Looking for a July poem - who the hell writes poetry about July? "On hot, mosquito-ridden nights, I think of you." Not so promising. Then I found Billy Collins:
Fishing on the Susquehanna in July
Read more about Fishing Story>I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.
In the Sun's Last Glow
Read more about A May Memorial>On her terrace where she once had viewed a crimson field,
she stands recalling heroes who were battling their foe.
She still can feel the terror! How her poor heart reeled
thinking of her lover fighting on the field below,
with others on that plain bathed red as the sun dipped low.
The afternoon is bright,
with spring in the air,
a mild March afternoon,
with the breath of April stirring,
I am alone in the quiet patio
looking for some old untried illusion -
some shadow on the whiteness of the wall
some memory asleep
on the stone rim of the fountain,
perhaps in the air
the light swish of some trailing gown.
- Antonio Machado, 1875-1939
Selected Poems, #3, Translated by Alan S. Trueblood Read more about Poem for March
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
Read more about The Ultimate Love Poem
Go hang yourself, you old M.D,!
You shall not sneer at me.
Pick up your hat and stethoscope,
Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;
I contemplate a joy exquisite
In not paying you for your visit.
I did not call you to be told
My malady is a common cold. Read more about Common Cold
Read more about Shakespeare in Winter>When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Two poems today, celebrating my first November in Wisconsin after 32 years.
"Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast."
- Sara Coleridge
"How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun. Read more about I Remember November
A small collection of Solar Eclipse verses:
Didn't the Connecticut Yankee pull this trick in King Arthur's Court?
And it shall come to pass in that day, saith the Lord God, that I will cause the sun to go down at noon, and I will darken the earth in the clear day.
— Bible
Fairly upbeat for ancient times: Read more about Solar Eclipse 2017
Some years ago, Tom Robbins wrote this piece of prose that reads like an epic poem, a piece that will always make me homesick for the Pacific Northwest. Read more about This Is the Place