poetry: results 673–696 of 735
Sometimes it's the color red
in a weave or the sun north of Rome
or the rubber band around a two-hole punch
and suddenly I'm there again—
if the lights are on or off, if we're in the kitchen
or the bedroom, half-naked or fully disrobed at six
or seven when we should be thinking about other things
and I really don't care for this position or that particular…
"Am I my brother's keeper?"
Like the fuel load of bombers,
clichés come squared and balanced…
The ocean unfolds itself. The tongue stays put,
unreadable and needless.
We come to watch, speechless to the lake
where dragonflies dip their abdomens like brushes…
Nothing is motionless, not the painted portrait
blinking while you're away
whose acids are discoloring buttons, whose frame
is oxidizing while moistening its eyes…
Sick maybe, and if so yes for home, but not homesick,
that place where vast pastures continue as horizons—
but scared, and hoping as in a game with friendly players
they let you take back a wrong move. That something…
Open on the desk Kafka
is flying in his little bucket
the drops of ink he spilled while becoming aloft
form the profile of a woman's swan neck…
like the heavy shoulders
of the sea, how the north
star would be named Melville,
would sit about the broad sky…
but I can't forget there is your story
I tell her she's superstitious
she fires back:
"You're a poor excuse for a skeptic."
She believes in miracles…
said the sign
in the parking lot
After a bath
my very clean ass
I lay here in limber fish
(I am not a rice paper kite)
tormented by the wrappers…
Working on a foundation reminiscent of a screened-in porch I helped my family build when I was a kid, only much larger. Carting wheelbarrows of sand for the cement mixer & concrete blocks. Old friends showed up…
More interested in finding than knowing. The symposia throng, led by panels, almost political, mostly American, addressing the question, 'What is American about American poetry?'
Last day of winter won't disappoint. Rain one degree from the gentleness of snow rides the added chill of March wind bruising skin blue, or red, dreary, dismal. Olson called it dour.
After days of silent glow, nearing the kneaded air and pacing out the things that I wanted to say, I saw you—we met—like two birds along the paths by the water, between which was haze and wood.
In the twilight of things, pressed up against the acres of glass, with our bodies beneath: we walked to the place where the deer had woven themselves into the trees. The grass mounded white, the light receding.
It's the last box, the last chair,
the last look at the place—
the history shared with four walls,
a roof, a floor.
you are the urinal
in which men piss infidelity
when wives demur sex
She's queasy over orange juice
and muffin batter rising
while shots of booze
she can't recall names for…
This is the box I am putting you in:
The blood stain on the chair
in our bedroom at the four-star hotel
does not bother me.