror sicken
    Hearing the tempestuous cry
    Of the triumph of Anarchy.


    For with pomp to meet him came,
    Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
    The hired murderers, who did sing
    'Thou art God, and Law, and King.


    'We have waited, weak and lone
    For thy coming, Mighty One!
    Our Purses are empty, our swords are cold,
    Give us glory, and blood, and gold.'


    Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,
    To the earth their pale brows bowed;
    Like a bad prayer not over loud,
    Whispering - 'Thou art Law and God.' -


    Then all cried with one accord,
    'Thou art King, and God and Lord;
    Anarchy, to thee we bow,
    Be thy name made holy now!'


    And Anarchy, the skeleton,
    Bowed and grinned to every one,
    As well as if his education
    Had cost ten millions to the nation.


    For he knew the Palaces
    Of our Kings were rightly his;
    His the sceptre, crown and globe,
    And the gold-inwoven robe.


    So he sent his slaves before
    To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
    And was proceeding with intent
    To meet his pensioned Parliament


    When one fled past, a maniac maid,
    And her name was Hope, she said:
    But she looked more like Despair,
    And she cried out in the air:


    'My father Time is weak and gray
    With waiting for a better day;
    See how idiot-like he stands,
    Fumbling with his palsied hands!


    He has had child after child,
    And the dust of death is piled
    Over every one but me -
    Misery, oh, Misery!'


    Then she lay down in the street,
    Right before the horses' feet,
    Expecting, with a patient eye,
    Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.


    When between her and her foes
    A mist, a light, an image rose,
    Small at first, and weak, and frail
    Like the vapour of a vale:


    Till as clouds grow on the blast,
    Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
    And glare with lightnings as they fly,
    And speak in thunder to the sky,


    It grew - a Shape arrayed in mail
    Brighter than the viper's scale,
    And upborne on wings whose grain
    Was as the light of sunny rain.


    On its helm, seen far away,
    A planet, like the Morning's, lay;
    And those plumes its light rained through
    Like a shower of crimson dew.


    With step as soft as wind it passed
    O'er the heads of men - so fast
    That they knew the presence there,
    And looked, - but all was empty air.


    As flowers beneath May's footstep waken,
    As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken,
    As waves arise when loud winds call,
    Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.


    And the prostrate multitude
    Looked - and ankle-deep in blood,
    Hope, that maiden most serene,
    Was walking with a quiet mien:


    And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
    Lay dead earth upon the earth;
    The Horse of Death tameless as wind
    Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
    To dust the murderers thronged behind.


    A rushing light of clouds and splendour,
    A sense awakening and yet tender
    Was heard and felt - and at its close
    These words of joy and fear arose


    As if their own indignant Earth
    Which gave the sons of England birth
    Had felt their blood upon her brow,
    And shuddering with a mother's throe


    Had turned every drop of blood
    By which her face had been bedewed
    To an accent unwithstood, -
    As if her heart had cried aloud:


    'Men of England, heirs of Glory,
    Heroes of unwritten story,
    Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
    Hopes of her, and one another;


    'Rise like Lions after slumber
    In unvanquishable number,
    Shake your chains to earth like dew
    Which in sleep had fallen on you -
    Ye are many - they are few.


    'What is Freedom? - ye can tell
    That which slavery is, too well -
    For its very name has grown
    To an echo of your own.


    'Tis to work and have such pay
    As just keeps life from day to day
    In your limbs, as in a cell
    For the tyrants' use to dwell,


    'So that ye for them are made
    Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,
    With or without your own will bent
    To their defence and nourishment.


    'Tis to see your children weak
    With their mothers pine and peak,
    When the winter winds are bleak, -
    They are dying whilst I speak.


    'Tis to hunger for such diet
    As the rich man in his riot
    Casts to the fat dogs that lie
    Surfeiting beneath his eye;


    'Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
    Take from Toil a thousandfold
    More that e'er its substance could
    In the tyrannies of old.


    'Paper coin - that forgery
    Of the title-deeds, which ye
    Hold to something of the worth
    Of the inheritance of Earth.


    'Tis to be a slave in soul
    And to hold no strong control
    Over your own wills, but be
    All that others make of ye.


    'And at length when ye complain
    With a murmur weak and vain
    'Tis to see the Tyrant's crew
    Ride over your wives and you -
    Blood is on the grass like dew.


    'Then it is to feel revenge
    Fiercely thirsting to exchange
    Blood for blood - and wrong for wrong -
    Do not thus when ye are strong.


    'Birds find rest, in narrow nest
    When weary of their wingèd quest
    Beasts find fare, in woody lair
    When storm and snow are in the air.


    'Asses, swine, have litter spread
    And with fitting food are fed;
    All things have a home but one -
    Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!


    'This is slavery - savage men
    Or wild beasts within a den
    Would endure not as ye do -
    But such ills they never knew.


    'What art thou Freedom? O! could slaves
    Answer from their living graves
    This demand - tyrants would flee
    Like a dream's dim imagery:


    'Thou art not, as impostors say,
    A shadow soon to pass away,
    A superstition, and a name
    Echoing from the cave of Fame.


    'For the labourer thou art bread,
    And a comely table spread
    From his daily labour come
    In a neat and happy home.


    'Thou art clothes, and fire, and food
    For the trampled multitude -
    No - in countries that are free
    Such starvation cannot be
    As in England now we see.


    'To the rich thou art a check,
    When his foot is on the neck
    Of his victim, thou dost make
    That he treads upon a snake.


    'Thou art Justice - ne'er for gold
    May thy righteous laws be sold
    As laws are in England - thou
    Shield'st alike the high and low.


    'Thou art Wisdom - Freemen never
    Dream that God will damn for ever
    All who think those things untrue
    Of which Priests make such ado.


    'Thou art Peace - never by thee
    Would blood and treasure wasted be
    As tyrants wasted them, when all
    Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.


    'What if English toil and blood
    Was poured forth, even as a flood?
    It availed, Oh, Liberty,
    To dim, but not extinguish thee.


    'Thou art Love - the rich have kissed
    Thy feet, and like him following Christ,
    Give their substance to the free
    And through the rough world follow thee,


    'Or turn their wealth to arms, and make
    War for thy belovèd sake
    On wealth, and war, and fraud - whence they
    Drew the power which is their prey.


    'Science, Poetry, and Thought
    Are thy lamps; they make the lot
    Of the dwellers in a cot
    So serene, they curse it not.


    'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
    All that can adorn and bless
    Art thou - let deeds, not words, express
    Thine exceeding loveliness.


    'Let a great Assembly be
    Of the fearless and the free
    On some spot of English ground
    Where the plains stretch wide around.


    'Let the blue sky overhead,
    The green earth on which ye tread,
    All that must eternal be
    Witness the solemnity.


    'From the corners uttermost
    Of the bounds of English coast;
    From every hut, village, and town
    Where those who live and suffer moan,


    'From the workhouse and the prison
    Where pale as corpses newly risen,
    Women, children, young and old
    Groan for pain, and weep for cold -


    'From the haunts of daily life
    Where is waged the daily strife
    With common wants and common cares
    Which sows the human heart with tares -


    'Lastly from the palaces
    Where the murmur of distress
    Echoes, like the distant sound
    Of a wind alive around


    'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,
    Where some few feel such compassion
    For those who groan, and toil, and wail
    As must make their brethren pale -


    'Ye who suffer woes untold,
    Or to feel, or to behold
    Your lost country bought and sold
    With a price of blood and gold -


    'Let a vast assembly be,
    And with great solemnity
    Declare with measured words that ye
    Are, as God has made ye, free -


    'Be your strong and simple words
    Keen to wound as sharpened swords,
    And wide as targes let them be,
    With their shade to cover ye.


    'Let the tyrants pour around
    With a quick and startling sound,
    Like the loosening of a sea,
    Troops of armed emblazonry.


    Let the charged artillery drive
    Till the dead air seems alive
    With the clash of clanging wheels,
    And the tramp of horses' heels.


    'Let the fixèd bayonet
    Gleam with sharp desire to wet
    Its bright point in English blood
    Looking keen as one for food.


    'Let the horsemen's scimitars
    Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars
    Thirsting to eclipse their burning
    In a sea of death and mourning.


    'Stand ye calm and resolute,
    Like a forest close and mute,
    With folded arms and looks which are
    Weapons of unvanquished war,


    'And let Panic, who outspeeds
    The career of armèd steeds
    Pass, a disregarded shade
    Through your phalanx undismayed.


    'Let the laws of your own land,
    Good or ill, between ye stand
    Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
    Arbiters of the dispute,


    'The old laws of England - they
    Whose reverend heads with age are gray,
    Children of a wiser day;
    And whose solemn voice must be
    Thine own echo - Liberty!


    'On those who first should violate
    Such sacred heralds in their state
    Rest the blood that must ensue,
    And it will not rest on you.


    'And if then the tyrants dare
    Let them ride among you there,
    Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, -
    What they like, that let them do.


    'With folded arms and steady eyes,
    And little fear, and less surprise,
    Look upon them as they slay
    Till their rage has died away.


    'Then they will return with shame
    To the place from which they came,
    And the blood thus shed will speak
    In hot blushes on their cheek.


    'Every woman in the land
    Will point at them as they stand -
    They will hardly dare to greet
    Their acquaintance in the street.


    'And the bold, true warriors
    Who have hugged Danger in wars
    Will turn to those who would be free,
    Ashamed of such base company.


    'And that slaughter to the Nation
    Shall steam up like inspiration,
    Eloquent, oracular;
    A volcano heard afar.


    'And these words shall then become
    Like Oppression's thundered doom
    Ringing through each heart and brain,
    Heard again - again - again -


    'Rise like Lions after slumber
    In unvanquishable number -
    Shake your chains to earth like dew
    Which in sleep had fallen on you -
    Ye are many - they are few.'


    - Percy Bysshe Shelley
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  23. Gratitude expressed by:

  24. TopTop #1964
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Common

    Imagine being common, crow-common
    Lupine-common, an oak surrounded by dry,
    Wild grasses common.

    One day, I cross a high school parking lot,
    Common asphalt, meeting my common soles.
    Before me, an explosion of gulls,
    White as a bride's dress, shoot as one
    Up, then spill over, a fountain pouring perfectly
    Each bird, a bead of liquid life. Again,
    They explode, shoot skyward and spill over
    Again and again, threaded through by trails
    Of blue-black crows, woven into the flying
    Fabric by necessity, desire and instinct.

    I comment to a man pushing a compost can,
    Remark at the remarkable. He says, "Oh,
    They do that every day. At lunch the students,
    Leave behind bits of bread," treasures
    From barely-noticed food, common fare eaten daily.

    I want to be that common,
    Common as the gulls, rising and descending,
    And the crows, weaving their way
    To the feast, that bread,
    That common manna.

    - Rebecca del Rio
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  25. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  26. TopTop #1965
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Dream Gardener
    For My Brother Michael (April 7, 1950 - February 1, 2007)


    You arrive in my dream
    planting figs in my garden walls.
    “These figs can be found all over the world,” you say.


    Even now, as I send these words
    across the night divide,
    Lovers are tasting voluptuous sweetness,
    delectable orbs
    bearing ripe possibility and promise.


    Walls disguised as mortar and mud
    are reborn as miracles of life,
    invisible riches
    coaxed from the cracks
    of what has hollowed and dried,
    tended into their own becoming
    against all odds,
    by the dream gardener’s hands.


    I wonder about those worldwide tasting strangers,
    are they swallowing their fate,
    partaking of its bittersweet flavors,
    whether heaven or hell?


    When expelled from the garden
    like you,
    have they found their own beauty
    at the edges of loss,
    made their particular peace
    with freedom and fear?


    Or have they thrust themselves
    righteous as beacons
    away from this earth?
    Offered themselves
    like gathered fruits
    to the limitless silence
    of the land of the dead,


    somehow arising
    from that dark altar of mystery,
    as seeds of hope,
    where figs grow from walls,
    and all the departed
    all over the worlds
    arrive as gardeners
    growing food for the hungry
    the humbled
    the heartsick
    they have destined to leave behind.


    - Terry Ebinger
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  27. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  28. TopTop #1966
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Wait


    Wait, for now.
    Distrust everything, if you have to.
    But trust the hours. Haven't they
    carried you everywhere, up to now?
    Personal events will become interesting again.
    Hair will become interesting.
    Pain will become interesting.
    Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
    Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
    their memories are what give them
    the need for other hands. And the desolation
    of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
    carved out of such tiny beings as we are
    asks to be filled; the need
    for the new love is faithfulness to the old.


    Wait.
    Don't go too early.
    You're tired. But everyone's tired.
    But no one is tired enough.
    Only wait a while and listen.
    Music of hair,
    Music of pain,
    music of looms weaving all our loves again.
    Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
    most of all to hear,
    the flute of your whole existence,
    rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.


    - Galway Kinnell
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  29. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  30. TopTop #1967
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Advaita


    You say "non-dual",

    Not that,
    Which describes this and that.
    Or even "not this, not that",
    Which implies a third thing.


    Let us see instead
    The pink blossom of the lotus
    Hanging in our chests
    And the golden window there
    Leading to our hearts.


    Let us hear the sound of the universe
    In our own voice,
    And feel everything here
    That God cannot.


    Let us know
    Our one soul
    By looking in each other's eyes.


    - B Sue
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  31. Gratitude expressed by:

  32. TopTop #1968
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Too Many Problems


    The dilemma, my love, is
    your life is constructed of all these
    magnificent problems,
    and were you to fix them all
    there'd be nothing left of you,
    save a naked beautiful soul
    weeping to God for love
    which is what we all are in the end.


    Instead of fixing all
    those problems
    perhaps it would be easier
    to let them go and just start
    weeping


    - Greg Kimura
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  33. Gratitude expressed by 4 members:

  34. TopTop #1969
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Inventing a Horse


    Inventing a horse is not easy.
    One must not only think of the horse.
    One must dig fence posts around him.
    One must include a place where horses like to live;

    or do when they live with humans like you.
    Slowly, you must walk him in the cold;
    feed him bran mash, apples;
    accustom him to the harness;

    holding in mind even when you are tired
    harnesses and tack cloths and saddle oil
    to keep the saddle clean as a face in the sun;
    one must imagine teaching him to run

    among the knuckles of tree roots,
    not to be skittish at first sight of timber wolves,
    and not to grow thin in the city,
    where at some point you will have to live;

    and one must imagine the absence of money.
    Most of all though: the living weight,
    the sound of his feet on the needles,
    and, since he is heavy, and real,

    and sometimes tired after a run
    down the river with a light whip at his side,
    one must imagine love
    in the mind that does not know love,

    an animal mind, a love that does not depend
    on your image of it,
    your understanding of it;
    indifferent to all that it lacks:

    a muzzle and two black eyes
    looking the day away, a field empty
    of everything but witch grass, fluent trees,
    and some piles of hay.


    - Meghan O’Rourke
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  35. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  36. TopTop #1970
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    For Art Warmouth (1936-2014)


    I have walked along many roads,
    and opened paths through brush,
    I have sailed over a hundred seas
    and tied up on a hundred shores.


    Everywhere I’ve gone I’ve seen
    excursions of sadness,
    angry and melancholy
    drunkards with black shadows,


    and academics in offstage clothes
    who watch, say nothing, and think
    they know, because they do not drink wine
    in the ordinary bars.


    Evil men who walk around
    polluting the earth. . .


    And everywhere I’ve been I’ve seen
    men who dance and play,
    when they can, and work
    the few inches of ground they have.


    If they turn up somewhere,
    they never ask where they are.
    When they take trips, they ride
    on the backs of old mules.


    They don’t know how to hurry,
    not even on holidays.
    They drink wine, if there is some,
    if not, cool water.


    These men are the good ones,
    who love, work, walk and dream.
    And on a day no different from the rest
    they lie down beneath the earth.


    - Antonio Machado
    (translated by Robert Bly)
    Last edited by Barry; 04-13-2014 at 02:31 PM.
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  37. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  38. TopTop #1971
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    At Last


    It is not true that every son
    and father come to this
    the rough bass of your voice
    singing the endless tune
    I'm sorry I'm sorry
    two words you have not spoken
    your ninety years till now
    Each time they seem to end
    or begin some long tale told
    in a tongue neither of of us speaks
    and in this room just you and I
    to hear those two small words
    drift down and settle in your hands
    where they have fallen on the sheets
    opened in defeat or peace
    I take one hand in two of mine
    and though it never was
    say It's all right It's all right
    and of course at last it is


    - Richard Lehnert
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  39. Gratitude expressed by 5 members:

  40. TopTop #1972
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Brahma


    If the red slayer think he slays,
    Or if the slain think he is slain,
    They know not well the subtle ways
    I keep, and pass, and turn again.


    Far or forgot to me is near;
    Shadow and sunlight are the same;
    The vanished gods to me appear;
    And one to me are shame and fame.


    They reckon ill who leave me out;
    When me they fly, I am the wings;
    I am the doubter and the doubt,
    I am the hymn the Brahmin sings.


    The strong gods pine for my abode,
    And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
    But thou, meek lover of the good!
    Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.


    - Ralph Waldo Emerson
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  41. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  42. TopTop #1973
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Ancient Egyptian Love

    This love is as good

    As oil and honey to the throat,
    As linen to the body,
    As fine garments to the gods,
    As incense to worshippers when they enter in,
    As the little seal-ring to my finger.

    It is like a ripe pear in a man's hand.
    It is like the dates we mix with wine.
    It is like the seeds the baker adds to bread.

    We will be together even when old age comes.

    And the days in between
    Will be food set before us,
    Dates and honey, bread and wine.

    Translated by Michael V. Fox




    This song/poem dates from the 19th or 20th Egyptian dynasty
    (ca. 1300-1100 B.C.E.).


    It was found written in hieroglyphics on a vase.
    Last edited by Barry; 04-16-2014 at 02:56 PM.
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  43. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  44. TopTop #1974
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Prothalamium
    Come, all you who are not satisfied
    as ruler in a lone, wallpapered room
    full of mute birds, and flowers that falsely bloom,
    and closets choked with dreams that long ago died!
    Come, let us sweep the old streets - like a bride;
    sweep out dead leaves with a relentless broom;
    prepare for Spring, as though he were our groom
    for whose light footstep eagerly we bide.
    We'll sweep out shadows, where the rats long fed;
    sweep out our shame - and in its place we'll make
    a bower for love, a splendid marriage-bed
    fragrant with flowers aquiver for the Spring.
    And when he comes, our murdered dreams shall wake;
    and when he comes, all the mute birds shall sing.


    - Aaron Kramer
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  45. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  46. TopTop #1975
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    April Prayer


    Just before the green begins there is the hint of green
    a blush of color, and the red buds thicken
    the ends of the maple’s branches and everything
    is poised before the start of a new world,
    which is really the same world
    just moving forward from bud
    to flower to blossom to fruit
    to harvest to sweet sleep, and the roots
    await the next signal, every signal
    every call a miracle and the switchboard
    is lighting up and the operators are
    standing by in the pledge drive we’ve
    all been listening to: Go make the call.


    - Stuart Kestenbaum
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  47. Gratitude expressed by:

  48. TopTop #1976
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Lunas de los arcángeles

    a Gabriel García Márquez


    Dice Gabriel el arcángel
    que por cada minuto
    que uno cierre los ojos
    se pierden sesenta segundos
    de luz -
    por eso vigila de noche
    y enciende velitas de azucenas,
    las estrellas sin cuenta,
    con su lámpara redonda
    de la luna plena.

    Dice Rafael el arcángel
    que por cada minuto
    que uno duerma
    se escapan sesenta peces
    de ensueño -
    por eso vaga la playa nocturna
    para coger los peces de azogue,
    las estrellas sin cuenta,
    en redes con el flotador
    de la luna plena.

    Dice Miguel el arcángel
    que por cada minuto
    que uno olvide
    se marchitan sesenta flores
    del recuerdo -
    por eso va por la noche
    segando con su espada de plata
    los jazmines de llama,
    las estrellas sin cuenta,
    que recoge en su escudo
    de la luna plena.

    © Rafael Jesús González 2015




    Moons of the Archangels

    for Gabriel García Márquez


    Gabriel the archangel says
    that for each minute
    one closes the eyes
    are lost sixty seconds
    of light -
    that is why he watches at night
    and lights votive candles of lilies,
    the stars beyond count,
    with his round lamp
    the full moon.

    Rafael the archangel says
    that for each minute
    one sleeps
    there escape sixty fishes
    of illusion -
    that is why he roams the night beach
    to catch the quicksilver fish,
    the stars beyond count,
    in nets with their float
    the full moon.

    Michael the archangel says
    that for each minute
    one forgets
    there wither sixty flowers
    of remembrance -
    that is why he goes through the night
    reaping with his silver sword
    the jasmines of flame,
    the stars beyond count,
    he gathers on his shield
    the full moon.

    - Rafael Jesús González 2014
    Last edited by Barry; 04-19-2014 at 01:08 PM.
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  49. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  50. TopTop #1977
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Easter Morning In Wales


    A garden inside me, unknown, secret,
    Neglected for years,
    The layers of its soil deep and thick.
    Trees in the corners with branching arms
    And the tangled briars like broken nets.


    Sunrise through the misted orchard,
    Morning sun turns silver on the pointed twigs.
    I have woken from the sleep of ages and I am not sure
    If I am really seeing, or dreaming,
    Or simply astonished
    Walking toward sunrise
    To have stumbled into the garden
    Where the stone was rolled from the tomb of longing.


    - David Whyte
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  51. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  52. TopTop #1978
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Hurricane


    Pistols shots ring out in the barroom night

    Enter Patty Valentine from the upper hall
    She sees the bartender in a pool of blood
    Cries out "My God they killed them all"
    Here comes the story of the Hurricane
    The man the authorities came to blame
    For something that he never done
    Put him in a prison cell but one time he could-a been
    The champion of the world.


    Three bodies lying there does Patty see
    And another man named Bello moving around mysteriously
    "I didn't do it" he says and he throws up his hands
    "I was only robbing the register I hope you understand
    I saw them leaving" he says and he stops
    "One of us had better call up the cops"
    And so Patty calls the cops
    And they arrive on the scene with their red lights flashing
    In the hot New Jersey night.


    Meanwhile far away in another part of town
    Rubin Carter and a couple of friends are driving around
    Number one contender for the middleweight crown
    Had no idea what kinda shit was about to go down
    When a cop pulled him over to the side of the road
    Just like the time before and the time before that
    In Patterson that's just the way things go
    If you're black you might as well not shown up on the street
    'Less you wanna draw the heat.


    Alfred Bello had a partner and he had a rap for the corps
    Him and Arthur Dexter Bradley were just out prowling around
    He said "I saw two men running out they looked like middleweights
    They jumped into a white car with out-of-state plates"
    And Miss Patty Valentine just nodded her head
    Cop said "Wait a minute boys this one's not dead"
    So they took him to the infirmary
    And though this man could hardly see
    They told him that he could identify the guilty men.


    Four in the morning and they haul Rubin in
    Take him to the hospital and they bring him upstairs
    The wounded man looks up through his one dying eye
    Says "Wha'd you bring him in here for ? He ain't the guy !"
    Yes here comes the story of the Hurricane
    The man the authorities came to blame
    For something that he never done
    Put in a prison cell but one time he could-a been
    The champion of the world.


    Four months later the ghettos are in flame
    Rubin's in South America fighting for his name
    While Arthur Dexter Bradley's still in the robbery game
    And the cops are putting the screws to him looking for somebody to blame
    "Remember that murder that happened in a bar ?"
    "Remember you said you saw the getaway car?"
    "You think you'd like to play ball with the law ?"
    "Think it might-a been that fighter you saw running that night ?"
    "Don't forget that you are white".


    Arthur Dexter Bradley said "I'm really not sure"
    Cops said "A boy like you could use a break
    We got you for the motel job and we're talking to your friend Bello
    Now you don't wanta have to go back to jail be a nice fellow
    You'll be doing society a favor
    That sonofabitch is brave and getting braver
    We want to put his ass in stir
    We want to pin this triple murder on him
    He ain't no Gentleman Jim".


    Rubin could take a man out with just one punch
    But he never did like to talk about it all that much
    It's my work he'd say and I do it for pay
    And when it's over I'd just as soon go on my way
    Up to some paradise
    Where the trout streams flow and the air is nice
    And ride a horse along a trail
    But then they took him to the jailhouse
    Where they try to turn a man into a mouse.


    All of Rubin's cards were marked in advance
    The trial was a pig-circus he never had a chance
    The judge made Rubin's witnesses drunkards from the slums
    To the white folks who watched he was a revolutionary bum
    And to the black folks he was just a crazy nigger
    No one doubted that he pulled the trigger
    And though they could not produce the gun
    The DA said he was the one who did the deed
    And the all-white jury agreed.


    Rubin Carter was falsely tried
    The crime was murder 'one' guess who testified
    Bello and Bradley and they both baldly lied
    And the newspapers they all went along for the ride
    How can the life of such a man
    Be in the palm of some fool's hand ?
    To see him obviously framed
    Couldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land
    Where justice is a game.


    Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
    Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
    While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell
    An innocent man in a living hell
    That's the story of the Hurricane
    But it won't be over till they clear his name
    And give him back the time he's done
    Put him in a prison cell but one time he could-a been
    The champion of the world.


    - Bob Dylan

    For Rubin "Hurricane" Carter (May 6, 1937 – April 20, 2014)
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  53. Gratitude expressed by 5 members:

  54. TopTop #1979
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    We Have A Beautiful Mother


    We have a beautiful
    Mother
    Her hills
    Are buffaloes
    Her buffaloes
    Hills.
    We have a beautiful
    Mother
    Her oceans
    Are wombs
    Her wombs
    Oceans.
    We have a beautiful
    Mother
    Her teeth
    The white stones
    At the edge
    Of the water
    The summer
    Grasses
    Her plentiful
    Hair.
    We have a beautiful
    Mother
    Her green lap
    Immense
    Her brown embrace
    Eternal
    Her blue body
    Everything we know.


    - Alice Walker
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  56. TopTop #1980
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Water Table


    It is on dry sunny days like this one that I find myself
    thinking about the enormous body of water
    that lies under this house,
    cool, unseen reservoir,
    silent except for the sounds of dripping
    and the incalculable shifting
    of all the heavy darkness that it holds.
    This is the water that our well was dug to sip
    and lift to where we live,
    water drawn up and falling on our bare shoulders,
    water filling the inlets of our mouths,
    water in a pot on the stove.
    The house is nothing now but a blueprint of pipes,
    a network of faucets, nozzles, and spigots,
    and even outdoors where light pierces the air
    and clouds fly over the canopies of trees,
    my thoughts flow underground
    trying to imagine the cavernous scene.
    Surely it is no pool with a colored ball
    floating on the blue surface.
    No grotto where a king would have
    his guests rowed around in swan-shaped boats.
    Between the dark lakes where the dark rivers flow
    there is no ferry waiting on the shore of rock
    and no man holding a long oar,
    ready to take your last coin.
    This is the real earth and the real water it contains.
    But some nights, I must tell you,
    I go down there after everyone has fallen asleep.
    I swim back and forth in the echoing blackness.
    I sing a love song as well as I can,
    lost for a while in the home of the rain.
    - Billy Collins
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