Category: Poetry

Something different, set apart, special this single room in the house, a sanctuary, a refuge a place where the spirit, palpable, real, living where this presence is felt, alive Under the gaze of angels, a collections of guardians symbols, metaphoric, talismans, a row of saints c

  Love is not condescension, never that, nor books, nor any pencil trace on paper, no; nor in how we talk about each other. Love is a tree with branches reaching out to always with roots that come from everywhere, and no trunk. Have you seen it? No. You can't. Your deep desi

It's the mystery of the hunt that intrigues me, That drives us like lemmings, but cautiously— The search for a bright square cloud—the scent of lemon verbena— Or to learn rules for the game the sea otters Play in the surf. It is these small things—and the secret behind

  We can never be with loss too long. Behind the warped door that sticks, the wood thrush calls to the monks, pausing upon the stone crucifix, singing: "I am marvelous alone!" Thrash, thrash goes the hayfield: rows of marrow and bone undone. The horizon's flashing fastens tigh

  I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon who

  From the tawny light from the rainy nights from the imagination finding itself and more than itself alone and more than alone at the bottom of the well where the moon lives, can you pull me into December? The black moon turns away, its work done. A tenderness, unspoken autum

    Joy, my love, joy in all things, in what falls and what flourishes. Joy in today and yesterday, the day before and tomorrow. Joy in bread and stone, joy in fire and rain. In what changes, is born, grows, consumes itself, and becomes a kiss again. Joy in the air we

    Love whispered to me make yourself my fool: leave the hunt become the prey live with me be homeless don’t cast shadows become the sun.   Rumi

    It is an afternoon toward the end of August: Autumnal weather, cool following on, And riding in, after the heat of summer, Into the empty afternoon shade and light, The shade full of light without any thickness at all; You can see right through and right down int

  If my spirit descended now, it would be a lost gull flaring against a deepening hillside, or an angel who cries too easily, or a single glass of seawater, no longer blue or mysterious, and still salty.   From Philip Levine, Holding on

  Little patches of grass disappear In the jaws of lusty squirrels Who slip into the spruce. Cars collapse into parts. Spring dissolves into summer, The kitten into the cat. A tray of drinks departs from the buffet And voilà! the party's over. All that's left are some pick

  I believe the earth exists, and in each minim mote of its dust the holy glow of thy candle. Thou unknown I know, thou spirit, giver, lover of making, of the wrought letter, wrought flower, iron, deed, dream the ordinary glow of common dust in ancient sunlight. Be, that

subtle degrees of domination and servitude are what you know as love   but love is different it arrives complete just there like the moon in the window   like the sun of neither east nor west  nor of anyplace   when that sun arrives east and west a

  If my spirit descended now, it would be a lost gull flaring against a deepening hillside, or an angel who cries too easily, or a single glass of seawater, no longer blue or mysterious, and still salty.   From Philip Levine, Holding on

    If humans could be that intensely whole, undistracted, unhurried, swift from sheer unswerving impetus! If we could blossom out of ourselves, giving nothing imperfect, withholding nothing!   From Denise Levertov, The métier of blossoming

    I was welcomed here--clear gold of late summer, of opening autumn, the dawn eagle sunning himself on the highest tree, the mountain revealing herself unclouded, her snow tinted apricot as she looked west, tolerant, in her steadfastness, of the restless sun forever risin

    Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on the beach, rise on wings; to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur; to tell pain from everything it's not; to squeeze inside events, hang out in views, and seek the least of all possible mistakes. A fa

  A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit Dumb As old medallions to the thumb Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges where the moss has grown - A poem should be wordless As the flight of birds A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs

1. Will the hungry ox stand in the field and not eat of the sweet grass? Will the owl bite off its own wings? Will the lark forget to lift its body in the air  or forget to sing? Will the rivers run upstream?    Behold, I say - behold the reliability and the finery and the te

  the sun remarked, the other day, 'really, I am just a shadow. yes, really. I wish I could show you the infinite incandescence that made me.' when you are in the dark, the lonely, doubtful darkness, I wish I could show you the amazing light of yourself.   Hafiz