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Archive for August, 2017

 

 

 

And even as the countries aim their missiles at each other

and dangle threats and hurl names, the woman

in the hair salon gives you a deal because

in an hour you’ve shared dreams, shared fears.

And the bus driver helps you find your way.

And the tall man in the grocery store sees you reaching

for a box on the top shelf and offers to hand it to you.

Even as the congress argues and quarrels and stalls,

the little blonde boy you barely know snuggles into your lap

and tells you he loves you. Kindness continues to thrive,

Kindness breeds more kindnesses. Kindness

reminds you again that wherever you are,

you are home, that the world you most want

to live in is right here at the kitchen table,

right here on the noisy, crowded street.

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Sure, you might be all crystal goblets, all ruby sunsets

and soft violins. You might be high rise and Bugatti

and caviar. But baby, you haven’t made it

 

anywhere that the lice can’t find you. It’s not

about your hygiene, honey, it’s about your hair follicles.

Can’t drown ’em in your infinity pool. Can’t

 

smother them with your fine spa mud.

They’ve evolved to find you, to suck your blood,

to romp on your scalp, to lay their nearly invisible eggs

 

and glue them to strands of your hair.

You’d like to pretend they aren’t there. But

they are. It’s the age-old story of lice and men.

 

Says right here in Scientific American

that “Sucking lice have been sucking primate blood

for at least 25 million years.” Doesn’t seem too likely

 

they’ll stop their thirsting habits for you.

No pair of lice lost on account of your bling.

They won’t be dissuaded by your Gucci belt nor deterred

 

by your Chanel. They’re the great human equalizers,

these lousy little beasts. They care nothing for race.

For gender. For creed. They see us all the same—

 

as fine warm hosts. Perhaps they’ve something

to teach us right now, now when we need

the lesson most. Darling, are you itching yet?

 

 

 

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…in a time seemingly hellbent on hate? That’s what Phil Woods and I both explored through poems last week in our responses to Charlottesville. Please check out the poems today in the Colorado Independent. To read them, click news poetry. And please, if you are up for it, write a response. We need more conversations about what’s happening.

 

All the best,

Rosemerry

 

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Four from Chicago

 

 

 

One When My Grandfather was Still Alive

 

 

in the subway tunnel

the arching notes of Danny Boy

on a violin—

I walk slower to meet the train

I arrive twelve years ago

 

One Courage

 

 

hearing the moan on the other side

or is it a low laugh—

still choosing to open the door

 

 

One Near Totality

 

 

eclipse behind the clouds

so much beauty we never see—

sunflower blooming in a distant field

 

 

 

 

One New Time Signature

 

my father a song

I used to think I knew—

this morning, I hear

the same song with new ears,

or is it that the tune has changed—

all day I hum it,

all day I feel lucky

to hear him humming back

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Before the sadness comes the shock,

like snow falling on sunflowers,

like nightfall at noon. And then

the tears catch up. And then

the wondering, What could I have done?

The urge to hold her now that I cannot.

The ache to hold her daughter, to hold

her son the way that she once held

my children when they were young.

What is there to do now but cradle

each other, to cry, to recover, and again

to shudder, to cry. To say to each other

that this day it hurts to be alive.

To notice that despite grief,

the larkspur are in full blue.

The river curls notes around the rocks.

The bees immerse their bodies

in snapdragon blooms.

How it’s never been more important

to know this—that the world

is beautiful. That even as we’re held

by tragedy, here is tenderness.

Here, always waiting to be opened,

the invitation to love.

 

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One Afternoon

 

 

 

Here is his ferocity—

how it opens him like a monsoon

here is your umbrella

fling it in the rain

let the flood rearrange you

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In China they call the Milky Way

the silver river, and tonight

at the top of the drive I launch

my starry canoe into swirl of it.

I notice I forgot a map. I notice

there’s more song out here

than I thought there’d be.

No edge in sight.

Please, you come, too?

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The night is enormous—

big enough to hold us both

in a way that make us

seem close.

This is why I speak to you

through the stars—

not because I think

that they can hear,

but because I pray

you can.

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Just as you give up,

there, through the trees,

you see a clearing

and though it’s exhausting

to be hopeful again

when there’s so little

to show for your hope,

you walk to the clearing

and there in the moss,

hundreds of chanterelles.

 

When you leave

to reenter the broken world,

some of the hope

sticks to you like tiny burrs,

able to seed themselves

anywhere you carry them.

By noon, nearly everything

seems possible.

 

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If you’re considering a poetry practice, please, read this blog post written by Shelley Widhalm. Shelley is a writer and editor who participated in a poetry playshop I led in Loveland two weekends ago, and I couldn’t be more thrilled about the way she took up the challenge to write poems for 30 days as a daily practice. And I love how she pulls details from what other participants said, from what I said, and from her own experience.

If you are interested in guidance and encouragement for your own poetry practice, let me know. I will be taking two new students in September. You can read more about these poetry one-on-one conversations here.

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