Across the street from your house is a small apartment building. Every so often, at the end of the month, someone will move out and someone else will move in. You sit in your upstairs office, the one with the green walls and the fuchsia and orange curtains –be not afraid of color– and glance … Continue reading Musical note, part one
Happiness – Hafiz Ever since happiness heard your name It has been running through the streets Trying to find you. — For more information on Sufi poet Hafiz, please click here: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/hafez Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Hafiz
Famous – Naomi Shihab Nye The river is famous to the fish. The loud voice is famous to silence, which knew it would inherit the earth before anybody said so. The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds watching him from the birdhouse. The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek. The … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Naomi Shihab Nye
Every other day or so, you drive up Irving Avenue and back again, a drive so familiar that most of the houses barely register. A few exceptions, notably the green one with the clerestory windows you’ve always admired. Once, when this green house was for sale and you were walking by, you pulled one of … Continue reading Something you would think but never say
The Boy – Marie Howe My older brother is walking down the sidewalk into the suburban summer: night white T-shirt, blue jeans — to the field at the end of the street. Hangers Hideout the boys called it, an undeveloped plot, a pit overgrown with weeds, some old furniture thrown down there, and some metal … Continue reading Poem of the Week, by Marie Howe
You get a reminder of it sometimes, when you walk by a house being built. Or when you’re tearing out a wall damaged by one of last winter’s ferocious ice dams. Or when your electrician friend comes to put in a new outlet in the room that has only one. Touring a factory can do … Continue reading And paced upon the mountains overhead
Signing My Name – Alison Townsend An artist always signs her name, my mother said when I brought her my picture, a puddled blur of scarlet tempera I thought resembled a horse. She dipped the brush for me and watched while I stroked my name, each letter drying, ruddy, permanent as blood. Later, she found … Continue reading Poem of the Week
Objects, Memory and Meaning
If it can't be said in a hundred words, then it can't be said in a thousand.
sewing a handmade wardrobe
drink from the well of your self and begin again. -Charles Bukowski
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Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
Thoughts on the world around me
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