Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

Ask Much, The Voice Suggested

Ask much, the voice suggested, and I startled.
Feeling my body like the trembling body of a horse
tied to its tree while the strange noise
passes over its ears.
I who in extremity had always wanted less,
even of eating, of sleeping.
Agile, the voice did not speak again, but waited.
"Want more" --
a cure for longing I had not thought of.
But that is how it is with wells.
Whatever is taken refills to the steady level.
The voice agreed, though softly, to quiet the feet of the horse:
a cup taken out, a cup reappears; a bucketful taken, a bucket.

- Jane Hirshfield

Unwritten Note

The news is on everyone’s lips
like flies gathering on excrement:
President Roosevelt has ordered

our removal. Will we be
taken from our homes like vermin?
I know it must be a misunderstanding,

gossip spread in these
harsh times. I choke
on acrid laughter.

It is not possible.
After all, I served
my chosen country in the Army,

in the Great War. So I go to see
my longtime friend and sheriff
of Monterey County.

Is is no joke, Hideo. You’ll have to go.
He can’t look me in the eyes.
When he finds my body hung

in this rented room, with
my certificate of honorary citizenship
expressing honor and respect

for your loyal and splendid
service to the country,
he will understand why

I could not allow
this noble country to tarnish
its honor, or mine.

- Jodi Hottel


Today, February 19, is the 75th anniversary of the day that President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, which authorized the forced removal and incarceration of more than 120,000 Japanese-Americans, two-thirds of whom were citizens.

love not fear

Particles fly like shrapnel out there
looking for trace — just in case
bonding makes form
invisible glue — our maker

ideas are torn
shreds disappear
something new springs
and the experiment continues

and . . .
that’s all there is!
but within that, we exist

a wonderful blend
we like to be called
emotions swell
but please, no fluffing the spell

past and future are spent
there’s never an end
ride the circles
honor love not fear

- jayro dyer

A Sleep of Prisoners

The human heart can go the lengths of God,
Dark and cold we may be, but this
Is no winter now. The frozen misery
Of centuries breaks, cracks, begins to move;
The thunder is the thunder of the floes,
The thaw, the upstart Spring.
Thank God our time is now when wrong
Comes up to face us everywhere.
Never to leave us till we take
The longest stride of soul men ever took.
Affairs are now soul size,
The enterprise
Is exploration into God.
Where are you making for? It takes
So many thousand years to wake
But will you wake for pity's sake?

- Christopher Fry

Love Song


I hear other names for You – The Inviolable One,
God, Allah, Wakantanka, Higher Power,
The Ineffable. But why bother,
when You call to me by no name at all and I come.

Neither of us have a word for each other
save Us.
And even that is nobody’s business but Ours.

So let’s forget such partitions as names
and discuss this April day within,
which captures birds in flight
and all their eggs and songs
in one straight deed of liberation.

The mighty have fallen around this peace.
But let’s not get into that, when every moment
is roses, and the scent You gives off tastes
in my nose like Now.
Like Forever. Like Now.

All I want from You is nothing.
Peace is a dance, after all.
Peace moves. Peace laughs.
And Peace’s discussion is boughs of trees,
light, carriages, actors at their bent,
bravery in and out of action,
for after all, what, what, what
in this world is possibly not roses?

- Bruce Moody

Little Boy

for Donald Trump

When you speak, I hear
the child in you demand:

Make me a golden crown
Bring me a spotless mirror
Tell me I an the smartest
richest, most powerful
king ever. You like me
––don’t you? Don’t You?
Answer me.

What is the story

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of the sorrow I hear behind
the wall of your bravado?
Did no one welcome your birth?
Did no one notice the
miracle of you?

In your man’s body, you are
a boy-child who fears
he will fail, who was not seen
or heard, whose gifts were
greeted with disdain.

I hold in my arms
the newborn you once were.
I want you to be cherished,
not for being the wealthiest,
cleverest winner,
but for the wholly human
you were created to become.

- Clare Morris

This is terrific; just what we need! A great service! Someone has finally said it just right!
A fellow has been urging me to "pray for the President," and I did, experimentally...but not for the success of his ego! For what you enumerate in your last lines! YES! :heart:

Villanelle for Our Time


From bitter searching of the heart,
Quickened with passion and with pain
We rise to play a greater part.

This is the faith from which we start:
Men shall know commonwealth again
From bitter searching of the heart.

We loved the easy and the smart,
But now with keener hand and brain
We rise to play a greater part.

The lesser loyalties depart
And neither race nor creed remain
From bitter searching of the heart.

Not steering by the venal chart
that tricked the mass for private gain,
We rise to play a greater part.

Reshaping narrow law and art
Whose symbols are the millions slain,
From bitter searching of the heart
We rise to play a greater part.

- Frank Scott

A great poem. I was introduced to it by Leonard Cohen on his fantastic CD Dear Heather.

I Know a Man

As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking, - John, I

sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what

can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for
christ’s sake, look
out where yr going.

- Robert Creeley

Creeley was my neighbor in Bolinas in the early '70's. A GREAT American poet!

Quote:

---

Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

I Know a Man

As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking, - John, I

sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what

can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for
christ’s sake, look
out where yr going.

- Robert Creeley

---

Heritage

The ram came last
And Abraham did not know that he
Came in answer to the boy’s request
His first strength at the time of the waning day.

The old man raised his head.
When he saw that he was not dreaming
And the angel stood –
With the knife falling from its hand.

The child, freed of his bonds
Saw his father’s back.

Yitzhak, it is said, was not offered as a sacrifice.
He lived a very long time,
Seeing the good, until the light of his eyes dimmed.

But he bequeathed that hour to his descendents.
They were born
With a knife in their heart.


- Haim Guri

The Wings of Love



I will row my boat on Muckross Lake when the grey of the dove

Comes down at the end of the day; and a quiet like prayer

Grows soft in your eyes, and among your fluttering hair

The red of the sun is mixed with the red of your cheek.

I will row you, O boat of my heart! Till our mouths have forgotten to speak

In the silence of love, broken only by trout that spring

And are gone, like a fairy’s finger that casts a ring

With the luck of the world for the hand that can hold it fast.

I will rest my on my oars, my eyes on your eyes, till our thoughts have passed

From the lake and the sky and the rings of the jumping fish;

Till our ears are filled from the reeds with a sudden swish

And a sound like the beating of flails in the time of corn.

We shall hold our breath while a wonderful thing is born

From the songs that were chanted by bards in the days gone by;

For a wild white swan shall be leaving the lake for the sky,

With the curve of her neck stretched out in a silver spear.

Oh! When the creak of her wings shall have brought her near,

We shall hear again a swish, and a beating of flails,

And a creaking of oars, and a sound like wind in sails,

As the mate of her heart shall follow her into the air.

O wings of my soul! We shall think of Angus and Caer

And Etain and Midir, that were changed into wild white swans

To fly round the ring of the heavens, through the dusks and the dawns,

Unseen by all but true lovers, till judgment day

Because they had loved for love only. O love! I will say,

For a woman and man with eternity ringing them round

And the heavens above and below them, a poor thing it is to be bound

To four low walls that will spill like a pedlar’s pack,

And a quilt that will run into holes, and a churn that will dry and crack

Oh! better than these, a dream in the night, or our heart’s mute prayer

That O’Donaghue, the enchanted man, should pass between water and air

And say, I will change them each into a wild white swan,

Like the lovers Angus and Midir, and their beloved ones, Caer and Etain

Because they have loved for love only, and have searched through the shadows of things

For the Heart of all hearts, though the fire of love, and the wine of love, and the wings.



- James H. Cousins

The Lights Are On Everywhere

The Emperor must not be told night is coming.
His armies are chasing shadows,
Arresting whip-poor-wills and hermit thrushes
And setting towns and villages on fire.

In the capital, they go around confiscating
Clocks and watches, burning heretics
And painting the sunrise above the rooftops
So we can wish each other good morning.

The rooster brought in chains is crowing.
The flowers in the garden have been forced to stay open,
And still yet dark stains spread over the palace floors
Which no amount of scrubbing will wipe away.

- Charles Simic

In the Face of Splendor


Take your grief seriously
Become the ash urn
For the vanishing wilderness
Despair for the Dolphins
Make your own salt water
for the disappearing marshes.
The silent Earth is listening.
Be called to outrageous acts of despair

And then,
every now and again,
In the face of splendor,

Turn towards it.

- Kristy Hellum

What The Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss–we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

- Marie Howe

Message In A Bottle

I am like the poem
you passed over in
the anthology, then
later discovered
was a jewel.

Hidden in plain sight
I am holding something
sacred inside
like a message in a bottle
still waiting to wash ashore

- Kay Crista

"hidden in plain sight" is all the loved ones around us who we take for granted.

Quote:

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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

Message In A Bottle

I am like the poem
you passed over in
the anthology, then
later discovered
was a jewel.

Hidden in plain sight
I am holding something
sacred inside
like a message in a bottle
still waiting to wash ashore

- Kay Crista

---

Recipe for Peace

Bare your feet, roll up your sleeves,
oil the immigrant’s bowl.
Open the doors and windows of your house,
invite in the neighbors, invite in strangers off the street.
Roll out the dough, add the spices for a good live, cardamom and soul, cumin and tears.
Store in sesame and sorrow, a dash of salt
pink as new hope.
Rub marjoram and thyme, lemon grass and holy basil on your fingers and pat the dough.
Bless the table, bless the bread,
bless your hands and feet,
bless the neighbors and strangers
off the street.
Bake the bread for a century or more
on a moderate heat
under the olive trees in your backyard
or on the sun-filled stones of Syria,
in the white rocks of Beirut
or behind the walls of Jerusalem.
In the mountains of Afghanistan
and in the skyscrapers of New York
feast with all the migrant tongues
until your mouth understand
the taste of many different homes
and your belly is full so you fall asleep
cradled in the skirts of the world
curled in the lap of peace.

- Devreaux Baker

In Impossible Darkness

Do you know how

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the caterpillar
turns?

Do you remember
what happens
inside a cocoon?

You liquefy.

There in the thick black
of your self-spun womb,
void as the moon before waxing,

you melt

(as Christ did
for three days
in the tomb)

conceiving
in impossible darkness
the sheer
inevitability
of wings.

- Kim Rosen

Daffodil

If she could speak

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as she drives her bloom

to open, would she tell us of
the roots beneath her,

who were digging alone all winter
in frozen soil, sending out

moaning tendrils reaching into
the unknown, each one

sensing in dreams what’s needed
by the big one, who’s working

at the surface, chatting and dividing
in maternal bliss, her big bulb bumping into

what is already known?
Would she tell of each

tough rope of root muscling below
to find water, sucking and storing,

offending gophers, outwitting moles?

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I doubt it. The bloom knows

her source, but she doesn’t speak
its language. Her voice celebrates

the silk of longer warmer days,
announces, in her yellow voice, It is time

to heave away
the heavy coat of winter,

worn out now, and way too small.
She clamps her neck to her fierce

rigid stem, who whispers into her throat
his message from below: Dear, our time is ending.

It means nothing. We will begin.
Begin to let go.


- Mary McMillan

Her Roots


A strong wind
wrenched the great Madrone
from her hold in the hillside,
and when she fell
her roots,
hanging in mid-air,
gave us handholds
to lean on and safely swing
through her body
and back onto the trail.

- Trout Black

To Be Of Use

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who stand in the line and haul in their places,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

- Marge Piercy

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.

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I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

- Maya Angelou

The River

I will tell you what I know in my blood
the river does not vanish into night,
but is still there, flowing through dark
to a place that lies beyond: brighter,
greener hills than we can dream of.

Listen! You can hear the river’s song
as it flows over leaf and stone,
in the clear full music of hearts.

Those who love enough soon learn to walk
in rain and remain dry.

- Bill Herrick

Mother to Son

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

- Langston Hughes

Great poem!

Quote:

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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

Mother to Son

...
- Langston Hughes

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Meeting Light


Through the windshield, light gleaming
on the fields, the light green willow leaves
running along the creeks
seem brighter set
against the just beginning greening hills

dotted with oaks, cows, sheep,
small clumps of shy-hoofed deer
chomp in well-manured pastures
as I, too, stand richly fed.

Vultures overhead wing soundless circles,
a perched hawk, red-tailed, its haunting call withdrawn,
spies smaller prey;
black wings beat gusts, and clatter
onto walnut limbs to caw and cackle.

I loom with the hunter, quail
with its prey, prattle with companions
until our souls are full-flush-fleshed.

By Walker Creek, a thousand white woolen
eyes crown coyote brush,
dried fennel stalks drop silent seed
among these wild ones I flourish and breathe
under sun-fog-rain sway.

Coiling bends sound the broadening bay
whose undulating light ripples peep between,
lending ease and space
against the pine-clad ridges
as gusting sun plays upon my skin into my depths.

Sprawled on the verge, a car-killed deer
awaits its airborne team with sharpened smell
to pick it clean. All seeps, sings and bounds in me.
Is it the light or the light
that I am leaving?

On boughed knees rest old trees sinking
into softened sod, the turn of seasons watch.
Their path is slowly set, while mine is filled
with urgency to laud and praise, give back
one speck, one jot
of all you pour into my marrowed bones.

- Raphael Block

Morning Poem


Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

- Mary Oliver

Coupon

Friends,
In lieu of a poem
I have written you a
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or not,
slip it in your wallet,
or not.
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&/or services of any sort
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it’s always possible…)
But for my making:
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from yourself,
to give yourself a break
today, any day,
to make yourself a deal,
any deal:
a two-for-one,
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a get-out-of-your-own-jail-for-free card,
a take-a-day-off-from-self-doubt-&-self-loathing voucher,
an hour-free-of-despair zone,
whatever deal you want to make with yourself,
whatever you think may be too much to ask of yourself,
but a little something off the price—
10%? 50%? 1000%?—
may help swing the deal,
Then go ahead, redeem this coupon,
swing yourself a deal,
give yourself a break.
What are you waiting for?

(Coupon expires only when you do.)

- Gary Turchin