Poetry

On Growing Old

Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying; My dog and I are old, too old for roving. Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying, Is soon too lame to march, too cold ...

Iman

(Iman was a Palestinian girl who was sprayed with bullets by Israeli soldiers as she walked to school. Rafah, 2004. Her name means “faith”) Come be spun in the nightly vortex where I am Sarai’s ...

When I Have Fears

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charactery, Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain; When I behold, upon ...

Lantern

In the predawn cold and darkness, it was only a pinch of light, not more than a cup of warmth, as a farmer carried it over the snow to the barn where his dozen cows ...

Bitch

Now, when he and I meet, after all these years, I say to the bitch inside me, don’t start growling. He isn’t a trespasser anymore, Just an old acquaintance tipping his hat. My voice says, ...

To the New Year

With what stillness at last you appear in the valley your first sunlight reaching down to touch the tips of a few high leaves that do not stir as though they had not noticed and ...

New Year’s Day

The rain this morning falls on the last of the snow and will wash it away. I can smell the grass again, and the torn leaves being eased down into the mud. The few loves ...

Big Blue

Santa made his rounds and I see lots of folks were blessed with fishing rods and reels and lures and guided trips and such. Most of you were fishing around under the tree, giving and ...

To Jesus on His Birthday

For this your mother sweated in the cold, For this you bled upon the bitter tree: A yard of tinsel ribbon bought and sold; A paper wreath; a day at home for me. The merry ...

Mikayo and the Gulf War

to Mikayo, an emperor among cats I went to bed early the night we attacked Iraq, was awake an hour later as if someone had tapped my shoulder, said, It’s war. I’d had a war ...

In August

We sit on the sun porch and watch the storm roll in from the Rock River, he with Jane Kenyon’s Otherwise, her luminous poems about dying, cradled in his lap, a book I bought him ...

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