The Poetry Playground

Fox Trot Fridays

Thank the stars there’s a day
each week to tuck in

the grief, lift your pearls, and
stride brush stride

quick-quick with a
heel-ball-toe. Smooth

as Nat King Cole’s
slow satin smile,

easy as taking
one day at a time:

one man and
one woman,

rib to rib,
with no heartbreak in sight –

just the sweep of Paradise
and the space of a song

to count all the wonders in it.

~ Rita Dove

Bent Orbit

I wind my way across a black donut hole
and space that clunks.
Once I saw on a stage,
as if at the bottom of a mineshaft,
the precise footwork
of some mechanical ballet.
It was like looking into the brain
of a cuckoo clock and it carried
some part of me away forever.
No one knows when they first see a thing,
how long its after image will last.
Proust could stare at the symptom of a face
for years, while Frank O’Hara, like anyone with a job,
was always looking at his watch.
My favorite way of remembering is to forget.
Please start the record of the sea over again.
Call up a shadow below the pendulum of a gull’s wing.
In a city of eight million sundials, nobody has any idea
how long a minute really is.

~ Elaine Equi

Saint Francis and the Birds

When Francis preached love to the birds
They listened, fluttered, throttled up
Into the blue like a flock of words

Released for fun from his holy lips.
Then wheeled back, whirred about his head,
Pirouetted on brothers’ capes,

Danced on the wing, for sheer joy played

And sang, like images took flight.
Which was the best poem Francis made,

His argument true, his tone light.

~ Seamus Heaney

Guantanamera

I am a truthful man
From where the palm tree grows
And before dying I want
To set free the poetry in my soul

My verse is light green
And it is flaming red
My verse is a wounded stag
Who seeks refuge on the mountain

I grow a white rose
In July just as in January
For the honest friend
Who gives me his open hand

With the poor people of the earth
I want to cast my lot
The brook of the mountains
Gives me more pleasure than the sea

~ Jose Marti

The Blessing

Barefoot daringto walk
amidthe thrashing eye-glitterof what remains
when the tideretreatswe ask ourselveswhy did it matterso muchto have the lastword?Or anyword?
Here, please–take what remains,
It is yours.
~ Joyce Carol Oates

Come. And Be My Baby
The highway is full of big carsgoing nowhere fastAnd folks is smoking anything that’ll burnSome people wrap their lives around a cocktail glassAnd you sit wonderingwhere you’re going to turn.I got it.Come. And be my baby.
Some prophets say the world is gonna end tomorrowBut others say we’ve got a week or twoThe paper is full of every kind of blooming horrorAnd you sit wonderingWhat you’re gonna do.I got it.Come. And be my baby.
~ Maya Angelou

Poems
I am hardly ever ableto sort through my memoriesand come away wholeor untroubled.It is difficultto sift through the stones,the weighty moments and knowwhich is rare gem,which raw coal,which worthless shale or slate.So, one by one,I drag them across the pageand when one cuts into the white,leaves a trail of blood,no matter how narrow the stream,then I knowI’ve found the real thing,the diamond,one of the priceless gemsmy pain produced.”There! There,” I say,”is a memory worth keeping.”
~ Nikki Grimes

Being Boring
“May you live in interesting times.”           – Chinese Curse
If you ask me “What’s new?”, I have nothing to sayExcept that the garden is growing.I had a slight cold but it’s better today.I’m content with the way things are going.Yes, he is the same as he usually is.Still eating and sleeping and snoring.I get on with my work. He gets on with his.I know this is all very boring.
There was drama enough in my turbulent past:Tears and passion — I’ve used up a tankful.No news is good news, and long may it last,If nothing much happens, I’m thankful.A happier cabbage you never did see,My vegetable spirits are soaring.If you’re after excitement, steer well clear of me.I want to go on being boring.
I don’t go to parties. Well, what are they for,If you don’t need to find a new lover?You drink and you listen and drink a bit moreAnd you take the next day to recover.Someone to stay home with was all my desireAnd, now I’ve found a safe mooring,I’ve just one ambition in life: I aspireTo go on and on being boring.
~ Wendy Cope

White Towels

I have been studying the differencebetween solitude and loneliness,telling the story of my lifeto the clean white towels taken warm from the dryier.I carry them through the houseas though they were my childrenasleep in my arms.
~ Richard Jones