Found this while cleaning

Spring Winter Cleaning

The softness of a touch
The cleanliness of a kiss
The calmness of a love
The potential of a wish

There are these moments of permission
by Camille Dungy


                Between raindrops,


                             
  space, certainly,


but we call it all rain.


          I hang in the undrenched intervals,


while Callie is sleeping,


                    my old self necessary


and imperceptible as air.

One of these...

Nightclub

by Billy Collins

You are so beautiful and I am a fool
to be in love with you
is a theme that keeps coming up
in songs and poems.
There seems to be no room for variation.
I have never heard anyone sing
I am so beautiful
and you are a fool to be in love with me,
even though this notion has surely
crossed the minds of women and men alike.
You are so beautiful, too bad you are a fool
is another one you don't hear.
Or, you are a fool to consider me beautiful.
That one you will never hear, guaranteed.
For no particular reason this afternoon
I am listening to Johnny Hartman
whose dark voice can curl around
the concepts on love, beauty, and foolishness
like no one else's can.
It feels like smoke curling up from a cigarette
someone left burning on a baby grand piano
around three o'clock in the morning;
smoke that billows up into the bright lights
while out there in the darkness
some of the beautiful fools have gathered
around little tables to listen,
some with their eyes closed,
others leaning forward into the music
as if it were holding them up,
or twirling the loose ice in a glass,
slipping by degrees into a rhythmic dream.
Yes, there is all this foolish beauty,
borne beyond midnight,
that has no desire to go home,
especially now when everyone in the room
is watching the large man with the tenor sax
that hangs from his neck like a golden fish.
He moves forward to the edge of the stage
and hands the instrument down to me
and nods that I should play.
So I put the mouthpiece to my lips
and blow into it with all my living breath.
We are all so foolish,
my long bebop solo begins by saying,
so damn foolish
we have become beautiful without even knowing it.

Haiku Ambulance

A piece of green pepper
fell
off the wooden salad bowl:
so what?

- Richard Brautigan

Low-Anchored Cloud [Mist]

Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men's fields!

-Thoreau

Silence

Silence
by Nazia Naqvi USA
The silence between the gunshot and the drop... one more Palestinian child shot. The silence between his last call to salvation and the rock fallin from his hand... The silence of a boy who will never be a man. The 10 seconds of silence we take when we hear his story. The very silence that embodies his moment of glory. The silence of it all on American T.V. The silence we hold inside, thinkin, "I'm glad it wasn't me." That silence we claim to detest, but in it we find a place of rest. Your heart, your mind and soul left unshaken with steady breath of your chest. The silence of us saying nothin but never failing to blame the rest. We scream out our words, but hide our actions... mostly cuz we're jus too proud. We preach for revolution to the same old crowd... but aint no one gonna hear us... when the silence is so loud. IslamicPoetry.org

National Poetry Month...

Your hope in my heart is the rarest treasure
Your Name on my tongue is the sweetest word
My choicest hours
Are the hours I spend with You --
O Allah, I can't live in this world
Without remembering You--
How can I endure the next world
Without seeing Your face?
I am a stranger in Your country
And lonely among Your worshipers:
This is the substance of my complaint.

- Rabi'a Basri

Army of one

Last night I went on a long excursion to Appleton, WI. The ride took around 4 hours, and some coffee. The point of my trip was to see a poet I really enjoy and have posted his poems on here before: Billy Collins. He read numerous poems including a wonderful selection of hilarious haikus. Below are the pictures I took there.

Billy Collins explaining his poems.

He had the audience cracking up.

I was surprised to see no statue of Jesus (as) in there. Only the really nice organ.

Outside view of the church.

There he is signing books. I got two books signed on behalf of my school. The picture quality is bad because I was shaking after meeting him. Not because he's so great or anything, but only because I'm a spaaz.

Lastly some deer I saw by the edge of the road.

She's looking at me.

National Poetry Month

The Country
by Billy Collins

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time -

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

National Poetry Month

Facing It
by Yusef Komunyakaa
My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn't, dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way--the stone lets me go. I turn that way--I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial again, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022 names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap's white flash. Names shimmer on a woman's blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I'm a window. He's lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman's trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

sometimes I mumble

Sometimes I mumble to myself
a simple mumbling
concise and beautiful
full of wisdom

I am not the only one who does this
Bigger than me, many have done this
and still do
But it is different for me.
One, can’t question
the others have no choice
But I, I can sing songs
I can talk on the phone
But I choose to mumble

So let the lookers look
and let the scoffers scoff
I do it out of love
The Truest Love

-Written by me