It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
From Asphodel, that Greeny Flower by William Carlos Williams and printed by POETRY.
Why poetry?
Author: Elizabeth
elizabethweaver.wordpress.com
I Had…
Collies, gold and white fist strikes Running beside me palms slap As I explored foot slams Orchards of oranges and owls, me against the floor Beaver dams hands rip Abandoned in summer. heads off my dolls Polished maple posts legs spread Stretched sheer white lace forced apart Over my head, by arms wider A walk-in closet than my thighs Held handcrafted horses, I can't speak yet Stuffed elephants and bears. can't say no Chestnut horse, nurses jab needles in wrists Flaming in the sun, cold fingers bruise me Neighs soaring in the wind, asthma restrains me Swift as a kite muscles tear To ride away as I lunge On. for air
Thank you to the editors of The Sonoma Mandala: Literary Review for first publishing this poem.
Measureless
Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.
Cardinal
MASKS OF CARDINAL FEATHERS
Drape
Me in
Crimson rOse petals,
garnets,
coral,
Rubies,
and feed me
dragon's Blood,
cherries,
straWberries,
plums,
salmon,
meRlot,
then make me
glow,
flush,
blush,
BlooM
till I'm
Rubeous,
carnLian,
verMilioN,
as ScarLet hummingbirds
SOAR from our
Mad
voRacious
heartS.
Thank you to the editor of Absinthe Revival for first publishing this poem.
Blood Root
BLOOD ROOT
Blood blossoms burst forth in war zones as roots stretch deep. I feel them when we fight and I want to burn your tongue black with hot rock rather than hear words opposing mine; engorged roots strike through limbs - my hand, your face.
Thank you to the editors of Hard Love for first publishing this poem.
Awash
Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.
They Hold
THEY HOLD THE SEA
Contagious as your hummingbird smile may be, it is your hands... hands that sculpt ki into a dragon's mouth with arcs of mother-of-pearl framing rainbow flames that smell of warm milk and nutmeg, while your touch draws the breath of muscle to bone, then deeper. Too few lines cross your hands, large, almost too large, they hold the sea.
Thank you to the editor of Something Like Homesickness for first publishing this poem.
Ki–Japanese word meaning energy or life force.
Woman Talks
In researching other poets in preparation for the Community of Writers, I’ve been especially impressed by an interview with Dawn McGuire, who is living one of the paths I would love to have lived. A neurologist, McGuire used to read her poetry with Judy Grahn, about whom Ani di Franco states, “When I was nineteen I discovered the poetry of Judy Grahn, and I was so moved by “A Woman is Talking to Death“, it’s still one of my favorite poems.”
Grahn’s poem illuminates where we rise from as a people and where too many remain stuck. I don’t understand bigotry, cruelty, or a lack of empathy, but do know when someone finds a way to clearly expose and trace its ripples. I’m relieved I couldn’t write “A Woman is Talking to Death,” because I wouldn’t want the experiences; however, I’d be grateful to write with this brilliance and power.
Bugs
BUGS
did you see three green bugs eating coffeecake flowers & squirming on bellies as they danced to the beat of caramel kisses from here to their hole?
Thank you to the editors of The Magnetic Poetry Book of Poetry for first publishing this poem.
Dark or Star?
“Why is it we are who we are —
what makes a person a dark or a star?”
From “The Princess of Sight Asleep” by Jenny Donahue
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 