Tuesday, January 5th, 2010
The Art of Disappearing by Naomi Shihab Nye
When they say Don't I know you?
say no.
When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
...
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Tuesday, February 17th, 2009
The trend continues? I'm definitely not a poet.
Old Movie
I've seen this one before.
It's an old story, but a good one.
If you like that kind of thing.
Shall I give away the end?
Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy.
Only she's not like him at all, you see.
But he doesn't see the differences,
Only sees ...
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Thursday, February 12th, 2009
It's not quite one a week, and this one isn't very good at all. But here it is, a pointless ramble on a night when I can't find the strength to write even a few words. Tonight's a reading night. And that's okay. As my wife keeps telling me, everyone ...
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Thursday, January 29th, 2009
Never been a big fan, but this is a great poem.
RequiemIt came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
“Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise — depths unplumbable!”
Instead, a shrug and ...
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Thursday, January 22nd, 2009
I'll continue to try and post a poem a week. We'll see if this trend continues.
Things I Like
the smell of grass
freshly cut, the sweet smell
on my nose, cuttingly sweet
like mangos, like butterflies
like honeysuckle
like air after a rain.
darkness, for what
it conceals, for what
it reveals
both cold and hot
comforting and stilted
full of danger
full ...
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Monday, January 12th, 2009
Swimming at the YHer words are garbled
As though the foam plugs were still in your ears
From your morning swim
At the Y.
Maybe you are still in the water,
Lying at the bottom,
While above you she stands
Dry and warm
Her image distorted
By your bubbling breath
Rising and popping
Like boiling water.
Each rippling wave
Cracks, slices and disassembles ...
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Sunday, May 18th, 2008
This is part of a continuing series of thoughts written while waiting for the clothes to dry at B. Bubbles Laundromat on Broadway.
One sits, the other cannot sit.
One stands, the other cannot stand.
As the origins rise from despair's depths.
We laugh as ludicrously
They play their game,
Tired of wit and yet witty,
Exhausted ...
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Wednesday, May 14th, 2008
Wading Out
—Ad Duluiyah, Ira
We're crossing an open field, sweating in December's heat,
with First Squad covering from the brush to our left;
and I could be shot dead by a sniper, easily, this
could be the ground where I bleed out in ninety seconds,
but it won't be. There's a patch of still water
I'm ...
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Wednesday, February 27th, 2008
I'm sitting at home watching American Idol. It's rather boring, actually, and the only reason I'm watching is for the women. Some of them are pretty hot, actually. Sad that this is where my life is. My wife is in the other room trying to catch up on sleep and ...
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Wednesday, February 27th, 2008
So the little town of L.A., known, among other things, for embracing both high- and low-brow cultural icons, is set to save the home of a writer who himself embraced both of these worlds. More the latter than the former perhaps. Charles Bukowski wrote Post Office, about his time ...
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