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Showing posts from April, 2016

On Donner, On Diction

In which the working poet asks a question of the wind.  

On a Saturday morning at 3am the winds began.  So fierce were they, and so long in duration, one couldn’t help take it personally.Become entirely discombobulated.Consider putting a gun to one’s head.I canceled my plans for the day, having heard the gusts were at 60 MPH all over the valley.The howling was incessant.The cats began attacking one another. The dog sunk into a deep depression.Chimes and chairs and birdhouses flew past the windows.Food sounded awful, drink even worse.I paced the perimeters, watched from the bedroom as a metal piece of yard art splitin two.Our yard- umbrella, its pole staked and buried into the hard ground months ago, was finally upended.As it somersaulted across the yard and down the ravine, it knocked over our beloved cast iron bench.

I recounted the horrors to the husband,who was secretly glad to be enjoying the temperate air in San Francisco.I was, too.During the call, several sirens blew past on his …

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Safe Passage, Kate Light

Her candle burned at both ends.

*

The Idea is the Fleeting Ghostly Fish

Kate Light

that's lit up in the world of fathoms-deep;
announcing its arrival with a swish
that makes the waters murmur in their sleep.
There always blooms that steady stream of snow
like plankton fallout in the sea of brain,
from which you snitch a thought not yes not no;
but Something from the world's incessant rain.
The ghostly fish that's lit up from within,
and bright enough to catch your eye that sweeps
the depths, or reaches, or the narrrow place;
its luminescence gets beneath your skin, 
and cheers you when it finds your tearstained face.
And if you mimic it or rise to match its pace,
then you become the company it keeps.

When it Comes to Heather McHugh

When it comes to Heather McHugh,

I do not know which to prefer
the extraordinary
work

or the  life

the extraordinary do

or the word.
when it comes
to Heather McHugh,

same sing, blackbird.

 ---


GRANNY'S SONG
               - Heather McHugh 


If the fact itself were not
at odds with most of my hopes
for human life, I'd want to know why sex was always best
when I stood to lose the most.
Why make its charms so devilishly proximal to risk?
The patterns ought to favor
children's best protection -- not one parent hardened and one hurt;
one predator, one weak. But nurturance
appeared to have no part in our old fastest appetites -- our grappling hooks
and eye-meats. Well, a mortally afflicted tree
will scatter seed. That's nature's way of furthering its kind. In my own
sixties (here where issue's not the issue --
not unless I go to Delhi for an embryo implant. and let me tell you
I am not THAT nuts) -- here newly
sixtified, I say, I'd settle for a kindness: tender look…

All Roads Lead to the Peach

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Don't look under the apple tree --

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From the epic to

the lullaby,






















the stakes so high

they dwarf the sky.




Scattered Showers

From the ludicrous 

to the sublime,

the end rhyme 

is all about time.