• Poetry

    A late walk by Robert Frost

    When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of withered weeds Is sadder than any words A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rattling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.   – Posted from my iPhone

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    Morning Song by Marcia F. Brown

    Here, I placea blue glazed cupwhere the woodis slightly whitened.Here, I lay downtwo bright spoons,our breakfast saucers, napkinswhite and smooth as milk. I am stirring at the sink,I am stirringthe amount of dewyou can gather in two hands,folding it into the fragilequiet of the house.v Before the eggs,before the coffeeheaving like a warm cat,I step out to the feeder-one foot, then the other,alive on wet blades.Air lifts my gown – I might fly –  This thistle seed I pour is for the tiny birds.This ritual,for all things frailand imperiled.Wings surround me, frothingthe air. I am struckby what becomes holy. A womanwho lost her teenage childto an illness without mercy,said that at…

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    Throwing Away the Alarm Clock by Charles Bukowski

    My father always said, “early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy,  wealthy and wise.” it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house  and we were up at dawn to the smell of coffee,  frying bacon and scrambled eggs.  my father followed this general routine for a lifetime  and died young, broke, and, I think, not too wise.  taking note, I rejected his advice and it became,  for me,  late to bed and late to rise.  now, I’m not saying that I’ve conquered the world  but I’ve avoided numberless early traffic jams,  bypassed some common pitfalls  and have met some strange,  wonderful people one of whom was…