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
Mike Vargo: Is There a Real Me?
Believing in a real self would be easier if the self were not so inconsistent.
Philip Terman: Meeting the Swami
“Throw your karma in my basket,” it said.
Doug Anderson: Dear Children
…all you’ve got to do is open a book like a door and descend the winding staircase down to the underground river and watch the reflection of the water wavering on the walls…
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
Arlene Weiner: Only One Dead
Our son
in Tucson warned us we’d read
about a professor killed in his office,
shot by a former student.
Jessica Bagwell: Study of an Olive Tree
Slick, ovalescent, stone
fruit, slung between leaves,
poised on the branch–waiting,
for warm hands
to pluck.
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
Video: Rhiannon Giddens | Songs that bring history to life
Rhiannon Giddens pours the emotional weight of American history into her music. Listen as she performs traditional folk ballads — including “Waterboy,” “Up Above My Head,” and “Lonesome Road” by … Continue reading
Margo Berdeshevsky: Here Is My Body
Invisible, on our lake, our dreamscape, the old blue heron lands.
Bhikshuni Nanduttara: It’s Not Fair
I spent most of my teenage years running from one bed to another. Any sign of warmth would do.
Deborah Bogen: Three poems by Yongbo Ma
…thunder is like a guarantee that everything exists,
that the wine will not sour,
that the season will turn again,
as it always has.
Helene Johnson: Invocation
Let me be buried in the rainIn a deep, dripping wood,Under the warm wet breast of EarthWhere once a gnarled tree stood.And paint a picture on my tombWith dirt and … Continue reading
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.
