Poem of the day: A Blessing by James Wright

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

Darken with kindness.

They have come gladly out of the willows

To welcome my friend and me.

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness

That we have come.

They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.

There is no loneliness like theirs.

At home once more,

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,

For she has walked over to me

And nuzzled my left hand.

She is black and white,

Her mane falls wild on her forehead,

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.


I am a river delta flooded in the spring rains

I am the aftermath of the hurricane a broken ancient tree

there is a sorrow in a broken tree a defeat when once high branches have fallen and a tree is broken in two folded over on itself as if it were a fetus

I sit on a floating dock letting the river rock me like a mother seeing only hazy horizons in the uncertain distance while watching white gulls fly overhead 

they see more than I gaze over

Next to me a mallard rests green head glinting in the sun 

he is unconcerned with me for we are not strangers and we are no longer frightened by choppy waters no for

we are as resigned to disturbances and destruction

we know nothing different and I lay back on the dock living inside annihilation no longer me but

an island the water cradles me I could be one with it as I rise and fall with the currents the world goes on around me and 

I am only companions with the birds and sky and water only now a solitary wanderer bird with clipped wings

I no longer try to fly nor am I fish grounded waiting woman hollow water girl the river leaking from my eyes


I cannot see the forest or the trees and

words fail me the way is

steep and long.

what was familiar is strange now and I know now nothing is known

look a strange carousel lit up in the middle of this darkest night in which not even the stars can shine through its horses are garish and menacing and I do not know them

It waits for me quietly and I am strangely drawn to it no longer walking under my own power I glide towards the first horse that gazes upon me

I cannot tell if it is contempt or love in its eyes and silently I climb into the hard saddle and grasp the golden corded pole attached to nothingness

going round in darkness no longer path straight in front twisting towards 

a destiny whose in betweens are unseen and cloaked from Me where sight comes from eyes wide shut

a candle glows pinprick of light

Poem of the day: Miracles by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night

with any one I love,

Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet

and bright,

Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.


To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,

Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,

The fishes that swim–the rocks–the motion of the waves–the

ships with men in them,

What stranger miracles are there?

Irish wanderer

I remember you as if 

it were yesterday 




all around and you walking head down against the wind in that navy blue peacoat face intent upon the snowy track

then you look up and seeing me your face lights up and there is you making me laugh and really bad coffee and music Cowboy Junkies Nanci Griffith and us writing and poetry and books and snippets of Dylan and Blake still live in pictures in my mind and

that easy

boyish grin and the way your hair would drop down your forehead how expressive your eyes happy sad thoughtful pensiveness and how colors seemed brighter the sky bluer the snow whiter

your smile lives on

my beautiful friend

Poem of the day: Still I rise by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.


i am swept up in grace

No longer myself but a vision I once had

briefly a flash of light you created anew

the stars know

as does all of creation that you move among us soundlessly the gardener in his garden pronouncing everything good

you are the artist painting rainbows across the sky the blue jay brushes against the sky blue look close

In the blackness of the raven you hide subtle rainbows shown by sunlight

you are not in the thunder but in the poetry of silence; in the sound that raindrops make or the hushed glorious way that sunbeams touch the earth at end of day

in the feather softness of wings in upward rushing flight listen

the music of the spheres

symphony into the aurora borealis transformed

dancing here below

You are

the graceful muted movement of deer steps in the woods you


the soundless, steady movement of color weaving through the trees in autumn the low music water makes journeying ever downriver

You are.


your still silent voice is louder to me than crashing thunder profound in its depth and tenor


the wind whispers you everywhere

you are

I am

I am

the leading

The stars blanket the night symphony playing

The sharp notes of late summer. 

The white streak across the sky a swathing

Path to eternity.

I wonder where it goes my eyes following into nothingness at horizon’s edge my dreams run before it into


Butterflies dance glorying in sunlight

Their brief lives playing out before my eyes swallows dip and dive over my head flashing overwater telling me shore is in sight

Journey’s end

This long journey spanning lifetimes and I sit

Lakeside winging my way geese-like overland looking for a place to land

My heart already gone

Already home.



Rain falls all around



Me, I am in a lighted room listening a


all around me in

Muted fashion the rat-a-tat dripping drops

Rhythmically my tin rooftop echoes dancing faster

downwards like cushioned toe shoes ballet-like drip-dropping dribble plop splash drizzle pour





Recording time

I don’t see distances slipping and sliding through time

month by month it increases, thunderheads in the sky

sun tinged.

There is something about the bigness of our souls now,

the way lovers embrace or knots are tied,

or how fish cannot live without the ocean, or

deeply rooted trees

the mystery of long dead stars shining in the night sky–

I walk on. Always east, always towards the rising sun,

bending, sweeping shining, rippling prairie grasses witness metamorphosis.

God is in every one of them, hairs on the head of earth, knowing them all, knowing each hawk perching on telephone poles, each flight, each plummet

where the roots of each rainbow lay in span of years

still I see that quiet shy boy, wearing maturity like an oversized shirt, speaking of future-dreams, my whole life in your eyes we coasted on years sometimes rudderless,

adrift on seas of time and consequence

love wrote us, writes us still