Maybe I should start a thread of poet laureates, most of whom I never even knew existed so I cannot be accused of having forgotten them. I would rather have known them to forget, rather than never have known them at all.


The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor

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I looked for a spring poem, and I found a few, but then I chanced again on this one that I read a few days back after yoga. And I noticed the line "each one was once young and delicate," and I thought, well, that was probably in the spring.

Mary Oliver

The milkweed now with their many pods are standing
Like a country of dry women,
The wind lifts their flat leaves and drops them.
This is not kind, but they retain a certain crisp glamour;
moreover, it's easy to believe
each one was once young and delicate, also
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Poetry While Driving

I only listen to radio in my car. My car radio is tuned to KUOW, a local NPR station. And every once in a fortunate while, I happen to be driving when Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac is on. I will sit in parking lots, waiting for the poem. Here's one from the other day:

Post Hoc

by Jennifer Maier

It happened because he looked a gift horse in the mouth.
It happened because he couldn't get that monkey off his back.

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Leap Poet

John Byrom was born on February 29, 1692. He died in 1763 at the ripe old age of 18. If you count only birthdays. He invented a system of shorthand, wrote a well-loved Anglican hymn, and penned this poem.

Careless Content

I am content, I do not care,
Wag as it will the world for me;
When fuss and fret was all my fare,
It got no ground, as I could see:
So, when away my caring went,
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Talking Waters

A valued acquaintance sent me this link yesterday:


How does last night’s fallen snow
feel about the morning sun’s radiant touch?

Is there a deep yearning to be melted,
or is there a great fear of death?

I whisper:
“They can be one, the same.”

The sharp-shinned hawk throws himself,
like Cupid’s hell-bent arrow,
head on into the bough-damp cedars.

He has faith in a universal memory
that has never occupied him personally.

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Sonnet 116


Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,

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Lovin' Spoonfuls

That's how I think of my tea in the morning, with its heaping spoonful of honey. A spoonful of (honey) makes the medicine go down. Not that I can't drink my tea straight, but the honey does its thing and I'm happier for it.

I think of poetry in much the same way. Every morning, after a few yoga stretches, I read a bit of it. Mornings when I feel too lazy or too hurried for yoga, I do it anyway, for the poetry. The poetry is part of the ritual now. It can't be done without yoga, and yoga can't be done without poetry. Read more about Lovin' Spoonfuls



President Barack Obama knew how to get my attention last night. Three times - at least - he used the words "built to last." So here is the poem for this week. Written by Robert Hunter. Set to music by Jerry Garcia. Performed by The Grateful Dead.

Built to Last

There are times when you can beckon
There are times when you must call
You can shake a lot of wrecking
But you can't take it all
There are times when I can help you out

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