other peoples poetry

poems not written by me, that i enjoy.

the orange-wendy cope

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange-

The size of it made us all laugh.

I peeled it and shared it with robert and dave-

They got quarters and i had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,

As ordinary things often do

Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.

This is peace and contentment. Its new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.

I did all the jobs on my list

And enjoyed them and had some time over.

I love you. I’m glad I exist.

same-hannahrowrites

I still haven’t figured out how to keep my shower floor clean or make morning smoothies or respond to stress calmly. Same, same, same my friends tell me, a love note of sorts. Maybe the word doesn’t need to cut down on carbs or make more money or waste less time. Maybe instead it needs us to reach those who feel alone in their messy homes or difficult relationships or unresolved issues. To impress less and connect more. To share one simple message: Same. same, same, same.

to the youth who want to die-gwendolyn brooks

Sit down. Inhale. Exhale.

The gun will wait. The lake will wait.

The tall gall in the small seductive vial

will wait will wait:

will wait a week: will wait through April.

You do not have to die this certain day.

Death will abide, will pamper your postponement.

I assure you death will wait. Death has

a lot of time. Death can

attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is

just down the street; is most obliging neighbor;

can meet you any moment.

You need not die today.

Stay here–through pout or pain or peskyness.

Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow.

Graves grow no green that you can use.

Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

that which resembles the grave but isnt-anne boyer

Always falling into a hole, then saying “ok, this is not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of the hole which is not the grave, falling into a hole again, saying “ok, this is also not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of that hole, falling into another one; sometimes falling into a hole within a hole, or many holes within holes, getting out of them one after the other, then falling again, saying “this is not your grave, get out of the hole”; sometimes being pushed, saying “you can not push me into this hole, it is not my grave,” and getting out defiantly, then falling into a hole again without any pushing; sometimes falling into a set of holes whose structures are predictable, ideological, and long dug, often falling into this set of structural and impersonal holes; sometimes falling into holes with other people, with other people, saying “this is not our mass grave, get out of this hole,” all together getting out of the hole together, hands and legs and arms and human ladders of each other to get out of the hole that is not the mass grave but that will only be gotten out of together; sometimes the willful-falling into a hole which is not the grave because it is easier than not falling into a hole really, but then once in it, realizing it is not the grave, getting out of the hole eventually; sometimes falling into a hole and languishing there for days, weeks, months, years, because while not the grave very difficult, still, to climb out of and you know after this hole there’s just another and another; sometimes surveying the landscape of holes and wishing for a high quality final hole; sometimes thinking of who has fallen into holes which are not graves but might be better if they were; sometimes too ardently contemplating the final hole while trying to avoid the provisional ones; sometimes dutifully falling and getting out, with perfect fortitude, saying “look at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isn’t!

unknown

But honey you’re golden! You’re fucking glowing. You’re the shimmer on the top the the lake when the forests on fire. You’re when the sun rises over the mountain and makes everything look like its shining too. You’re the color that splashes across the floor when sunlight washes through a glass of whiskey. You’re the sun setting on the other end of the valley turning the sky into syrup and strawberries. Honey you’re so beautiful. You’re fucking golden