Toi Derricotte: Invisible Dreams
I have to make a
place for my body in
my body.
Joanne Durham: Becoming Educated
No one spoke
of their exodus, how they fled homes
stolen or burned
Theodore Roethke: The Waking
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
James Crews: Thank You for Everything
Walking the roads after a snowstorm,
he put out an arm to stop me
as three deer streamed down the hill
Breanna Draxler: Soil Builds Prosperity From the Ground Up
Respecting the humanity and history of soil can help us grow a more resilient future for all.
Richard Krawiec: Looking at Gaza
In the Israeli siege of Gaza there are so many photos and videos of horror it’s difficult to keep track of them. Every day we see more and more atrocities on social media. We are overloaded with evidence of innocents being killed, maimed; neighborhoods left in rubble.
Chard deNiord: Grief is the River with a Foreign Name
Grief is the river with a foreign name
that floods your heart, pulling you in
with a musical force you can’t resist
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer: With Astonishing Tenderness
when you wake
and see clearly all the places you’ve failed,
in that moment, when dreams will not return,
this is the chance for your softest voice—
the one you reserve for those you love most
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Morning Praise
Praise not God
or fate, but the weeds & leaves that soften
the earth under my steps toward the widening
light
John Guzlowski: Four Poems
My mother never thought she’d survive
that first winter in the slave labor camps.
Barbara Hamby: Ode on Anger, the Dalai Lama, and Elliot’s Red Boots
aren’t we more like pack mules
than gods most days, picking our way
across the desert or up a mountain path with avalanches
and the heaviest loads are our grudges and fears
Sara Teasdale: Old Love and New
Old love, old love,
How can I be true?
Shall I be faithless to myself
Or to you?
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: To the Marine Fog
Look, I might not have woken up early enough
to watch you hang your rags over the hedge,
or loiter in the yard’s waning night, but I’m here
now — so linger by my window a little.
Michael Simms: House
You want to lie down in the lost field
of your courage and sleep
beside the blurred road of snow
