Tuesday, June 30, 2020


Without Ceremony

It was your way, my dear,

To vanish without a word

When callers, friends, or kin

Had left, and I hastened in

To rejoin you, as I inferred.

And when you'd a mind to career

Off anywhere — say to town —

You were all on a sudden gone

Before I had thought thereon,

Or noticed your trunks were down.

So, now that you disappear

For ever in that swift style,

Your meaning seems to me

Just as it used to be:

'Good-bye is not worth while!'


Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

Thomas Hardy and his wife Emma

Monday, June 29, 2020

Saturday, June 27, 2020


Late Song

Long evening at the end of spring

with soft rain falling and flowing

from the caves into the broken

stone basin outside the window

a blackbird warning of nightfall

coming and I hear again

announcing that it will happen

darkness and the day will be gone

as I heard it all years ago

knowing no more that I know now

but once more I sit and listen

in the same still room to the rain

at the end of spring and again

hear the blackbird in the evening


W. S. Merwin
The Pupil

Friday, June 26, 2020


At Fort Egbert

    Eagle, Alaska

In a field where weary soldiers once stood

breathing cold river mist at reveille,

I watched a woman and child filling

a large pail with strawberries as small

as the tip of the child's little finger.

She said they were brought to Eagle

over coastal mountains from Valdez

by a cavalry officer's young wife

who wrapped them in wet straw and burlap

when her steamer saild for Seattle.

She had found them deep in the woods

in ruts once cut by wagon wheels.

This story was told her by a woman

whose grandfather was stationed here.

The evening air was cooling as she spoke

with an accent slightly soft and Southern.

I knew the strawberries were wild.

A few were growing in my garden,

and I had seen them near the cemetery, as well.

Still I listened without saying a word.

Her story would comfort them when December's

gruel of thin light shivered in her daughter's spoon.

Tom Sexton
World Brimming Over
Brooding Heron Press

Thursday, June 25, 2020


On Pharmakos Farm

                                     for Tom

Join my song

flossing loopholes

'neath this spiny tree

for time has difficulty

rolling uphill  —

nothing consecutive

on this cloud-initiated mountain:

cluster and


blue flashes

on the backs of birds

the sound of cinnamon

all you get

till you're picked

on pharmakos farm

no cooling herb

from bloodless flowers

at the bottom of summer's

paper hearts


Joel Felix
Limbs of the Apple Tree Never Die
Verge Books

Wednesday, June 24, 2020


Song For A Widow's Marriage

Husband, I come to you, no girl,

but a woman earthed from North Dakota.

I have known the farm,

have milked cows,

have forked manure

into the spreader,

have smelt the deep ammonia

of horse urine.

I have borne the womb burden;

I have borne and bear

the woes of children,

woes that hang as unaccountable

as moon dogs or a dry dipper.

I come to you no girl

but I come rich

with peasant blood

and warm as sun-dug potatoes.

You shall have me warm beside you

when winter turns over the roof's edge;

you shall have me

like something held for winter

coming live with flavor

from the double-doored root cellar;

and, when I take the pies

from the oven

and when I take the bread

that yeasted all the kitchen

in the afternoon,

come, kiss my neck

and walk with me

through the late garden.

Franklin Brainard
Minnesota's Writer's Publishing House

Tuesday, June 23, 2020



Sunday, June 21, 2020


Susan and I traveled this route in 1979

Saturday, June 20, 2020


Though you've forgotten who you were. . .

     though you've forgotten who you were

     when she told you her songs to sing,

though you've forgotten who you were

     who sang her songs to the air,

though you've forgotten who you were

     who could make her sing her songs,

though her arms ache for you and you want

     to come to her and you sit there

     waiting to hear her song,

the wind blows on past you over the ranges

    of blue mountains and carries her

    into the blue distances where

    your eyes can't see.

Oh thinking, feeling people:

     Laborers, presidents, blue collar workers,

     vice-presidents of governments and businesses,

     kids in blue jeans waiting out the summers,

     working in gas stations and cafes,

     smoking dope under the noses of the police,

     or screeching your tires on the roads,

     long-haired people living in leantos and old

     adobe houses spiritually resettling the land. . .

     bring to the children of the years to come

     that Indian vision of the Earth's old family

     Old vision of the Earth's old family

     Old vision of the whiteman we lost long ago

     that Homer tells was ours.


Drummond Hadley
A Curriculum of the Soul


Friday, June 19, 2020


Orange Sunshine Acid Poem


We rode towards the stars on a crest

of marble, gneiss and schist

and were caught in the cold sweeping searchlight of eternity


You were the Snow Queen and I was Boris

I fought the Russians in the snow with my large red hands

As they fell on my knife their blood froze into jewels


I came to you and you loved me, Scheherezade

your breasts smelling of musk

and the wind in the tents


I can't tell you anything of love

except that it is a young woman

picking the dry rose-colored madrone leaves from her hair.


William Witherup
Love Poems
Peters Gate Press

Thursday, June 18, 2020