William Carlos Williams

To a Poor Old Woman

Munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand
They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her
You can see it by
the way she gives herself
to the one half
sucked out in her hand
Comforted
a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her

This is just to say

William Carlos Williams


I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

On Turning Ten

Billy Collins

The whole idea of it makes me feellike I'm coming down with something,something worse than any stomach ache or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--a kind of measles of the spirit, a mumps of the psyche,a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.You tell me it is too early to be looking back, but that is because you have forgotten the perfect simplicity of being one and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.At four I was an Arabian wizard.I could make myself invisible by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.But now I am mostly at the window watching the late afternoon light.Back then it never fell so solemnly against the side of my tree house,and my bicycle never leaned against the garageas it does today, all the dark blue speed drained out of it.This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends, time to turn the first big number.It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light.If you cut me I could shine.But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,I skin my knees. I bleed.

Savage Horse

Paula Gutierrez


Savage, son of the thunder, sea force, bright sunray, your heart
highlights the path where you will travel without looking for a reason.

Your savage soul perceives the distinction between good and evil.
Your heart is like a scream that gives freedom, and you don’t ever want to look back.

Will your soul breathe forever in the ones who seek freedom?
You are the law that states clearly prove your worth or perish.
In this way perhaps you will save your soul.
In your freedom you will live.
Your freedom you will feel.

The Way It Is
William Stafford
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn’t change.People wonder about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread.But it is hard for others to see.While you hold it you can’t get lost.Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die; and you suffer and get old.Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.You don’t ever let go of the thread.

Morning: Love Sonnet XXVII
Pablo Neruda
Naked you are simple as one of your hands;Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round. You've moon-lines, apple pathways Naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat. Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba; You've vines and stars in your hair.Naked you are spacious and yellow As summer in a golden church.Naked you are tiny as one of your nails;Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born And you withdraw to the underground world. As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores; Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves, And becomes a naked hand again.

The Shirt

R. Milian


It lies all wrinkled up on the ironing board, like crumpled paper in a wastebasket, a dying patient waiting to be resuscitated by the burning iron. The steam slowly rises with life.

My hand, a doctor, carefully pressing her skin, makes sure her creases are smoothly softened, like the flat surface of the Ohio country.

The warmth of the metal offers some needed breaths of oxygen.
Rough fabric gives way to rigidity, a soldier standing upright for inspection by a drill sergeant.

Firm long sleeves are two huge towers, shining in the distance. The right pocket, an airplane window opened to the sky, and the buttons sparkle like orange fire on a summer day.

Like fresh bread, I put on my shirt ready to face the world.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings 

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

Maya Angelou -
A free bird leaps on the back of the windand floats downstream till the current endsand dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cagecan seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on
a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own. But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The Shore

R. Milian


From the shore two boats move sideways in the distance like two ice skaters, and the sky reminds me of an immense field populated with sheep.

The waves reach the shore teasing my feet wanting to touch them,
but its foamy water decides to recede once again to its place of origin.

Bandit seagulls soar above the vast floating blanket decorated with fish, and I look at them with contempt for invading my privacy.

The sand has a soft feeling,
a yellowish curtain spreading for miles.

Sea and sky conflate to form a large window beginning to close slowly as the last breaths of light fall over the landscape.

A Birthday Poem

Ted Kooser
Just past dawn, the sun standswith its heavy red headin a black stanchion of trees,waiting for someone to comewith his bucket for the foamy white light, and then a long day in the pasture.I too spend my days grazing, feasting on every green moment till darkness calls, and with the others I walk away into the night, swinging the little tin bell of my name.

1920-2005

His Poetry

Over This, Your White Grave
Over this, your white gravethe flowers of life in white--so many years without you--how many have passed out of sight?Over this your white gravecovered for years, there is a stirin the air, something upliftingand, like death, beyond comprehension.Over this your white graveoh, mother, can such loving cease?for all his filial adorationa prayer:Give her eternal peace--[Krakow, spring 1939]

Selecting a Reader

Ted Kooser

First, I would have her be beautiful,and walking carefully up on my poetryat the loneliest moment of an afternoon,her hair still damp at the neckfrom washing it. She should be wearinga raincoat, an old one, dirtyfrom not having money enough for the cleaners.She will take out her glasses, and therein the bookstore, she will thumbover my poems, then put the book backup on its shelf. She will say to herself,"For that kind of money, I can getmy raincoat cleaned." And she will.

April Rain Song

Langston Hughes

Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night. And I love the rain.

After Years

Ted Kooser

Today, from a distance, I saw youwalking away, and without a soundthe glittering face of a glacierslid into the sea. An ancient oakfell in the Cumberlands, holding onlya handful of leaves, and an old womanscattering corn to her chickens looked upfor an instant. At the other sideof the galaxy, a star thirty-five timesthe size of our own sun explodedand vanished, leaving a small green spoton the astronomer's retinaas he stood on the great open domeof my heart with no one to tell.

Mother Nature

R. Milian


Mother Nature
R. Milian

Alone in the park,
My wife and I walk the desolate spring day.
The heavy rains spill over the scenery like a summer shadow extending its tentacles in all directions. The umbrella we carry becomes our uninvited guest.
We move forward along the open path with an army of October trees on either side.

Everything is grey except for our golden eyes.
A few raindrops try to invade our private space, interrupting our conversation.
The solitude of the morning opens its arms and welcomes us into the day.

Holding hands like young adolescents, we laugh at the rain.
The dreariness of the day won’t ruin our spirits.
In fact, the emptiness of the landscape is delightful, and sounds which we have never heard before enter our ears.

Nature comes alive during quiet moments.
We pay attention to its sounds.
We are like children returning to paradise.

Tribute

R. Milian

Today was my birthday.
Family members congratulated me, others called me, and still others sent birthday cards.

But this yearly pattern was broken with the news that John Paul II had died.
How insignificant I felt all of a sudden.
The rain outside seemed like a fitting tribute to his death.
All those congratulations were so miniscule in contrast with the stature of the Man who had passed away.

I can’t help to think this way. How do you celebrate your birthday when his death has stopped the world for a day?
My small birthday pales in comparison with the great work he did, but at the same time,
I think his death is the greatest birthday present I would ever receive in my lifetime.

April 2 will not have the same significance for me anymore.
It will no longer be the cake and candles, but a celebration of what I have done to improve my life and that of others.

The world mourns John Paul II.
He touched so many lives.
He saved so many souls.
He touched mine on my birthday, unexpectedly, and for that I am grateful.
Amen