Tuesday, February 22, 2011

The Falcon to the Falconer by Jonathan Steffen

The Falcon To The Falconer
By Jonathan Steffen

Unleash me from your hand
and I will lance the light for you.
I'll cut a swordblade on the wind
and pennant it with flight for you,
to signal I am yours
if you will free me to be true to you.

Unleash me from your hand
and I will mock the sky for you.
I'll pull the anger from the air
and make the breezes sigh for you,
to show that I am yours
if you will free me to be true to you.

Unleash me from your hand
and I will jewel it bright for you.
I'll hunt the treasures of the wind
And pluck them into sight for you,
to show that I am yours
If you will free me to be true to you.
O, cast me from your hand
that I may show my love for you
and throw me to the wind
that I may know my need for you.
All darkness on your hand,
I'm hooded, pinned, and held by you,
O, give me back my wings
that they may bring me back to you.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Some Questions You Might Ask by Mary Oliver

Some Questions You Might Ask
By Mary Oliver

Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of an owl?
Who has it, and who doesn't?
I keep looking around me.
The face of the moose is as sad
as the face of Jesus.
The swan opens her white wings slowly.
In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness.
One question leads to another.
Does it have a shape? Like an iceberg?
Like the eye of a hummingbird?
Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?
Why should I have it, and not the anteater
who loves her children?
Why should I have it, and not the camel?
Come to think of it, what about maple trees?
What about the blue iris?
What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?
What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?
What about the grass?


Still having issues with blogger.  I have to post fast and run or it kicks me offline. 


Saturday, February 12, 2011

The Attic by Raymond Carver

The Attic
By Raymond Carver

Her brain is an attic where things
were stored over the years.

From time to time her face appears
in the little window near the top of the house.

The sad face of someone who has been locked up
and forgotten about.

From:  "A New Path to the Waterfall" by Raymond Carver

The Dragonfly By Louise Bogan

The Dragonfly
By Louise Bogan
You are made of almost nothing
But of enough
To be great eyes
And diaphanous double vans;
To be ceaseless movement,
Unending hunger
Grappling love.
Link between water and air,
Earth repels you.
Light touches you only to shift into iridescence
Upon your body and wings.
Twice-born, predator,
You split into the heat.
Swift beyond calculation or capture
You dart into the shadow
Which consumes you.
You rocket into the day.
But at last, when the wind flattens the grasses,
For you, the design and purpose stop.
And you fall
With the other husks of summer.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Love by Roy Croft

I found this poem I'd copied into a battered old notebook I've had since my freshman year in high school.  It's still a favorite and perfect for Valentine's Day.  I'm still in love with love.  For all my wonderful friends here in Blog land!!!!  xoxo  ~Marion

By Roy Croft

I love you not only for what you are,
But for what I am when I am with you.
I love you, not only for what
You have made of yourself,
But for what you are making of me.
I love you for the part of me that you bring out;
I love you for putting your hand
Into my heaped-up heart and passing over
All the foolish, weak things that you can't help
Dimly seeing there,
And for drawing out into the light
All the beautiful belongings that no one else had looked
Quite far enough to find
I love you because you are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life not a tavern
But a temple.
Out of the works of my every day
Not a reproach but a song.
I love you because you have done
more than any creed could have done
to make me good.
And more than any fate could have done
to make me happy.
You have done it without a touch,
Without a word, without a sign.
You have done it
by being yourself.
Perhaps that is what
Being a friend means,
After all.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

My Heart by Kim Addonizio

My Heart  
by Kim Addonizio
That Mississippi chicken shack.
That initial-scarred tabletop,
that tiny little dance floor to the left of the band.
That kiosk at the mall selling caramels and kitsch.
That tollbooth with its white-plastic-gloved worker
handing you your change.
That phone booth with the receiver ripped out.
That dressing room in the fetish boutique,
those curtains and mirrors.
That funhouse, that horror, that soundtrack of screams.
That putti-filled heaven raining gilt from the ceiling.
That haven for truckers, that bottomless cup.
That biome. That wilderness preserve.
That landing strip with no runway lights
where you are aiming your plane,
imagining a voice in the tower,
imagining a tower.
A rare ice storm yesterday.  
Today the woods are made of melting glass, 
shimmering in the morning sunlight.
I am happy.
Please forgive the fucked-up formatting.  Still having issues.  :-(