Definition of loophole. 1 a : a small opening through which small arms may be fired. b : a similar opening to admit light and air or to permit observation. 2 : a means of escape; especially : an ambiguity or omission in the text through which the intent of a statute, contract, or obligation may be evaded.castle-Arrow-slit-or-Arrow-Loop


here is a poem by By George Seferis


An Old Man on the River Bank


To Nani Panayíotopoulo


And yet we should consider how we go forward.
To feel is not enough, nor to think, nor to move
nor to put your body in danger in front of an old loophole
when scalding oil and molten lead furrow the walls.
And yet we should consider towards what we go forward,
not as our pain would have it, and our hungry children
and the chasm between us and the companions calling from the opposite shore;
nor as the bluish light whispers it in an improvised hospital,
the pharmaceutic glimmer on the pillow of the youth operated on at noon;
but it should be in some other way, I would say like
the long river that emerges from the great lakes enclosed deep in Africa,
that was once a god and then became a road and a benefactor, a judge and a delta;
that is never the same, as the ancient wise men taught,
and yet always remains the same body, the same bed, and the same Sign,
the same orientation.
I want nothing more than to speak simply, to be granted that grace.
Because we’ve loaded even our song with so much music that it’s slowly sinking
and we’ve decorated our art so much that its features have been eaten away by gold
and it’s time to say our few words because tomorrow our soul sets sail.
If pain is human we are not human beings merely to suffer pain;
that’s why I think so much these days about the great river,
this meaning that moves forward among herbs and greenery
and beasts that graze and drink, men who sow and harvest,
great tombs even and small habitations of the dead.
This current that goes its way and that is not so different from the blood of men,
from the eyes of men when they look straight ahead without fear in their hearts,
without the daily tremor for trivialities or even for important things;
when they look straight ahead like the traveller who is used to gauging his way by the stars,
not like us, the other day, gazing at the enclosed garden of a sleepy Arab house,
behind the lattices the cool garden changing shape, growing larger and smaller,
we too changing, as we gazed, the shape of our desire and our hearts,
at noon’s precipitation, we the patient dough of a world that throws us out and kneads us,
caught in the embroidered nets of a life that was as it should be and then became dust and sank into the sands
leaving behind it only that vague dizzying sway of a tall palm tree.
                                                          Cairo, 20 June ’42
George Seferis, “Mythistorema” from Collected Poems (George Seferis). Translated, edited, and introduced by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Copyright © 1995 by George Seferis.  Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press.
Source: George Seferis: Collected Poems (Princeton University Press, 1995)

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/loophole/”>Loophole</a&gt;



-vintage-birds-vintage-images tunnicliffe



Here’s a poem by D.H.Lawrence



Somewhere the long mellow note of the blackbird
Quickens the unclasping hands of hazel,
Somewhere the wind-flowers fling their heads back,
Stirred by an impetuous wind. Some ways’ll
All be sweet with white and blue violet.
(Hush now, hush. Where am I?—Biuret—)

On the green wood’s edge a shy girl hovers
From out of the hazel-screen on to the grass,
Where wheeling and screaming the petulant plovers
Wave frighted. Who comes? A labourer, alas!
Oh the sunset swims in her eyes’ swift pool.
   (Work, work, you fool—!)

Somewhere the lamp hanging low from the ceiling
Lights the soft hair of a girl as she reads,
And the red firelight steadily wheeling
Weaves the hard hands of my friend in sleep.
And the white dog snuffs the warmth, appealing
For the man to heed lest the girl shall weep.

(Tears and dreams for them; for me
Bitter science—the exams. are near.
I wish I bore it more patiently.
I wish you did not wait, my dear,
For me to come: since work I must:
Though it’s all the same when we are dead.—
I wish I was only a bust,
All head.)


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/study/”>Study</a&gt;


the undulating chorus

Spring Peeper (Pseudacris crucifer) - Breeding pond

Here’s a poem I wrote about twenty years ago, about those tiny beings:


Spring Peepers


In spring the frog sounds like a bird

who with his cousins curves the night

around the pond with hot blue songs

that bend the mud and send the slight

sounds shivering into the dark,

across wet pasture, black with sleep



Across the field the undulating

chorus bites through rock and mud

to say the winter yields its howling

to the tough truth’s greening blood

The eyes of songbirds cut the clouds,

their silent flight to north and nest.




<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/undulate/”>Undulate</a&gt;

I am not forlorn today

girl playing hopscotch

Because I have found that Panoply magazine is a WordPress address!

On this very cold January day, Panoply has published a summer poem of mine:

“In the Heaven of Hopscotch”


In the Heaven of Hopscotch – Anne Higgins


I hope you can work the link and visit the ezine itself.



<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/forlorn/”>Forlorn</a&gt;

Finally, I’m worried

Dr. Evil and Trump

On this New Year’s Eve,  here’s a “worry poem” I wrote back in 2008.

I’m worried about other things this year:  my divided country at the top of the list. But here’s this one anyway:

Finally, I’m worried


I’m worried about Petunias.

The ten year old seeds stewing in my

windowbox peat seed starter

are not starting.

If they do, I worry if they’ll grow.

I worry if they will survive

the transfer to outside.

I worry if the rabbits will eat them.


I’m also worried about Nuala,

my idiosyncratic friend,

she of the pontifications

against the Republicans,

who, in church,

picks at her ear with

her little finger,

and then studies the gleanings

intently, head down,

eyes above her glasses.

I’m worried she will lose her job

for incorrigible quirkiness.


I’m even more worried about Emily,

my bashful student,

she of the singular smiles

when listening to a private conversation

which seems to be taking place

within her mind,

between those sandy braids.

She of the zipped up hoodie,

late adolescence

like a lilac holding back its bloom

due to unseasonably cold weather.

I’m worried she will lose her will to live

when she’s home for the summer.


Finally I’m worried about the receipts

I’ve lost,

the weight I’ve gained,

the dreams I forget.


<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/finally/”>Finally</a&gt;

almost at twilight



fort clifton park

On this snowy morning, here’s   a summer birdwatching poem I wrote many years ago. It appears in my book “Life List.”


At Fort Clifton Park, Colonial Heights Virginia


We walked the boardwalk through the little swamp

almost at twilight

almost at closing time

for the nature preserve.

In the quiet


flash of buttery yellow

and the Prothonotary Warbler


three feet in front of us

on a crusty branch,

to feed her flapping fledgling.

Unmindful of us

paralyzed with joy

to see her

so close

so close.




<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/almost/”>Almost</a&gt;