John Okrent: This Costly Season
I picture Whitman,
wending his way through wounded Union
soldiers—his democratic nostrils, the smell of dead
or dying flesh. And in all the dooryards, the smell of lilacs.
Christine Rhein: Our Corner Acre, April Afternoon
Side by side, we dig in the withered flowerbed,
the sudden warmth, and once again you say, See
how much the light has shifted. I nod my head
at another changing season, our aching knees.
Edna St. Vincent Millay: When you, that at this moment are to me
When you, that at this moment are to me
Dearer than words on paper, shall depart,
And be no more the warder of my heart…
Sally Bliumis-Dunn: Diminution
Did she believe—she did, I think— the right
cliché could save us, help us not to feel
alone, so many bees in that same hive—
spilt milk, sow’s ear, Achilles heel.
Countee Cullen: Yet Do I Marvel
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind
Edna St. Vincent Millay: She had forgotten how the August Night
She had forgotten how the August night
Was level as a lake beneath the moon,
In which she swam a little, losing sight
Of shore
Edna St. Vincent Millay: I shall go back again to the bleak shore
I shall go back again to the bleak shore
And build a little shanty on the sand…
Donald Trump: MAGA Sonnets
…you’re lucky I’m your president.
You’re so lucky. You’re so lucky, I always tell our great
First Lady, Darling, you’re so lucky.
Doug Anderson: How it happens
God help me, I don’t know where I’m going.
We hold each other’s hand like children
finding our way home among the closing wolves.
Edna St. Vincent Millay: Oh, sleep forever in the Latmian cave
Oh, sleep forever in the Latmian cave,
Mortal Endymion, darling of the Moon!
Edna St. Vincent Millay: I shall forget you presently, my dear (Sonnet IV)
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day
Christina Rossetti: The Plague
‘Listen, the last stroke of death’s noon has struck—
The plague is come,’ a gnashing Madman said…
Dawn Potter: Sonnet in Search of Poems I’ve Never Written
I’ve been meaning to write about a patch of mossy
frogs’ eggs in a vernal pool, about a single contrail
chalking a blue November sky…
Vox Populi 