A hand is not fat’s yellow pillow

This oil painting of a hand is so startling to me, and I am frustrated because I can’t find out the name of the artist. Anyway, here’s a poem by Jane Hirschfield: A Hand A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.   Nor is it palm and knuckles, not ligaments or the fat’s

The Devastation of Hurricane Katrina

A short poem I wrote about that catastrophe: Devastation   The vast station of the levee Devalued by the storm Vested with weapon sharp Fallen trees Devoted flailing water In the clotted heat.     <a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/devastation/”>Devastation</a&gt;

Slowly our ghosts drag home

One hundred years ago, our world was in the middle of the terrible First World War. We should not forget what can happen. Here is a poem by Wilfred Owen, who died in that war: Exposure Wilfred Owen, 1893 – 1918 Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knive us . . . Wearied we

The Theory of the Beautiful

I wrote this poem last week and revised it this morning: The Theory of the Beautiful   The spider webs of fine wrinkles start on the grin lines like the orb weaver’s designs wait to catch a gnat or a mosquito or at least a wince or a wink. I grip the skin as I

Invitation

Here’s a poem I wrote last year with the word “invitation” as its title:   Invitation   Come alone, Baritone. I will introduce you to Contralto She reaches low and high, Rich and throaty, Breathy and languid. Such music you two will make! Better than the usual Serious, Angry, Tedious, Brusque, You two make music

Exquisite Candidate

Denise Duhamel published this poem in 1997,  but somehow it seems fitting for me to post it this year: Exquisite Candidate I can promise you this: food in the White House will change! No more granola, only fried eggs flipped the way we like them. And ham ham ham! Americans need ham! Nothing airy like

the wild thyme unseen

Here’s an excerpt from “The Dry Salvages,” part of T.S. Eliot’s long poem Four Quartets: … to apprehend The point of intersection of the timeless With time, is an occupation for the saint – No occupation either, but something given And taken, in a lifetime’s death in love, Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender. For most

someday I will rake them up

Here’s a poem of mine that contains the word someday.   October in the Garden   I don’t believe cleaning up the garden. I like to leave it weedy and seedy, Overgrown for the birds, The butterflies , the buddleia bearing branches down to the ground bowing from persistent torrents of summer rain, milkweed pods

at the still point of the turning world

Here is Part IV of  “Burnt Norton,” the first poem in T.S.Eliot’s masterpiece Four Quartets: IV Time and the bell have buried the day, the black cloud carries the sun away. Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray Clutch and cling? Chill Fingers of yew

Tell me why the stars do shine…

The word “shine” made me remember going to summer camp for several seasons of my childhood.  I wrote this poem about it:   At Little Flower Camp   At Little Flower Camp in the summer of 1957, first time away from home, She’s nine, coddled. Hates how cold the cabin gets at night, hates the