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Orchard of Knowing, by Paul Tran
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Haunted, by Nikita Gill
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I woke up during a dream at a bad part getting in trouble for enjoying something I shouldn’t which is pretty typical because I have no self control and take advantage of all the pleasure I can like a listening to people sing when they think no one can hear them and having warm toes and eating a freshly plucked raspberry but this one is forbidden and I haven’t been carrying my backpack so I don’t have my notebook to write a poem in so this post on whatever social media platform will have to do
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Small Kindnesses, by Danusha Lameris
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By Alice Walker
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Bullet Points by Jericho Brown
I will not shoot myself
In the head, and I will not shoot myself
In the back, and I will not hang myself
With a trashbag, and if I do,
I promise you, I will not do it
In a police car while handcuffed
Or in the jail cell of a town
I only know the name of
Because I have to drive through it
To get home. Yes, I may be at risk,
But I promise you, I trust the maggots
Who live beneath the floorboards
Of my house to do what they must
To any carcass more than I trust
An officer of the law of the land
To shut my eyes like a man
Of God might, or to cover me with a sheet
So clean my mother could have used it
To tuck me in. When I kill me, I will
Do it the same way most Americans do,
I promise you: cigarette smoke
Or a piece of meat on which I choke
Or so broke I freeze
In one of these winters we keep
Calling worst. I promise if you hear
Of me dead anywhere near
A cop, then that cop killed me. He took
Me from us and left my body, which is,
No matter what we’ve been taught,
Greater than the settlement
A city can pay a mother to stop crying,
And more beautiful than the new bullet
Fished from the folds of my brain.
—from The Guardian
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Happy Easter.
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TWIN PEAKS | 1.01 — “Northwest Passage” (1990)
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Eau Claire Leader, Wisconsin, January 31, 1937
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MYSTERIUM LUNAE
A poem for Sunday
By Colm Tóibín
Last night
I saw that the moon
Was empty in the sky.
The stars around did
What they do.
They are
Millions of miles
Away,
Or millions of years,
And are totally exhausted.
But the moon is blank,
Just a space to show
Where it might have
Been. We will tell
Whoever will attend
That the moon used to catch
Light from the sun
And waxed and waned:
Full, sickle, half-
Moon. And the songs:
“Blue Moon,” “Song to the Moon”
(From Rusalka),
“Moon River,” The Dark
Side of the Moon,
The Moon and the Melodies.
It was all the rage, once,
The moon.
It was a large step,
A sad step,
For mankind.
Soon, the sun will run
Out of hydrogen
And it will all
Be gone.
The disappearance
Of the moon
Is just the start.
I am working day and night
On my book,
Knowing it will
Be the final word
On the matter.
I will compose,
With aid from scientists,
A description in concise
Prose, of the time before the bang,
The gorgeous vacancy,
The pre-astral soup,
Gravity dancing like
A herring
On the griddle—oh,
And the sly almostness
Of atoms and particles,
And how long a neutron
Took to be certain
That it was not a proton,
And the war
Between infinity and
Eternity that would have
Gone on forever
Had the world,
Oozing immanence,
Not begun to roll,
With its built-in
Obsolescence,
Its sell-by date,
Its oomph, its ooh-la-la,
Its everything that
Is the case.
It is calm here
Now. Waves have
Stopped, of course.
The sea has settled
Down; soon it will
Be a flyover state.
There is
Nothing to compel
Its tides.
At gatherings, they read
Matthew Arnold’s poem
And marvel
At the lines about the
Sea being calm tonight.
What else is there?
But it wasn’t always calm.
I can swear to that.
I remember
Redondo Beach
And the waves high
And the sun
Going down
Over the horizon.
Strange, I have
No memory of the moon.
But it must have been there
Somewhere.
But, no matter what, you can
Look all you want—
The moon is in the past,
Like analogue,
Or the Western Seaboard,
Or the library at Alexandria,
Or sic transit gloria
Mundi, a lovely
Old saying
Long eclipsed
By more fashionable
Tongues that yet are
Speechless at
The vacancy
In the night sky.
They are
Howling at the
Thing not there,
That we want back
Now, or at least
Soon.
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I SCARED A LIZARD AND A LIZARD SCARED ME, by ME
I’m sorry I
stepped off the patio
And too close to you
Hiding in the bushes.
When you scuttled away
And the leaves rustled loudly
I was startled and jumped back a little.
You were scared again
And the leaves rustled again
And I caught a glimpse of you
Staring back at me before
You got the hell out of there.
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Oneness by Thich Nhat Hanh
 The moment I die,
I will try to come back to you
as quickly as possible.
I promise it will not take long.
Isn’t it true
I am already with you,
as I die each moment?
I come back to you
in every moment.
Just look,
Feel my presence.
If you want to cry,
please cry.
And know
That I will cry with you.
The tears you shed
will heal us both.
Your tears are mine.
The earth I tread this morning
transcends history.
Spring and Winter are both present in the moment.
The young leaf and the dead leaf are really one.
My feet touch deathlessness,
and my feet are yours.
Walk with me now.
Let us enter the dimension of oneness
And see the cherry tree blossom in Winter.
Why should we talk about death?
I don’t need to die
to be back with you.
In Call Me by My True Names by Thich Nhat Hanh (1993)
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Feeding the Worms, by Danusha Lameris
Ever since I found out that earth worms have taste buds
All over the delicate pink strings of their bodies,
I pause dropping apple peels into the compost bin, imagine
The dark, writhing ecstasy, the sweetness of apples
permeating their pores. I offer beets and parsley,
Avocado, and melon, the feathery tops of carrots.
I’d always thought theirs a menial life, eyeless and hidden,
Almost vulgar—though now, it seems, they bear a pleasure
So sublime, so decadent, I want to contribute however I can,
Forgetting, a moment, my place on the menu.
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i never saw my mother
walk on water but
i saw her wait for the bus
in the snow to pay the rent
we define holy differently
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Saddam Hussein in a ten year old’s mind.
I wrote a poem about Saddam Hussein when I was 10 years old. I grew up in a small, rural, conservative place so all of the flag waving, yellow-ribbon wearing and pro-troops rhetoric had it’s influence. I’m not saying I was wrong about him being a baddy, I’m just saying MAYBE things were more complicated than my 10-year old mind could have imagined.
It was published in an insert in our local, small town newspaper, something to do with the school. So that makes me a published poet, I guess.
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Dangerous Coats, By Sharon Owens
Someone clever once said
Women were not allowed pockets
In case they carried leaflets
To spread sedition
Which means unrest
To you & me
A grandiose word
For commonsense
Fairness
Kindness
Equality
So ladies, start sewing
Dangerous coats
Made of pockets & sedition
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Salute, by A.R. Ammons
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