David Kirby: My Sunday
My Sunday is doing great
it’s driving along at 35 mph with its sleeves rolled up
and one arm out the window
dog with its head out the window barking at nothing
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: This Longing for Him
Another dawn. Fists in my pockets, I head east
into this street of bungalows
as if I belonged here, among the hundred windows
lit one by one
Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Michael Simms: Zoom Reading
Please join us today, Saturday May 18, 11amPDT, 2pmEDT for a Poetry Reading by Laure-Anne Bosselaar and Michael Simms
Percy Bysshe Shelley: Hymn to Intellectual Beauty
The awful shadow of some unseen Power
Floats though unseen among us; visiting
This various world with as inconstant wing
As summer winds that creep from flower to flower…
Fred Johnston: With My Father on Broadway in the Rain
I wanted to be back in our hotel room
Looking out the single window from that height
Knowing I could not fall, that if all gave way I could always fly
Pascale Petit: Roebuck
Tell me there is a meadow, afterwards,
that the roebuck will come
to the top of my garden
Richard Levine: Spring Ephemerals
We are met in this clearing, on this hill,
a breeze pronouncing itself in the still
bare tree crowns.
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer: The Grand Quilt
I don’t believe we can stitch together
only scraps of beauty, squares of light.
James Crews: Finding my Mother
The day you passed away, I stumbled
along icy sidewalks, searching for any
sign of you
Michael Simms: Leaving Walden
Is it true the distance between atoms
is proportionate to the distance between stars
and the world we know is mostly empty space?
Toi Derricotte: The Minks
In the backyard of our house on Norwood,
there were five hundred steel cages lined up,
each with a wooden box
roofed with tar paper
Dawn Potter: Piers Plowman
Who mutters the low notes, croons the old riversift,
water tumbling into stone and sand? Who trembles
the cows clustered in the thin shade of the high hill?
Yongbo Ma: Midway Stop
It was an autumn long ago
I was still young then, still in love with something
Donna Hilbert: Two Poems
You are the rosemary I add to the soup:
how you pressed pungent bristles
between thumb and finger
