Time too is afraid of passing, is riddled with holes
through which time feels itself leaking.
Time sweats in the middle of the night
when all the other dimensions are sleeping.
Time has lost every picture of itself as a child.
Now time is old, leathery and slow.
Can’t sneak up on anyone anymore,
Can’t hide in the grass, can’t run, can’t catch.
Can’t figure out how not to trample
what it means to bless.
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Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
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When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
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For the 7th year in a row, here are the TOP 10 POEMS of the year at NinaAlvarez.net. Thanks for being part of my community. Happy New Year.
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Weave in, My Hardy Life
Weave in, weave in, my hardy life,
Weave yet a soldier strong and full for great campaigns to come,
Weave in red blood, weave sinews in like ropes,
the senses, sight weave in,
Weave lasting sure, weave day and night the weft, the warp,
incessant weave, tire not,
(We know not what the use O life, nor know the aim, the end,
nor really aught we know,
But know the work, the need goes on and shall go on, the death-
envelop’d march of peace as well as war goes on,)
For great campaigns of peace the same the wiry threads to weave,
We know not why or what, yet weave, forever weave.
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A collection of inspiring sites for poets and poetry has been published, and Poem of the Day is acknowledged on the list: http://mastersinenglish.org/poetry/
It’s an incredible honor. Many thanks, Master in English! (And many thanks to my actual masters in English. I’m still paying for you, so… keep it up.)
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When we are soft – when the world is underneath us; when we are lost with longing
Be a sparrow.
You knew before you knew all else that this was artifice – and you searched for self-instruction.
You learned to search for what was yours beyond modesty and immodesty.
Be that person again – with a broken wing – if there was ever truth in you, find it now. Be true to that which is best in you, and rides during the Spring, and mounts in its own language. Be true to that which is highest born in you. Let it all be alive in the alchemy.
Be choice. Be free and free, sister, in what was not lost from you – in what was finally heard correctly – in what is not theirs to hold. Your freedom is not theirs. So quick to hear what is not there – so slow to know.
We are here waiting for you. Be beloved. Sky, earth, wind, all.
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