Jesse

This didn't cure my cold, but it worked at least as well as the otc meds

Walking Through the Eve of God It was almost a perfect autumn leaf, but for a litle hole just off center Sun, wind, and rain all pass through All that beauty unbidden, freely given Still it fell. Still, it was found.

Find the fallen
#poetry #poem

Chekhov's Cat. Schrodinger's Gun Sometimes, the weight of the cat on my legs is my only grip on this realm Sometimes, I almost dream of her coiling spring, chasing a fly or a phantom or someone whose legs desire the gravity| We both launch into the stratosphere eightless, hanging on instinct, one single full-body stretch in mid-air, sometimes a moon silhouette. sometimes a cloud sometimes a heart-shaped clock with a round snug in the chamber - always the eleventh hour - always her paw promise casually keeping the safety on.

Sometimes
#poetry #poem

Dementia Is a New Wau to Be Buddhist Kelli Russell Agodon Today my mum said she doesn't remember arriving at my house with a dishcloth doesn't remember me telling her my kitten stayed overnight at the vet, that Id be coming over to help with bills. What she remembers is now. She knows her memory is a ship leaving port without permission, her memory is a cloud she can't hold. When she asks, Why is everything so hard? I say, I don't think you' re the only one asking that. When I say, I have trouble with loss, she says, We are all leaving She adds: I know I won't be around much longer. So I ask her what she'll come back as? A pig, she says, then laughs. I tell her I can't imagine seeing a pig and having to say, Oh, there's my mom! She smiles and says, Then maybe Ill return as a hummingbird. Another conversation in the present. Another conversation I will remember alone. <

We are all leaving
#poetry

Great White Heron The whole anxiety of living is that we imagine death as a hand sure to strike, and cannot easily conceive of a hand certain to hold, but in the natural arrangement of time and chance death is no different from life which is merely the possible fastened to the present and the sunshine of now is only bright against the deep blue sky of never —Maria Popova From An Almanac of Birds: 100 Divinations for Uncertain Days

#poetry day

A hand certain to hold

Eyes that would swallow the moon As the cat orbits me- her cries of hunger more keen with each revolution - Iread poems, comet tears in a holding pattern, never quite falling. don't have her courage, her earnestness. She is fleet of foot, but not faint of heart. We feel sorry for each other. She iS hungry, but has no thumbs. have thumbs, but am no longer hungry. The atmosphere of her patience wears thin. but her warning S tender as she gently bites my thumb, reminding me to use them while I still can.

🐈‍⬛️ 🌕
#poetry

The cover of Every Galaxy a Circle by Chloe N. Clark.

I know everything is trash but books are still good. My book is up for pre-order and id be grateful if you want to read it 🥺 will link to a few places in thread

StatementofTeachingPhilosophy KeithLeonard Mystudentswantcertainty.Theywanti sobadly.Theyrespectscienceandhavememorized complexformulas.Idon'tknow howtotellmystudentstheirparents arestilljustasscared.Thebulliesgetbigger andvaguerandyoucannotpunchacloud. Ihaveeulogiesforallmylovedones prepared butcannot.includethisfactmylessonplans. Thebestteacherleverhadtoldmetomeethim atthebasketballcourt.Weplayedpickuppforhours Bytheend,Ilaypantingonthehardwood andcouldn'tsomuchasstand. Hetoldmetodescribethepaiin Itried.Icouldn'trds.Notexactly Listen,hesaid,that'swherelanguageends.

Where language ends
#poetry

Just read a Diane Seuss poem so good it made me curse three times afterward, which I'm almost hoping and almost fearing will cause my shadow or reflection to switch places with me.

I believe this could apply to any Diane Seuss poem.

Meow wolf

Think wrinkle

The cover for Every Galaxy a Circle by Chloe N. Clark. The cover features abstract planets in waves of pinks, purples, and greens

Delighted to reveal the cover for my forthcoming book from @jacklegpress.bsky.social with huge thanks to amazing editor @fulmerford.com

It's Bad Poetry Day, thought I'd try my hand at one of Ginsburg's American Sentences.

Hot air blows stars, stripes - perpetually half-mast - roadkill heats the streets

#poetry

A walking taco, or the shell of one Late night grocery trip and - remembered something a friend said years ago, some blue light special about not wearing Open-toe shoes in public after sunset. My 9pm thwackers haunted the produce, flip-flopping past the peppers, roaming by the romaine, yet the eyes of the restocker lidn't check for socks, the cashier wholly unbothered by my gnarly yardsticks. They didn't look away. On my walk home, I could feel it - mercury - prograde in my blood, a rush of quicksilver as my breath paced the shadows. I lived mas, whether I wanted to or not.

#poetry ...?

A pleasure to be in hallowed @havehashad.com pages

DANA GIOIA Sunday Night in Santa Rosa The carnival is over. The high tents, the palaces of light, are folded flat and trucked away. A three-time loser yanks the Wheel of Fortune off the wall. Mice pick through the garbage by the popcorn stand. A drunken giant falls asleep beside the juggler, and the Dog-Faced Boy sneaks off he Serpent Lady for the night. to join Wind sweeps ticket stubs along the walk. The Dead Man loads his coffin on a truck. Off in a trailer by the parking lot the radio predicts tomorrow's weather while a clown stares dressing mirror, takes out a box, and peels away US face.

Just clownin'
#poetry

Poet as Immortal Bird A second ago my heart thump went and thought, "This would be a bad time O have a heart attack and die, in the niddle of a poem," then took comfort in the idea that no one I have ever heard of has ever died in the middle of writing a poem, just as birds never die in nid-flight. Ithink. ORon 'adgett

I think.

#poetry

Dust Dorianne Laux Someonespoketomelastnight, toldmethe truth.Justafewwords, butIrecognized.it. IknewIshouldmakemyselfgetup, writeitdown,butitwas late, andIwas exhausted from working alldayinthegarden,movingrocks. Now,Tremember only theflavor- notlikefood, sweetorsharp. Morelikeafinepowder,likedust. AndIwasn'telatedorfrightened, butsimplyrapt,aware. That'show itissometimes - Godcomes toyourwindow, allbrightlightandblackwings, andyou'rejusttoo tiredtoopenit.

Tired

#poetry

The Thing Is to love life, to love it even when you have no stomach for it and everything you've held dear crumbles like burnt paper in your hands, your throat filled with the silt of it. When grief sits with you, its tropical heat thickening the air, heavy as water more fit for gills than lungs; when grief weights you like your own flesh only more of it, an obesity of grief, you think, How can a body withstand this? Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, yes, I will and you say, I will love you, again. take you Ellen Bass

Back to Bass

#poetry

Eileen Sheehan Porridge had enough of this business of living I've there is only one cure for that, and besides and breakfasts are sO boring in this place the that '1have decided to die on Tuesday next. Porridge again this morning. had hoped for a change. Inform who you will of my intention. Yesterday requested eggs Bcnedict,' lighth poached, with asparagus tips, y al dente of course, on a bed of wilted spinach all enhanced by a smooth hollandaisc sauce. They gave me porridge. Again. My affairs are in order, you wil find all the relevant documentation in that top drawer. On Wednesday last Ihad a fancy for French toast and requested same. They cajoled me like I was a naughty child of four who had never sailed in a yacht or holidayed on the Rivicra and they gave me porridge. I would like to sec those faces when my will is read: I always did like surprises. Friday, quite br accident of course, I spilt that porridge all down the bed. Who knew it would'be so sticky and difficult to clean? I did feel sorry. That nephew who never comes to sce me, will not be getting the inheritance he is expecting: such a pity really. Šaturday, Iclosed my eyes and pretended the porridge was smoked wild salmon on brown bread. I achieved some moderate success but porridge does so little for the imaginative mind. Sunday 1 was reckless, demanded caviar with wafer-thin crackers, and a dainty silver spoon with which to eat it, I need not have bothered: porridge again but in a plastic bow). It made me think how my fine house wil make an excellent shelter for the homeless. 1 rather fancy being remembered as a philanthropist: my extended family will be'astounded at my argesse, Íhis morning, I thought to outsmart them, Lordered Oatmeal with sliced fresh peaches, blueberries, crushed almonds and a swirl of cream. 1 got porridge in a chipped bowl, This contributed greatly to my decision to die on Tuesday: see if I won't. Ihave always achieved whatever I set out to do, dying will be no different. will …

#poetry

Prayer EverydaylwanttospeakwithyAndeverydaysomethingmore important callsformyattention-thedrugstore, the beautyproducts, theluggage Ineedtobuyforthetrip. EvennowIcan hardlysithere among thefallingpilesffppperand clothing the garbage trucksoutside alreadyscreechingandbanging. Themysticssayyouareascloseas myown breath. Whydolfeefromyou? Mydaysand nights pourthroughme likecomplaints andbecomeastorylforgottotell. Helpme. EvenasIwrite these wordslam planning torise from thechairas soonasIfinish thissentence. MarieHowe

Congrats to Marie Howe!

#poetry

Oh hell no. Support #IndieBookStoreDay April 26

Here Be Dragons I will be the fish-man, walking out of water, drowning in the stars, the man o' war gripping, griping its way down greasy streets, the seahorse on the fastidious pitch of posture, prancing and lancing old money in a game both fair and friendly, the clam lying in wait for its pearl to coalesce, in my defense, there was no sign in the sea warning me: dangers ashore

Here Be Dragons

#poetry

THE COMMITTEE WEIGHS IN I tell my mother I`ve won the Nobel Prize. Again? she says. Which discipline this time? It's a little game we play: I pretend I'm somebody, she pretends she isn't dead. Andrea Cohen

I bought this book based on this poem, whew

Screenshot of a single question and answer from interview in the Times Literary Supplement with Ursula K. Le Guin. Here is the quote: If you could make a change to anything you’ve written over the years, what would it be? In The Dispossessed, I would mention the communal pickle barrels at street corners in the big towns, restocked by whoever in the community has made or kept more pickles than they need. I knew about the free pickles all along, but never could fit them into the book.

Ursula K. Le Guin on the true pain of being a writer

hey it’s america

MARCH 27th HUNGRY FEELING When you`re feeling hungry time can go by slowly, like when I'm out shopping with Mum. I say, "Im hungry" she says, "You've just eaten" I say again, "I'm hungry" She says again, "You've just eaten" "But I'm still hungry' "But you've just eaten!" "Well I don't know, it must be the cold but me belly feel like a dough-nut with a hole." Grace Nichols

From a children's poem a day book <3

#poetry

What if you knew you'd be the last to touch someone? If you were taking tickets, for example, at the theater, tearing them, giving back the ragged stubs, you might take care to touch that palm, brush your fingertips along the life line's crease. When a man pulls his wheeled suitcase too slowly through the airport, when the car in front of me doesn't signal, when the clerk at the pharmacy won't say Thank you, I don't remember they're going to die. A friend told me she'd been with her aunt. They'd just had lunch and the waiter, a young gay man with plum black eyes, joked as he served the coffee, kissed her aunt's powdered cheek when they left. Then they walked half a block and her aunt dropped dead on the sidewalk. How close does the dragon's spume have to come? How wide does the crack in heaven have to split? What would people look like if we could see them as they are, soaked in honey, stung and swollen, reckless, pinned against time? Ellen Bass

"If You Knew"
Ellen Bass
#poetry

WILD GARLIC Out in the copse after rain (too late after dark to be here). Warm soil, woodlice dripping from the underside of leaves. I root down to the tender stalks and twist them free - soaked petals dip and touch my arm, kernels of bud, itch of foliage, of wildness on my skin. The plants are carrying the smell, earth-rich, too heavy to lift above head-height, and my boots and jeans are bleached with it. turn home, and all across the floor - the spiked white flowers light the way. The world is dark but the wood is full of stars. sean hewitt

The world is dark but the wood is full of stars

Winter Fear poem by Kay Ryan

Is it just winter /
or is this worse. /

—Kay Ryan

Louise Glück SNOWDROPS Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know what despair is; then winter should have meaning for you I did not expect to survive, earth suppressing me. I didn't expect to waken again, to feel in damp earth my body able to respond again, remembering after so long how to open again in the cold light of earliest spring afraid, yes, but among you again crying yes risk joy in the raw wind of the new world.

Louise Glück - this time the line that stands out to me:
"winter should have meaning to you"