End Results by Alice Wolf Gilborn His turn for blood work this morning. A routine test, but no breakfast, not even coffee. Just twelve degrees— I offer to walk the dog and after the long ritual of dressing for frigid weather, I plunge into the heartless air. An orange cat crouched in the driveway shifts its front paws; puffed up jays squawk in the oak tree. The dog stops—then sneezes mightily, putting cat and cold on notice. When I get back, he’s settled in his favorite chair, newspaper on his lap. Table’s set for one; a pot of water boiling on the stove awaits its egg, tea bag sits in a mug, a single slice of toast is ready to pop. The radio is off for once, so it’s our own voices we hear, chatter we won’t remember in a room warming with winter sun. When he leaves, silence descends like yesterday’s snow. Eating my solitary breakfast, I think of his small habitual gestures, the way he has of wanting to nourish the living: sparrows peck seed he’s spread on the deck, his two feral cats feed at their bowl, at the table I’m about to crack a perfect egg. Sustenance of many years. I wish him well, I wish him love, food for our braided lives. I wish all results positive. You can find this poem in Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection.
Poetry
Evening Poetry, March 24
Blessing the Boats by Lucille Clifton may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our understanding carry you out beyond the face of fear may you kiss the wind then turn from it certain that it will love your back may you open your eyes to water water waving forever and may you in your innocence sail through this to that You can find this poem in Blessing the Boats: New and Selected Poems 1988-2000.
Evening Poetry, March 23
Remember by Joy Harjo Remember the sky that you were born under, know each of the star’s stories. Remember the moon, know who she is. Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the strongest point of time. Remember sundown and the giving away to night. Remember your birth, how your mother struggled to give you form and breath. You are evidence of her life, and her mother’s, and hers. Remember your father. He is your life, also. Remember the earth whose skin you are: red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth brown earth, we are earth. Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them, listen to them. They are alive poems. Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the origin of this universe. Remember you are all people and all people are you. Remember you are this universe and this universe is you. Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you. Remember language comes from this. Remember the dance language is, that life is. Remember. You can find this poem in She Had Some Horses.
Evening Poetry, March 22
The Invitation by Oriah t doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dream for the adventure of being alive. It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon... I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain mine or your own without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy mine or your own if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful to be realistic to remember the limitations of being human. It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure yours and mine and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes." It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back. It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. You can find this poem in The Invitation by Oriah.
Evening Poetry, March 21
In Memoriam by Leo Dangel In the early afternoon my mother was doing the dishes. I climbed onto the kitchen table, I suppose to play, and fell asleep there. I was drowsy and awake, though, as she lifted me up, carried me on her arms into the living room, and placed me on the davenport, but I pretended to be asleep the whole time, enjoying the luxury-- I was too big for such a privilege and just old enough to form my only memory of her carrying me. She's still moving me to a softer place. You can find this poem in Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection.
Evening Poetry, March 18
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Compassion by Miller Williams Have compassion for everyone you meet even if they don't want it. What seems conceit, bad manners or cynicism is always a sign of things no ears have heard, no eyes have seen. You do not know what wars are going on down there where the spirit meets the bone. You can find this poem in Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection.
Evening Poetry, March 17
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St. Patrick’s Day
By Jean Blewett
There’s an Isle, a green Isle, set in the sea,
Here’s to the Saint that blessed it!
And here’s to the billows wild and free
That for centuries have caressed it!
Here’s to the day when the men that roam
Send longing eyes o’er the water!
Here’s to the land that still spells home
To each loyal son and daughter!
Here’s to old Ireland—fair, I ween,
With the blue skies stretched above her!
Here’s to her shamrock warm and green,
And here’s to the hearts that love her!
You can find this poem in Jean Blewett's Poems.
Evening Poetry, March 16
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Song
by James Joyce
My love is in a light attire
Among the apple trees,
Where the gay winds do most desire
To run in companies.
There, where the gay winds stay to woo
The young leaves as they pass,
My love goes slowly, bending to
Her shadow on the grass.
And where the sky’s a pale blue cup
Over the laughing land,
My love goes lightly, holding up
Her dress with dainty hand.
You can read this poem in James Joyce-Collected Poems.
Evening Poetry, March 15
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To A Child Dancing in the Wind by W.B. Yeats Dance there upon the shore; What need have you to care For wind or water’s roar? And tumble out your hair That the salt drops have wet; Being young you have not known The fool’s triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind. What need have you to dread The monstrous crying of wind? You can find this poem in The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats.
Evening Poetry, March 14
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It’s Pi Day, so I found a poem about pie 🙂
Perfect for Any Occasion by Alberto Ríos Pies have a reputation. And it’s immediate—no talk of potential Regarding a pie. It’s good Or it isn’t, but mostly it is—sweet, very sweet Right then, right there, blue and red. It can’t go to junior college, Work hard for the grades, Work two jobs on the side. It can’t slowly build a reputation And a growing client base. A pie gets one chance And knows it, wearing as makeup Those sparkling granules of sugar, As a collar those diamond cutouts Bespeaking Fair Day, felicity, contentment. I tell you everything is great, says a pie, Great, and fun, and fine. And you smell nice, too, someone says. A full pound of round sound, all ahh, all good. Pies live a life of applause. 2. But then there are the other pies. The leftover pies. The ones Nobody chooses at Thanksgiving. Mincemeat? What the hell is that? people ask, Pointing instead at a double helping of Mr. “I-can-do-no-wrong” pecan pie. But the unchosen pies have a long history, too. They have plenty of good stories, places they’ve been— They were once fun, too— But nobody wants to listen to them anymore. Oh sure, everybody used to love lard, But things have changed, brother—things have changed. That’s never the end of the story, of course. Some pies make a break for it— Live underground for a while, Doing what they can, talking fast, Trying to be sweet pizzas, if they’re lucky. But no good comes of it. Nobody is fooled. A pie is a pie for one great day. Last week, It was Jell-O. Tomorrow, it’ll be cake. You can find this poem in The Dangerous Shirt.
Life of Kim 