Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Johnny Nolan has a patch on his ass

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
From his collection entitled A Coney Island of the Mind

Johnny Nolan has a patch on his ass

Kids chase him
                         thru screendoor summers

Thru the back streets
                                  of all my memories

Somewhere a man laments
                                           upon a violin

A doorstep baby cries
                                   and cries again
                            like
                                   a
                                     ball
                                           bounced
                                                         down steps

Which helps the afternoon arise again
to a moment of remembered hysteria

Johnny Nolan has a patch on his ass

Kids chase him

Sunday, June 28, 2015

Thursday, June 25, 2015

From the Manifesto of the Selfish

by Stephen Dunn
From his collection entitled Landscape at the End of the Century

Because altruists are the least sexy
     people on earth, unable
to say "I want" without embarrassment, 

we need to take from them everything
     they give,
then ask for more,

this is how to excite them, and because
     it's exciting
to see them the least bit excited

once again we'll be doing something
     for ourselves,
who have no problem taking pleasure,

always desirous and so pleased to be
     pleased, we who above all
can be trusted to keep the balance.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Sunday, June 21, 2015

My Father Holds the Door for Yoko Ono

by Christopher Chambers
Courtesy of the Poetry Foundation

In New York City for a conference
on weed control, leaving the hotel
in a cluster of horticulturalists,
he alone stops, midwestern, crewcut,
narrow blue tie, cufflinks, wingtips,
holds the door for the Asian woman
in a miniskirt and thigh high
white leather boots. She nods
slightly, a sad and beautiful gesture.
Neither smile, as if performing
a timeless ritual, as if anticipating
the loss of a son or a lover.

Years later, Christmas, inexplicably
he dons my mother's auburn wig,
my brother's wire-rimmed glasses,
and strikes a pose of clowning
with my second hand acoustic guitar.
He is transformed, a working class hero
and a door whispers shut,
like cherry blossoms falling.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

I bled the morning you saw her

by Kat Comer

I bled the morning you saw her,
a fallen angel
two dogs circling her legs.
In her lap a book
open like her face.
I lay in bed forgotten
as your gaze dropped
two stories to the yard below,
my stomach wrenched
my heart a naked howl.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Elegy to A Goldfish

Elegy to a Goldfish, Ashleigh Hartsock, 2015, acrylic on canvas
Inspired by Matthew Dickman's poem in the collection Mayakovsky's Revolver

Friday, June 12, 2015

Tenth Birthday

by Marjorie Knapp

She woke before the sun. She heard the still
Small sounds which whisper when the night is gone.
Though all the curtains of her room were drawn, 
She saw the gray light creep across the sill.
This was her day. How would it help fulfill
Her destiny? She looked out at the dawn
Stepping across the velvet of the lawn, 
She saw the purple of a distant hill.

In cloak and slippers, she glided through the halls
Softly - she would disturb none still asleep -
Then looked through maple branches to the sky;
Her small heart beating against its delicate walls, 
The marvel of ten years too much to keep.
"What is this lovely world, and who am I?"