Listen. I will tell you everything. The weather is turning.
Soon it will be time to unroll the Persian rugs and lay
on the polished floors.
I will hold nothing back. I am brittle, like glass; like
of a tree too long without water; a cocoon, untenanted,
exposed to the sun.
This morning I wore a jacket to walk the river path. Two
in their black robes, pecked at the body of a thick green
My mother was a northerner.
She carried me across thin ice. Many times I slipped
the frozen water. I never knew my father. Tomatoes are
on the kitchen counter,
red bulbs on the maple wood. I prepare the knife: steel
sharpening stone. I want to slice to the seedy centers
bruising the skin.
I loved my father. He had perfect, beautiful hands. He
them manicured and clean. There are reasons you must
touch me. My grandmother
lived with God in her garden. She fed me carrots and
she put white lilies by my bed. I am telling you
It is cold here.
Birch trees bend in their white sleeves, leaves hissing in
A blade of sun slants down, casting serrated shadows on
ground. Are you listening?
Do you understand? The dog waits, and waits, at the
Yesterday, I dropped the Murano vase. It cannot be
I cut myself on sharp, thin air.
Read the poetry of Sharon Brogan
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Spring in the Northland
Spring in the North Land
Does not come in a blast of color.
The achromous land is still covered
In a blanket of snow.
The pregnant carpet beneath
Is anxious to breathe the fresh Arctic air.
The profusion of hothouse-derived colors in the city
Of the peony and the chrysanthemum
Are city hues only.
They are there for the tourist, and to decorate
The towns and city of the north.
But, out in the Tundra,
Spring comes on whispers--
A soft musical melody, that sees the end
Of the dance of the Aurora
And welcomes the long day of summer.
This melody is sung by the lichen
And the thick Arctic grasses,
Heard only by the Caribou and the Eskimo.
Read the poetry of Rivka Zorea
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Spring Again ☊
the bipinnate leaves
fold into shyness
of cherry blossoms--
waters of spring
a duckling sets off
Enjoy this sequence in the PoetryAloud area
Read the poetry of Ramesh Anand
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Poet Brendan Bonsack Gets To The
Sunday Morning Bagels
Laundry was our Sunday morning chore.
Up the street we’d tote our clothes tossed
in twisted compromised positions, box
of Tide, and a book or two for waiting.
During the wash cycle, we read; the dry cycle
was for our Sunday morning bagel and cream cheese.
Two doors down from the laundromat
was a diner that served a bagel, sliced,
and a small cup of cream cheese for fifty cents.
Bagels were as rare in the high desert
Southwest as tortillas on Long Island,
and neither of us had ever tasted one
before our first Sunday at the laundromat.
Often down to coins, risking pink underwear,
we combined whites and colored garments in one load,
or not dry pieces that could drape over chairs
and curtain rods in our apartment, to save
a quarter toward the bagels. Sometimes
we shared one bagel, flipping
our last penny for the crunchy top half.
They were toasted golden and the cream cheese
melted into the soft dough. Sometimes
the girl behind the counter gave us a cup
of coffee on the house, and we’d sweeten
the blackness with real sugar, nibble squirrel-
sized bites from the bagel and sip the hot brew,
our eyes twisted together like the garments in our bag.
Read the poetry of Clarence Wolfshohl
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This sky and world are mean
Is it morning?
So much the same.
Where is the sun
That warms, cleanses
Grows and heals?
Can I move without it?
Care without it?
The trees roar--in dance with an evil mate.
Can nothing grow without you?
My garden will fail.
My will, shrivel -
Plump my bag of feathers
Of tattered cotton comfort
An impoverished cloud.
Read the poetry of Claudine C. Wargel
Read a profile of Claudine C. Wargel
Hunter's Moon, October 27
In the North woods tonight, it is rutting season.
The deer have invested their month of gains
preparing for the lean season; the bucks like their does
with a little extra in the rump these weeks.
They trumpet snorts and calls of lust
Across thickets, scrub, grasslands. Loudly.
It is the Hunter’s Moon. Life sustaining fat
and hormones at full peak.
Replication of life for the sake of life;
Expression of love for the sake of love,
The taking of life in love for the sake of forward progress.
And I grew up in the North Woods, of course.
The days grow shorter, parallel to my desire to introvert
I prepare to either migrate or hibernate,
worriedly, watching me put on my own winter stores.
I draw a sweater tight, watch the north for arrivals
of migratory winged things.
I slow, want to spend more time abed. We were never
meant to work these southern breakneck paces
365 days a year. A body long in motion wants to rest.
Maybe the only person I want to see, sometimes,
Something in the way I love you is different.
The moon looks closer now, from where I stand;
there is both more and less urgency to words, thoughts.
I will watch the moonrise tonight. I will measure
the diminishing distance between hearts, minds.
Weigh intentions in acorns, sunflower seeds, and squash.
I will run my hands down my own sides,
In the soft bright glow
Thinking of how to best prepare the house special,
and of hunters, moons, and unattainable needs.
Hoping you, like your northern counterparts,
like your rump a little on the soft side.
Tender, and succulent. And loud.
Read the poetry of Marie Anzalone
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Poet Ana Caballero On Birth,
Lynn White: A Tale Of Height and Light
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