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Written in response to this lovely list, from the site Sunday Whirl

Rose knew some things. She knew there was a spare spell under the old bridge. And she knew how a human could get it. The spell, marked by no sign, had wedged itself tight into the right angle where bridge met ground. In high summer, a wide flair of purple loose strife hid it from view. In winter, the spell was plainly visible, tarnished gold and glowing, for anyone to see. But since the trouble a few years back with the goats and the bridge troll, humans were scared to come down here. Rose knew that had been a different bridge, clear across the county and besides that, that old troll was long gone. But humans stayed away. And the others wouldn’t come here. There were some lines even royalty did not cross. This bridge was one such line.

So the spell stayed, hidden for half of every year. Rose tried to tell the humans who jumped from the bridge, usually late at night and always ending badly, that this was no way to retrieve the spell. Magic didn’t work that way and following the only logic she knew, Rose thought they jumped to get the spell for themselves. They never listened. So Rose waited for the right human to come along. She knew for sure—the only way to find the spell was to fall from the bridge. Jumping didn’t count.

In this story, the amateur sleuth is a poet
everywhere she goes, this dame,
with her silk stockings and bobbed hair
her wise mouth, rhinestones, heels—
instead of murders she uncovers
metaphors in the drawing room or train car,
country estate, vicarage, village or
Speakeasy. Our sleuth keeps at it until
the reader is convinced—
every single day
is chockful of mysteries waiting to be revealed
Waiting for any of us, poets all, to notice

My favorite poems
are the ones that drop
into my head
like ripe raspberries
juicy and complete
tumbling themselves
in happy haste
onto the page as I
scribble and hope
to Not Be Distracted by
Practical Clocks before the
poem is done. My paper notices
first and then the rest of me sees
these poems are much more energetic
than a bowl of berries
Now that I contemplate that metaphor
for—well, not for very long
but the picture in my head isn’t
Quiet glowing berries at all but
little girls at their dance recital
or a bundle of tussling puppies.
More like that, please.

Whoever that is, talking all the time
inside your head when you talk to
yourself? Whoever mine is, I’ll tell
you this—she has a limited range.
When not shouting, Be Alarmed!
she mainly whispers, careful now
or on her very best days repeats
Oh fragile, fragile, no matter
what I’m looking at my
favorite days are the days
she’s asleep, or at least so tired
and quiet I can look around
see something of the world
with out hearing what I think

Back home each night, unpack lunch box,
backpack, briefcase, and the day’s gathered
bag of images tumbles out swims into
dreams rolls beneath the couch
settles into corners like feathers
dust and crumbs all for you to write down

Every day an image sticks, often a thing
I’ve never even seen glowing bright
a story from someone else today
what stayed came from icy roads
where we talked to distract ourselves
from the perils of unsalted roads
She told me about her childhood
in Germany the stalag became a summer
camp with wide lawns for dancing
and sports. The army barracks
became a school. When the
weather turned, children hung
their coats on the gun racks.

Is there only one question and it’s an essay test?
Is the question What are you waiting for?
Or is it a million million choices on a multiple choice
quiz where if you eliminate the clearly wrong, totally unlikely
and the answers put there just to trip you up all other options
boil down to one correct response and that is
always, Amazement
sometimes written as
Huh. What do you make of that?

The mouse-colored lady cardinal is back,
feathers flecked with washed out red
like a woman who’s forgotten to dye
the gray from her hair. She keeps
pecking at the window above the kitchen sink

where we’ve all stood so many hours
washing dishes, looking out through rising steam
now here she is looking in
or through, at her own reflection
and the deep green reflection
of the hedge that is her real home if only
She would turn around and look
and there it goes again,
Life drops another into your water wrinkled fingers
the way it does, life’s little hobby,
whether we notice or not

Turn around and look
Stop hurrying through everyday
Turn around and look at
Your own true home

faithless and small,
we stumble towards the mountain
hauling our load of words and sticks
a fraying rope tied
to the sled handle

Go ahead, yell.
Maybe someone on the mountain
is listening maybe someone
will hear and shout back
offer encouragement
directions
or hot cocoa

How much better it is
to carry wood to the fire
than to moan about your life
from The Clothes Pin, by Jane Kenyon

When winter won’t stop
whispering in its dreariest voice
I prescribe a sturdy regimen
of poets, their words
stacked like firewood against
implacable cold each twig
bound for kindling crackles
light and comfort,
comfort and joy
The act itself warms and eases
you, gathering the poets
like pouring pills into your cup
whitman kenyon nye
collins cummings bly
rotella neruda
ferlinghetti
and oh, oliver and
oh willard with the moon
in her bicycle basket