Secrets
Listen. I will tell you everything. The weather is turning. Soon it will be time to unroll the Persian rugs and lay them on the polished floors. I will hold nothing back. I am brittle, like glass; like leaves 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 crows, in their black robes, pecked at the body of a thick green snake. My mother was a northerner. She carried me across thin ice. Many times I slipped beneath the frozen water. I never knew my father. Tomatoes are laid on the kitchen counter, red bulbs on the maple wood. I prepare the knife: steel blade, sharpening stone. I want to slice to the seedy centers without bruising the skin. I loved my father. He had perfect, beautiful hands. He kept them manicured and clean. There are reasons you must not touch me. My grandmother lived with God in her garden. She fed me carrots and peas, she put white lilies by my bed. I am telling you everything. It is cold here. Birch trees bend in their white sleeves, leaves hissing in the wind. A blade of sun slants down, casting serrated shadows on the hard ground. Are you listening? Do you understand? The dog waits, and waits, at the door. Yesterday, I dropped the Murano vase. It cannot be repaired. I cut myself on sharp, thin air. Read the poetry of Sharon Brogan Read a profile of Sharon Brogan 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 Read a profile of Rivka Zorea Spring Again ☊
spring drizzle the bipinnate leaves fold into shyness ❧ rain of cherry blossoms-- remaining spring ❧ waters of spring father backstrokes into healthiness ❧ lake sunrise a duckling sets off downstream Enjoy this sequence in the PoetryAloud area
Read the poetry of Ramesh Anand Read a profile of Ramesh Anand Poet Brendan Bonsack Gets To The
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Sunday Morning Bagels Albuquerque, 1967 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 Read a profile of Clarence Wolfshohl Gray
Gray. Wind whipping. This sky and world are mean With cancer. Is it morning? Nightfall? So much the same. Where is the sun That warms, cleanses Grows and heals? Can I move without it? Care without it? Why - So dark Unsettled Cruel. The trees roar--in dance with an evil mate. Sun-drop, Can nothing grow without you? My garden will fail. My will, shrivel - Pale Transparent Spineless. I recline Plump my bag of feathers Pull up The quilts Of tattered cotton comfort And sigh 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. Or something. Maybe the only person I want to see, sometimes, is you. 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 Read a profile of Marie Anzalone Poet Ana Caballero On Birth,
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Lynn White: A Tale Of Height and Light
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