William Hathaway: The Quiet of the Sky
Quietly, though. The sort of view
people look at and say awesome
while taking pictures of their faces
with their phones with nature scenes
behind them…
Sandra Mitchell: To have you listen at all, I have to stop talking
In times like these, to get you to listen,
I must show you how
To grasp history with your hands.
Richard Levine: Day Labor
This is New York, drinking coffee in plain
blue paper cups at dawn. In every tongue,
the dream begins with showing up.
Sandy Solomon: Tidal Basin, Washington, D.C.
Over the branch of a small cherry,
below the white flurry of blossoms,
someone has looped a maroon sash.
Thomas Merton: Prayer
My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.
I do not see the road ahead of me.
I cannot know for certain where it will end.
Pablo Miguel Martínez: Adiós, o virgen de Guadalupe—
…urge her back
to her celestial jefe. Go back
where you’re safe, chula.
Yana Djin: The Dead Don’t Die | The Poetry of Dmitry Melnikoff
And they lie at the edge of light alone
at the place where snow never hits
Kahlo embraces Diego’s barebone
and they emanate heat.
Ellen McGrath Smith: Good Friday, Fernhill Dump
Standing, a girl-boy, on the junked car in the dump,
some other kids across the dump standing on their cars
Chard deNiord: Lizard, An Exegesis as Love Letter
So when you woke, there I was in my Sunday best as a funny little guy with a complex tongue and stunted legs who spoke the double truth.
Hayden Saunier: A Cartography of Home
My mother was a place. She was the where
from which I rose.
Alan Soldofsky: Entitled
You know it’s hard to concentrate
when pear trees across the street
burst out overnight, flaunting their
astonishing plumes of white confetti.
Carolyn Miller: Three Poems
And in the evening, after the sun had set
and the birds were alighting in the trees, my mother,
in her housedress and apron and cheap leather shoes
and my father’s dress socks, went out to water the flowers…
Jane Varley: The Language of Prayer
She was beautiful on a hilltop
above the Red Lake River where clouds
dashed sunlight and the scent
of cherry and lilac drifted in, drifted out
Naomi Shihab Nye & Michael Simms: Writing Prompt # 6 | Dear Vaccine
As we enter our new lives
will we remember
the faster we moved
the sicker we got?
