Thursday, August 31, 2017
Thursday, August 24, 2017
Poetry Thursday, hummingbirds and souls
Hummingbird
~Robin
Becker
I love the
whir of the creature come
to visit the
pink
flowers in
the hanging basket as she does
most August
mornings, hours away
from
starvation to store
enough
energy to survive overnight.
The Aztecs
saw the refraction
of incident
light on wings
as
resurrection of fallen warriors.
In autumn,
when daylight decreases
they double
their body weight to survive
the flight
across the Gulf of Mexico.
On
next-to-nothing my mother
flew for 85
years; after her death
she hovered,
a bird of bones and air.
Copyright ©
2017 Robin Becker. Used with permission of the author.
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Poetry Thursday
Things I Will Tell My Children About Destiny
~Cynthia Manick
You remind them
of
weighted tumbleweeds,
hen-egg brown. Don’t let
them take the rag-
time
beneath your skin.
It stirs
earth’s curvature
and a choir
of frogs
when you enter
or leave
a room. Don’t
leave a
swallow of juice
or
milk in the fridge.
A body grieved
is a whole new body.
Give your
shadow a name
big as a star, see
yourself
out loud.
Pick wild irises the best gifts
roll under a ribcage, leave
open
mouths splendid.
I like your smile unpenned.
Keep your bird-
song
close, imagine
an hourglass full
of architects and dreamers,
the first taste of fresh
scooped
ice cream.
You will learn to master
camouflage among ordinary things—
men who
spill words
not thoughts, trigger fingers
ready
to brand loose.
I love your smile unpenned.
Thursday, August 10, 2017
Thursday, August 03, 2017
Poetry Thursday - late entry
August
~Helen Hunt Jackson
Silence again. The glorious symphony
Hath need of pause and interval of peace.
Some subtle signal bids all sweet sounds cease,
Save hum of insects’ aimless industry.
Pathetic summer seeks by blazonry
Of color to conceal her swift decrease.
Weak subterfuge! Each mocking day doth fleece
A blossom, and lay bare her poverty.
Poor middle-agèd summer! Vain this show!
Whole fields of golden-rod cannot offset
One meadow with a single violet;
And well the singing thrush and lily know,
Spite of all artifice which her regret
Can deck in splendid guise, their time to go!