in every sense of the word.
why have clocks and pockets at all
unless occasionally I empty them
past all bits of lint and wrappers
past every squandered hour
and spend it all
for the joy of not measuring
and for the sweet relief of
After
in every sense of the word.
why have clocks and pockets at all
unless occasionally I empty them
past all bits of lint and wrappers
past every squandered hour
and spend it all
for the joy of not measuring
and for the sweet relief of
After
Yesterday
at the first meeting
of the Sunshine Committee
they voted Yes
to Everything
all flash and grumble
ominous in the distance
and traveling fast
changing all the time
as we do.
It arrived on our doorstep
despite the bluster
as soft rain for the garden
someone to miss when they go
which are the best kind.
Taking too many packages
from the car
his grip loosens at the
wrong or perfect moment and
a dozen bright blue messages
rise–Happy Father’s Day
scrolled on each balloon
What I’m not
Lately
is full of poems
They don’t crowd around
waving, jumping
craving
the scratchy feel of paper
beneath their inky toes
They wandered off
to the Islands, I imagine,
judging by the luggage
I picture them packing
Floral, full of sweetness
and secrets
sunscreen and paperbacks,
I imagine
— and that’s a start
He ran down a driveway
and across the road
right there
not a big dog after all
but a bear.
A Bear
right there
rough furred reminder
of the Wild all around
ready to step out of the
woods, ready always
to brush against our skin
as we hurry by each other
because I thought I wouldn’t
or you wished I didn’t or
because of the way
the evening deer
in the back field
lifted his head
when I said, Maybe
next summer,
Turquoise
a bowl of berries
before a poem,
a pink magazine
before the Physics exam.
The sweet shape
of doorways
marked
Procrastination
the well in the woods of the world
isn’t hidden,
exactly. But you must search for it.
Idly. Casually. Search may be
too strong a word. The well,
I’m sad to say,
does not reward Diligence
nor does it approve of maps.
Rather, it appears on a whim
and only in the right mood
whatever that is.
Until you jump
or fall
down its long dark, the well
is invisible to the world.
Once you’re swimming
you see again how it opens
to wide caves below the sea.
Somehow, you forgot this
more than once.
ten days till summer—
I stride into school each day
donning my costume
armored Roman guard
exhorting daydreamers to
keep rowing this ship
there's a poem in every day
aka: The Happy Bookers
Artist
I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"
custom poems on vintage typewriters
One Poet's Writing Practice: Poems by Mary Kendall
A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014
Living in the moment