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  1. TopTop #3211
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    It's Never Too Late to Begin

    Every human bond,
    whether with a person of any species—
    that is, an organic living being—
    or with something whose life is mysterious and secretly self-defined
    such as a mountain or star—

    or an image or an idea
    or a being outside of time,
    a dweller in realms of mind
    or an inhabitant of spirit—
    a task or place or project,
    or an object that occupies a space in time and heart or mind—

    every bond has its own

    landscape

    mythscape

    inscape/escape

    soulscape

    and is a place of possibility to infinity,
    including the possibility of ending.

    If endings come, retreat to some chosen, known haven,
    a healing place where you are known
    and never (or rarely and benevolently) judged—
    a place where you are loved beyond your own powers to love yourself
    or sometimes others—


    And in that place of befriending,
    whether friendship or flowerscape,
    innerscape or dreamscape or meaningplace of work,
    or in the floral-colored waves of ocean
    or many-mountained forest light and darkness—
    enter the beautiful rooms in the house of your soul.

    Learn by being there
    what peace can be,
    what love can come to the quiet heart,
    how well your soul can feel in unmolested circumstance and solitude,
    and how deeply and fully and eventually, happily,
    you can become yourself again,
    or perhaps for the first time.

    - Alla Renée Bozarth
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  2. Gratitude expressed by 5 members:

  3. TopTop #3212
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    When a country obtains great power,
    it becomes like the sea:
    all streams run downward into it.
    The more powerful it grows,
    the greater the need for humility.
    Humility means trusting the Tao,
    thus never needing to be defensive.

    A great nation is like a great man:
    When he makes a mistake, he realizes it.
    Having realized it, he admits it.
    Having admitted it, he corrects it.
    He considers those who point out his faults
    as his most benevolent teachers.
    He thinks of his enemy as the shadow that he himself casts.

    If a nation is centered in the Tao,
    if it nourishes its own people
    and doesn't meddle in the affairs of others,
    it will be a light to all nations in the world..

    - Lao Tzu, Tao te Ching
    (Stephen Mitchell translation)
    Last edited by Barry; 01-22-2017 at 02:29 PM.
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  5. TopTop #3213
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Statues
    1989

    In Prague, or perhaps Budapest,
    the heroes have fallen off their horses.
    Here lies a general's profile
    and here a helmet, there
    a ferrous glove still holding the reins.
    The horses, so long inert
    under the heavy bodies,
    are not used to wind and sun,
    nor to the tenderness of their flanks
    now that the boots are gone,
    and their eyes, so long overcast
    by bronze or stone, are slow
    to take in the gray city,
    the heavyset houses. Gradually
    they start to move, surprised
    by their new lightness. There's a scent
    of rain in the air, and something clicks
    inside their heads; it has to do
    with green, with pasture. They step down
    from their pedestals, unsteady as foals
    beginning to walk. No one pays attention
    to riderless horses walking
    through city streets; these are
    supernatural times. Near the edge of town,
    where the sky expands, they trust themselves
    to break into a run
    and then drop out of sight
    behind a bank of willows
    whose streamers promise water

    - Lisel Mueller
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  7. TopTop #3214
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    In the Deepest Deep


    In the deepest deep and the darkest dark,
    when the lightest light is the smallest spark,
    when oppression reigns and repression leads,
    when hate drives men in fanatic creeds…
    When power is held like precious seeds
    and the ground is barren and the waters freeze…

    In these darkest times we must find our spark
    where the flame burns bright inside our hearts.
    In the deepest deep and the darkest dark,
    we must light our light with our heart’s own spark.

    There are times of day when the sun shines bright,
    and there are times of dark in the deepest night
    when the souls of men turn away from light
    and nature suffers with disease and blight.

    When dark forces rule with selfish greed
    when MORE! and MORE! are the ego’s creed,
    and accumulation is beyond all need
    while children‘s cries are left unheeded.

    These are times when each awake one must
    with passion, heart, and guts and lust,
    bring forth their light, bring forth their voice,
    bring heart and truth and life and choice.

    Let freedom ring from every place!
    Let love flow forth – not just a taste,
    but glorious in fullness pour –
    let passions fly, let voices roar!

    Now raise your voice, and raise your hand,
    and take a vow, and take a stand
    to glorify yourself and others
    to love yourself, to love all others
    to live awake, with joy and fun,
    to use your best imagination --
    creating life as you want it to be
    to live your life forever free!

    We shall not be suppressed again!
    The fight for freedom shall not end!
    Eternal vigilance shall see
    us now, forever, living free!

    - Lion Goodman
    Last edited by Barry; 01-24-2017 at 02:44 PM.
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  9. TopTop #3215
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Time Has Come


    the time has come
    to break all my promises
    tear apart all chains
    and cast away all advice

    disassemble the heavens
    link by link
    and break at once
    all lovers' ties
    with the sword of death

    put cotton inside
    both my ears
    and close them to
    all words of wisdom

    crash the door and
    enter the chamber
    where all sweet
    things are hidden

    how long can i
    beg and bargain
    for the things of this world
    while love is waiting

    how long before
    i can rise beyond
    how i am and
    what i am

    - Jellaludin Rumi
    (Translated by Nader Khalili)




    Rumi's Caravan is delighted to announce the acclaimed musicians who will perform with
    Rumi's Caravan on Saturday, Feb. 4 in Sebastopol.

    MUSICIANS for the 2 pm MATINEE
    Eliyahu Sills and Jason Ranjit Parmar will accompany the poets.

    MUSICIANS for the 7 pm SHOW
    Bruce Hauschildt will provide his "wall of sound" -- gongs, bells, bowls -- to open the evening show and again after intermission.

    Donald Ivan Fontowitz and Jason Ranjit Parmar will accompany the poets and Sufi dancer Chelsea Rose.
    TICKETS are available and make great gifts. Get yours now ...

    • Online: www.brownpapertickets.com/event/2720565d
    • In Person: at Many Rivers Books and Tea, 130 South Main Street, Sebastopol, (707) 829-8871
    • Or call: Sebastopol Center for the Arts (707) 829-4797

    Event proceeds benefit the Sebastopol Center for the Arts (www.sebarts.org)
    and the Center for Climate Protection (www.climateprotection.org).

    LEARN MORE about the Musicians:
    www.facebook.com/Rumi.Caravan/photos/?tab=album&album_id=1056741807769911

    LEARN MORE about the EVENT:
    www.facebook.com/events/1200887923299084/

    We look forward sharing light and love with you at the 17th Annual Celebration.
    Last edited by Barry; 01-25-2017 at 12:13 PM.
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  11. TopTop #3216
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Once when young . . .

    Once when young I lay and listened
    To the rain falling on the roof
    Of a brothel. The candle light
    Gleamed on silk and silky flesh.
    Then I heard it on the
    Cabin roof of a small boat
    On the Great River, under
    Low clouds, where wild geese cried out
    On the Autumn storm. Now I
    Hear it again on the monastery
    Roof. My hair has turned white.
    Joy — sorrow — parting — meeting —
    Are all as though they had
    Never been. Only the rain
    Is the same, falling in streams
    On the tiles all through the night.


    - Chiang Chieh, 1300 C. E.
    (translated by Kenneth Rexroth)
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  12. TopTop #3217
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    A Lover’s Quarrel

    There are some to whom a place means nothing,
    for whom the lazy zeroes
    a goshawk carves across the sky
    are nothing,
    for whom a home is something one can buy.
    I have long wanted to say,
    just once before I die,
    I am home.
    When I remember the sound of my true country,
    I hear winds
    high up in the evergreens, the soft snore
    of surf, far off, on a wintry day,
    the half-garbled song of finches
    darting off through alder
    on a summer day.
    Lust does not
    fatigue the soul, I say. This wind,
    these ever- green trees, this little bird of the spirit—
    this is the shape, the place of my desire. I’m free
    as a fish or a stone.

    Don’t tell me about the seasons in the East, don’t talk to me
    about eternal California summer.
    It’s enough to have
    a few days naked
    among three hundred kinds of rain.
    In its little plastic pot on the high sill,
    the African violet
    grows away from the place
    the sun last was, its fuzzy leaves
    leaning out in little curtsies.
    It, too, has had enough
    of the sun. I love the sound of a storm
    without thunder, the way winds
    slow, trees darken, heavy clouds
    rumbling so softly
    you must close your eyes to listen:
    then the blotch, blotch
    of big drops plunketing through the leaves.

    It is difficult,
    this being a stranger on earth.
    Why, I’ve seen pilgrims come
    and tear away at blackberry vines
    with everything that’s in them, I’ve seen them
    heap their anger
    up against a tree
    and curse these swollen skies.
    What’s this? —a mountain beaver
    no bigger than a newborn mouse
    curled in my palm,
    an osprey curling over tide pools and lifting
    toward the trees, a wind at dusk
    hollow in the hollows of the eves,
    a wind over waves
    cooling sand crabs washed up along the beach.
    Each thing, closely seen,
    appears more strange
    than before: the shape of my desire
    is huge, vague,
    full of many things
    commingling—
    dying bees among the dying flowers;
    winter rain and the smoke it brings.
    If it fills me with longing,
    it is only because
    we are like the rain, falling,
    falling through our own most secret being,
    through a world of not-knowing.

    At the end of the day,
    I come, finally,
    to myself, I return to the strange sounds of a man
    who wants to speak
    with stones, with the hard crust of earth.
    But nothing listens.
    When the sea hammers the sea wall,
    I’m dumb.
    When the nighthawks bleat at dusk, I’m drunk
    on the sadness of their songs.
    When the moon is so close
    you can almost reach it through the trees,
    I’m frozen, I’m blind,
    or I’m gone.
    Fish, bird, stone, there’s something
    I can’t know, but know the same:
    I hear the rain inside me
    only to look up
    into a bitter sun.
    What do we listen to, what do we think
    we hear? The sound
    of sea walls crumbling,
    a little bird with hunger in its song:
    You should have known! You should have known!

    Like any Nootka rose,
    I know there are some
    for whom a place is nothing. Like the wild rose,
    like the tide and the day,
    we come, go, or stay
    according to a whim.
    It is enough, perhaps,
    to say, We live here.
    And let it go at that.
    This wind lets go
    of everything it touches.
    I long to hold the wind.
    I’d kiss a fish
    and love a stone
    and marry this winter rain
    if I could persuade this battered earth
    to let me make it home.

    - Robert Greenway
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  13. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  14. TopTop #3218
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Vocation

    Lit with strange carpentry magic — 
    they build time-shares in her head. They carve
    names deep in wood, erect beams of metal to hold up
    the invincible defense of a bad history. They mourn
    what’s subjective. They are shutters closed.
    Sometimes I imagine such men in flip-flops
    with fat towels draped over confident shoulders.
    I imagine they all live in Texas, and find
    South Padre too hot, and then I imagine them blaming
    diversity for everything. Here, in the middle of grief,
    we pout to the rhythm of their sentences.
    Suns hiss in their dreams. Soon such critics will meet
    daily for prayers. The Pharisees identify the guilty woman.
    They are gathering sticks for a witch burning. Curandera
    lit with the fire of sighs, casts spells, burns sage,
    sweats in a lodge, her own prayers flaming.

    - Sheryl Luna
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  16. TopTop #3219
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    A Lower Center of Gravity


    And so
    when something wanted is denied,
    and life disappoints,
    and we are determined
    not to be overthrown
    and yet again we are -
    what do we do?


    For myself,
    I’m occupied
    now
    in finding
    a lower center
    of gravity.


    - Scott O'Brien
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  18. TopTop #3220
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The New Colossus


    Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
    With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
    Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
    A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
    Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
    Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
    Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
    The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,
    "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
    With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
    Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
    The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
    Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
    I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"


    - Emma Lazarus
    New York City, 1883
    (Inscribed on the Statue of Liberty)
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  20. TopTop #3221
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Learning

    A piccolo played, then a drum.
    Feet began to come - a part of the music. Here comes a horse,
    clippety clop, away.

    My mother said, "Don't run -
    the army is after someone
    other than us. If you stay
    you'll learn our enemy."

    Then he came, the speaker. He stood
    in the square. He told us who
    to hate. I watched my mother's face,
    its quiet. "That's him," she said.

    - William Stafford
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  21. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  22. TopTop #3222
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Alt Right News Feed


    for months now
    snuggled under warm covers
    getting ready to start the day
    I check newsfeeds
    on the iPhone

    and lately
    I’ve discovered a new source
    Alternative and Right

    I turn off the iPhone
    snuggle back in the covers
    wait
    listen
    feel for a source
    appearing from somewhere beyond
    reassuring me
    you are okay
    reminding me
    this too shall pass
    encouraging me
    it is okay to not know
    let fear flow through you
    imploring me
    expand your tolerance
    be open
    grow your compassion
    care for the plants
    care for those you love
    who are so distraught

    I get out of bed
    breath and belly calmer
    less toxic almost grateful
    a sense of resolve

    this news has much to offer
    it feeds me

    - Sharon Bard
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  23. Gratitude expressed by 5 members:

  24. TopTop #3223
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Home

    no one leaves home unless
    home is the mouth of a shark
    you only run for the border
    when you see the whole city running as well
    your neighbors running faster than you
    breath bloody in their throats
    the boy you went to school with
    who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
    is holding a gun bigger than his body
    you only leave home
    when home won’t let you stay
    no one leaves home unless home chases you
    fire under feet
    hot blood in your belly
    it’s not something you ever thought of doing
    until the blade burnt threats into
    your neck
    and even then you carried the anthem under
    your breath
    only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
    sobbing as each mouthful of paper
    made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.
    you have to understand,
    that no one puts their children in a boat
    unless the water is safer than the land
    no one burns their palms
    under trains
    beneath carriages
    no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
    feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
    mean something more than journey.
    no one crawls under fences
    no one wants to be beaten
    pitied
    no one chooses refugee camps
    or strip searches where your
    body is left aching
    or prison,
    because prison is safer
    than a city of fire
    and one prison guard
    in the night
    is better than a truckload
    of men who look like your father
    no one could take it
    no one could stomach it
    no one skin would be tough enough
    the
    go home blacks
    refugees
    dirty immigrants
    asylum seekers
    sucking our country dry
    niggers with their hands out
    they smell strange
    savage
    messed up their country and now they want
    to mess ours up
    how do the words
    the dirty looks
    roll off your backs
    maybe because the blow is softer
    than a limb torn off
    or the words are more tender
    than fourteen men between
    your legs
    or the insults are easier
    to swallow
    than rubble
    than bone
    than your child body
    in pieces.
    i want to go home,
    but home is the mouth of a shark
    home is the barrel of the gun
    and no one would leave home
    unless home chased you to the shore
    unless home told you
    to quicken your legs
    leave your clothes behind
    crawl through the desert
    wade through the oceans
    drown
    save
    be hunger
    beg
    forget pride
    your survival is more important
    no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
    saying
    leave,
    run away from me now
    i don’t know what i’ve become
    but i know that anywhere
    is safer than here

    - Warsan Shire
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  26. TopTop #3224
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Another Long Walk


    Given enough time,
    there is always another long walk,
    another proof of civilization's lie,
    and all must prepare to run,
    for no matter where you are born,
    the sky can crack and drown you in fire.

    The prophet said it would be fire
    licking at our heels next time
    and it is anyone’s bad luck to be born
    where death comes cloaked as a walk
    that goes on and on, until lives run
    out of breath, stumble, and lie

    in barren fields with nothing to lie
    between them and scorching fire.
    There is nothing to do, but to run
    as fast as you can, to outdistance time
    and this nightmare of a walk
    where death is borne

    on wings of silver and hope dies, unborn,
    among hobbled prints that lie
    in mute witness to another long walk
    that crushes hearts into red grit of fire
    and strangles cries of rage that time
    after time, someone must pack up a life and run

    to nowhere. This walk, too, shall run
    its course, new stars will be born
    to light up the heavens and, in time,
    history will write, not quite truth, not quite lies,
    of who and why and how all became fire.
    Some will say there never was a walk

    of death, that all people are free to walk
    a thousand miles of blackened earth, to run
    a marathon of fear, while fire
    power presides as midwife to newborn
    cries of war. Dark clouds gather and lie
    low over fallow fields, where time

    has run out. On distant horizon, fire is born,
    from smoldering ash left to lie untended.
    The time has come for another long walk.

    - Patrice Warrender
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  27. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  28. TopTop #3225
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Autopsy
    Last night, I dreamed that my passport bled.
    I dreamed that my passport was a tombstone
    For our United States, recently dead.
    I dreamed that my passport was made of bone—
    That it was a canoe carved out of stone.
    “But I can’t swim,” I said. “I will drown
    If I can’t make the shore. I’ll die alone
    In the salt. No, my body will be found
    With millions of bodies, all of them brown.”
    I dreamed that my passport was a book of prayers,
    Unanswered by the gods, but written down
    By fact checkers in suits. “There are some errors
    In your papers,” they said. Then took me downstairs
    To a room with fingernails on the floor.
    I dreamed that my passport was my keyware,
    But soldiers had set fire to the doors,
    To all doors—a conflagration of doors.
    I dreamed that my passport was my priest:
    “Sherman, will you battle the carnivores
    Or will you turn and abandon the weak?
    Will you be shelter? Or will you concede?”
    Last night, I dreamed that my passport was alive
    When it entered the ICU. It breathed, it breathed,
    Then it sighed and closed its eyes. It did not survive.
    - Sherman Alexie
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  29. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  30. TopTop #3226
    Dorothy Friberg's Avatar
    Dorothy Friberg
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Quit eating all that heavy food before bed.

    Quote Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson: View Post
    Autopsy
    Last night, I dreamed that my passport bled.
    I dreamed that my passport was a tombstone
    For our United States, recently dead.
    ...
    Last edited by Barry; 02-04-2017 at 07:03 PM.
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  31. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  32. TopTop #3227
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    We Are Alive. We Are for Everything
    After Otto Piene

    How does beginning go how does
    remembering without forgetting go
    in front of me in the snow a man
    his back lonesome somber
    how does beginning go not remembering
    flashes of light that showed him images when he
    was a boy quick and blinding see the shadows
    in the light how does not-remembering go
    listen to the hissing see the light
    and Germany’s lightness
    how bright Germany is like soot
    like images quick and blinding how does
    beginning go smell the snow
    it’s new it fell in the night
    in the dark gets forgotten
    in images quick listen to the snow
    it lies light like linen
    something’s burning a hissing somber
    like images at night on walls listen
    to the hissing smell the smell of burning
    look at the soot on a white background.

    - Daniela Danz
    (Translated from the German by Monica Cassel)
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  34. TopTop #3228
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Protest

    To sin by silence, when we should protest,

    Makes cowards out of men. The human race
    Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised
    Against injustice, ignorance, and lust,
    The inquisition yet would serve the law,
    And guillotines decide our least disputes.
    The few who dare, must speak and speak again
    To right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God,
    No vested power in this great day and land
    Can gag or throttle. Press and voice may cry
    Loud disapproval of existing ills;
    May criticize oppression and condemn
    The lawlessness of wealth-protecting laws
    That let the children and childbearers toil
    To purchase ease for idle millionaires.

    Therefore I do protest against the boast
    Of independence in this mighty land.
    Call no chain strong, which holds one rusted link.
    Call no land free, that holds one fettered slave.
    Until the manacled slim wrists of babes
    Are loosed to toss in childish sport and glee,
    Until the mother bears no burden, save
    The precious one beneath her heart, until
    God’s soil is rescued from the clutch of greed
    And given back to labor, let no man
    Call this the land of freedom.


    - Ella Wheeler Wilcox
    (1850-1919)
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  35. Gratitude expressed by 7 members:

  36. TopTop #3229
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently


    is not silent, it is a speaking-
    out-loud voice in your head; it is *spoken*,
    a voice is *saying* it
    as you read. It's the writer's words,
    of course, in a literary sense
    his or her "voice" but the sound
    of that voice is the sound of *your* voice.
    Not the sound your friends know
    or the sound of a tape played back
    but your voice
    caught in the dark cathedral
    of your skull, your voice heard
    by an internal ear informed by internal abstracts
    and what you know by feeling,
    having felt. It is your voice
    saying, for example, the word "barn"
    that the writer wrote
    but the "barn" you say
    is a barn you know or knew. The voice
    in your head, speaking as you read,
    never says anything neutrally- some people
    hated the barn they knew,
    some people love the barn they know
    so you hear the word loaded
    and a sensory constellation
    is lit: horse-gnawed stalls,
    hayloft, black heat tape wrapping
    a water pipe, a slippery
    spilled *chirr* of oats from a split sack,
    the bony, filthy haunches of cows...
    And "barn" is only a noun- no verb
    or subject has entered into the sentence yet!
    The voice you hear when you read to yourself
    is the clearest voice: you speak it
    speaking to you.


    - Thomas Lux
    (12/10/46 - 2/5/17)
    Last edited by Barry; 02-07-2017 at 11:57 AM.
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  37. Gratitude expressed by:

  38. TopTop #3230
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    How to Stop the Old Conversation

    Go out on a winter’s day
    and take the winding boardwalk that snugs up against
    white sands and the slender grasses of Asilomar beach.

    See the power of the Pacific surf, waves breaking,
    then building, almost too close to shore today,
    so even the wooden planks solidly placed seem to sway as you walk.

    Smell your growing weariness —
    a sudden rainfall and you’ve left the umbrella in the car,
    a slight glance at the man and his dog passing and your toe catches a rock,
    a request to snap a picture and your memory goes back fifteen years,
    then twenty, then thirty, until you land on what seemed like solid ground,

    only to find all the promises broken now.

    Set the timer for thirty minutes to walk out, then return, in consideration
    for the long drive home and the coming storm and your mind,
    which sometimes forgets where the car is parked and where you started.

    Return to the lodge, search for dry socks and the water bottle,
    queue the book-on-tape, watch bridesmaids in orange hurry in from the rain,
    then wonder why a young couple rushing past has missed the wedding.

    Invite your own particular aloneness to sit in the seat beside you,
    its breath alive with heartbreak and fury and sweet regret,
    and as you drive away let the soft words of a new conversation
    slide in through the open window —

    just listen.

    - Jackie Huss Hallerberg
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  39. Gratitude expressed by 6 members:

  40. TopTop #3231
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    On Immigration

    After being humiliated one continues the manuscript of identity.
    Activities, diseases, doldrums, the crony affair after the situation,
    the one where one faces how one is the undertaste,
    how one isn’t the neighbor, the piebaker, a white folk. How one isn't a gorgeous
    dream wrapped up in tireless affection, primped for wider screens.
    So there one grew, in the coffee sickness, the dictionary browsing
    in a fury for the word entitlement to spill—

    After convulsing with rage, one continues in the aftermath
    of no friends on Tuesdays or shouting fiercely when nothing sobered
    to the eleventh hour and the tide shrunk to its sense of privacy where it
    had nothing to do with shores or moons, and humiliation sat on its lover's
    knee, greeting the eccentric rich and the hourglass with such force
    the rage enameled like fine paint to a sheen of deep blue.
    Restless in the way that stirs the crowd to its feet to claim the encounter
    for the intentions of personal gain without the empire, without the
    embarrassment of shaking one’s head, of resting it underneath the ground,
    to live sanctioned in the migrancy with an ugly plate for the economy but working ever
    so hard. So unplanned, so beyond what one did before the lack of dignity sang an opera.
    And organized all the ideas, before rage shot a bird that had once watched effortlessly all the comings and goings.

    - Prageeta Sharma
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  41. Gratitude expressed by:

  42. TopTop #3232
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Our Turn


    Everything comes to me
    Now in tatters, ripped
    Un-wholly, and unholy.
    When I reach for You
    You are air, everywhere
    And empty.

    We are bleeding
    Bleeding out terrors
    Torn, drawn, quartered
    Questioning why
    Us, why now?


    This fight—for
    Freedom, Justice
    Just now, like air
    Everywhere,
    Nothing new, an old,
    An ancient fight.

    An expression in Spanish:
    "Nos toca a nosotros."
    Taken literally,
    It touches us,
    Like a tap on the shoulder
    Or a truncheon

    It means "it's our turn,"
    Our turn now.

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

  44. TopTop #3233
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    The Sacred Life

    There comes a time
    when you want to run.
    Run as far away as you can.

    Run from your life.
    Run from the task
    that is so large
    it cannot be done.

    But your feet don’t move.

    And slowly
    life opens up
    and help appears.
    Not in the form you expect
    but in secrets
    and winding roads
    and gateways into
    the world you long for
    but don’t know how to reach.

    And the task
    doesn’t get easier
    but life gets more beautiful
    with a richness
    you couldn’t imagine
    and a warmth
    you had never felt

    As you directly face
    the immensity
    of what you are
    called to do.

    - Sherrie Lovler
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  45. TopTop #3234
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Earth, You Have Returned to Me

    Can you imagine waking up
    every morning on a different planet,
    each with its own gravity?

    Slogging, wobbling,
    wavering. Atilt
    and out-of-sync
    with all that moves
    and doesn’t.

    Through years of trial
    and mostly error
    did I study this unsteady way — 

    changing pills, adjusting the dosage,
    never settling.

    A long time we were separate,
    O Earth,
    but now you have returned to me.

    - Elaine Equi
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  46. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  47. TopTop #3235

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    At around age 50, I ended up "back" in my home town for a couple years. Recognizing I had to "take my life" in the positive way, ie claim it, I began taking small positive steps. Practically as long as I was there, though, the feeling continued that my feet were not touching the ground! I'm still not as grounded as I'd like, but at least I can feel myself walking on it, can now celebrate with the author:
    A long time we were separate,
    O Earth,
    but now you have returned to me.
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  48. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  49. TopTop #3236
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Dear lady at the Desk of Hotel Saint Antoine Rue de Faubourg, Paris France

    You mistakenly assumed I was complaining when I arrived
    too early to check into my room. “Monsieur,” you said, “I cannot
    work miracles.”

    How can I be so angry at such a small slight?

    With hours to squander
    before I take possession of my room,
    I curse you under my breath and
    board the train to Giverny
    where Monet lived and painted water lilies.

    Well, merci Madame, I’ve since returned
    to New York, imagine me sitting on a bench
    not far from where I live. Time shifts wreck havoc
    with my equilibrium and I’m a bit down in the dumps.

    In front of me I see five species of animal:
    Dogs on leashes—which I’ll ignore since they lack free will to roam,
    sparrows,
    starlings,
    squirrels and
    pigeons.
    A holy array of spritely hunter-gatherers nibbling
    at food or else just messing
    around in their own private space—separate
    from one another.

    I sigh, and suddenly these creatures assemble at my feet,
    a mosaic of squirrel fur and bird feathers,
    a harmonious tableau. Why are they here?
    No peanuts, worms or breadcrumbs in my pockets, and for sure,
    I am no Francis of Assisi.

    Madame, let us explore the concept of miracles.
    Is this congregation of small animals bonding
    for my benefit alone? No, it’s merely my job to be astonished.

    What?
    I’ve failed to account for the universe human before me
    Old people with walkers, death in their eyes,
    nannies shoving strollers,
    greenmarket shoppers schlepping canvas totes,
    tattooed denizens in undershirts and straw bowlers,
    workers carting trash.

    I look, squint and gazes a second time,
    we never see the same scene
    or think the same thought twice.

    What am I neglecting to notice as I think this thought?

    Ah, Monet, poor man going blind at Giverny,
    sky and pond a haze,
    plants and water coalescing,
    a palate of colors bleeding into a scene
    without borders. Nothing permanent.
    The ecology at Giverny is not the same
    as the lawn near the bench where I sit in Manhattan.

    Madame, thanks for booting me out of the hotel.

    - Barry Denny
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  50. Gratitude expressed by:

  51. TopTop #3237
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Listening to the Koln Concert


    After we had loved each other intently,

    we heard notes tumbling together,
    in late winter, and we heard ice
    falling from the ends of twigs.

    The notes abandon so much as they move.
    They are the food not eaten, the comfort
    not taken, the lies not spoken.
    The music is my attention to you.

    And when the music came again,
    later in the day, I saw tears in you r eyes.
    I saw you turn your face away
    so that the others would not see.

    When men and women come together,
    how much they have to abandon! Wrens
    make their nests of fancy threads
    and string ends, animals

    abandon all their money each year.
    What is that men and women leave?
    Harder then wrens' doing, they have
    to abandon their longing for the perfect.

    The inner nest not made by instinct
    will never be quite round,
    and each has to enter the nest
    made by the other imperfect bird.

    - Robert Bly
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  52. Gratitude expressed by 6 members:

  53. TopTop #3238
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Morning Report On My Immigrant Clothing

    Awakened wearing old and faded
    Calvin Klein sleepwear Made in Kenya
    After the shower dried my made in the USA body
    with a Martha Stewart towel Made in India, where else
    Warmed by my East Coast L.L. Bean bathrobe from El Salvador
    I made my coffee with beans gathered from God knows where

    Pulling on clothes, still curious and not surprised, my
    striped Perry Ellis boxers were Made in China and jeez
    my iconic American Carhardt Jeans started in Nicaragua

    And what’s more American than a T-shirt? Not my
    Made in Peru pepper green “T” from Territory Ahead
    And who knows where my socks started, maybe Bangalore
    My shabby running shoes let into the country by Adidas,
    probably began jogging in Northern India

    So I’m almost ready and grab my hat. Now wait for it
    My trouble making, eye catching, brilliant red,
    Human Rights Campaign hat
    emblazoned “Make America Gay Again”
    was made in the USA

    If they send my clothes back with the immigrants
    at least I won’t be totally naked

    - Doug von Koss
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  54. Gratitude expressed by 5 members:

  55. TopTop #3239
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Whatever You Do

    Whatever you do,
    don’t waste your time
    struggling with issues
    about “faith” and
    whether “the Other” is real
    or not.

    Do not worry about
    your own existence -
    whether you are palpable
    or just a mirage
    floating in a mirror.

    When the worthies
    begin debating such things inside
    the temple,
    do not bow and listen.
    Run outside,
    rattle the windows,
    storm the doors,
    let the music of light
    come in.

    Better still,
    turn them out
    into the sun,
    point their solemn faces
    toward the trees
    blooming in fall’s
    swelling luminosity,
    let them see how
    brilliant

    a leaf
    falling gracefully
    into its new in carnation,
    how majestic the limbs
    in their bright emerging configurations.

    - Dorothy Walters
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  56. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  57. TopTop #3240
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    It Is I Who Must Begin

    It is I who must begin.
    Once I begin, once I try --
    here and now,
    right where I am,
    not excusing myself
    by saying things
    would be easier elsewhere,
    without grand speeches and
    ostentatious gestures,
    but all the more persistently
    -- to live in harmony
    with the "voice of Being," as I
    understand it within myself
    -- as soon as I begin that,
    I suddenly discover,
    to my surprise, that
    I am neither the only one,
    nor the first,
    nor the most important one
    to have set out
    upon that road.

    Whether all is really lost
    or not depends entirely on
    whether or not I am lost.

    - Vaclav Havel
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  58. Gratitude expressed by 5 members:

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