Posts Tagged ‘news’




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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Dear Finn,




Full of seed, the bird feeder hangs

from the cottonwood tree

we planted years ago.

Even without the birds,

it is beautiful—

dangling midair

with its copper perches

and glass column.


This morning in the news,

we are going to war with each other—

either with words or with missiles.

It seems clear

that we are our own problem.


No wonder we try to bring beauty in close—

the garden with its open faced pansies,

the hummingbird feeder with its hold

of sugar water.


The battles are not

what will save us,

it’s beauty—not just

outside us, but in us.


All day, let us look

for ways be like this brown bird

at the feeder, see

how it gathers light

in its open wings.







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In the bedroom of my heart, kicking out the stinking news, opening the window to hear the river song.

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One After Terrible News




despite everything,

today, daisies in white bloom,

scent of mint, of bread


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In All Cases




all the more reason

to hug one another—

this great news, that terrible news

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After Reading the News

All day the dull gray weight
of hatred sits on me like
a heavyweight wrestler
and refuses to move.
The referee does not exist.
I lose the will to struggle.
Meanwhile, I watch myself
lie there beneath him, as if
watching myself in a movie,
and I walk away from the whole
sad scene, my heart
responding to some invitation
I wish would come …
to find love in me for everyone
I meet, even for that wrestler,
even for that woman lost
beneath his weight.

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It all began with the dark, of course, like any good poem.
And then there was the problem of how exactly to bring in
some light. Dawn, of course, but that just seemed too obvious.
Fireflies, but that would be too childish. Bioluminescence?
Too obscure. The need: something everyone can relate to. The poem,
of course, was not at all about the dark. It was about the teenage girl
who had killed perhaps thirty men for the thrill of killing. She lost count,
she told the newspaper reporter, after twenty-two men.
But that is too gruesome to write about: the knife blade, the blood,
the groping, the new husband in the back of the car waiting with a cord, the cult.
So the poem was about dark. And for light, not the moon. No.
Too sacred, somehow, and there are just too many poems
about the moon. Light bulbs, well, there’s a metaphor for you.
And a joke, too. But the poem was just not in the mood for a joke
and despite a surplus of 40 watt bulbs in the closet,
it decided that the dark was best, after all, and
just sat there, quietly, considering the dark.

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What do you get when you mix a snowstorm, Tips for Jesus and Knockout?

Today, New Verse News published this poem that pulls them all together. Thanks James Penha. If you click on the day before, there is a great poem by my friend David Feela on the death of Nelson Mandela.


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All day I imagine
how it could be me,
could be you, it is her
on that street, in that car,
in the chains, in the window.
All day I break down
the door. All day
I turn toward love.
It is not hard to find love,
but it is not easy
to be joyful in it.
We are so alone
All day I break.
The door
is still not open

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The locked gate, opened.
The ex-girlfriend in the closet.
The indifferent swimming pool.
I scour news reports
from CBS, The Denver Post, the Vallarta Opina,
looking for a different story,
a different detail,
a different end.
They say the same.
The boy’s body lifeless
in the pool.
There is more.
It does not help
to see the man’s picture.
His bruised cheek, his black eye,
his gaze averted.
I imagine how he, too,
was a boy.
How he, too,
must have had dreams.
How he, too,
must have smelled
the sea in the air.
All day I think
of the mothers.
All day I think
of the sons.

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