Typography

Basket in the cursive letters we live, capitalized. 
Practiced years of growing into our first and middle names. 
Assignments made by others that we press and fold, 
pinch and pull, nick and drawl. Truncate or change.

Train of educational placards, elementary picture boards 
strung around the room like memory prayer flags. Green and
charcoal. Upper case to identify as personal. 
Lower case like skipping stones on familiar surfaces. 

Childhood jump ropes raised in the air as
sound enters through the syllables. 

Bleach

the die slowly

seeps

leaving burnt edges

or ghosting

like old letters on onion skin

or the letters sent from far away

a location

faded memories and clothing

every time I approach water

the imprint grows 

more faint 

until it like I

disappears

1130 Miles and a Day

these two women engrossed in
something
work plans dreams how the heart holds and tears
if this were you and I
if miles and days could erase
if we had time enough to say
here am I
dear
here am I

It's Lonely

to be a poet

in our culture

where truth

held by leaves

of grass

in red wheelbarrows

as time goes by

slow and fast 

at the same time 

it completely stops 

and we breathe

yes

yes

Memory Embedded Deep

Periphery of yellow weed, absent-minded artist 
swiping at mountain.  Bitten brush. Weighted seine 
nets falling beneath the long ago water. 

Mourning distance, plate shards. Forgotten
answers.  Still I peer into history. Travel
layered cake. Fingers curled under   
into perfect fists.

Wooden Head, what I carry

I carry steep expectations, inherited 
intolerance often screwed on tightly
weathered wooden head, full of unspoken
slights which I try and try again to discard 

replace with softer intentions, holding 
my six keys on a ring and an address book 
full of names of people 
who love me, regardless

A poem from the POETRY mobile app

THE BEAN EATERS

By Gwendolyn Brooks

They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.   

Dinner is a casual affair.

Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood,   

Tin flatware.

Two who are Mostly Good.

Two who have lived their day,

But keep on putting on their clothes   

And putting things away.

And remembering ...

Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,

As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.

Gwendolyn Brooks, "The Bean Eaters" from Selected Poems. Copyright © 1963 by Gwendolyn Brooks. Reprinted with the permission of the Estate of Gwendolyn Brooks.

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Read more about this poem and poet on the Poetry Foundation website: http://bit.ly/1tIAwth

Sent from The Poetry Foundation POETRY mobile app. Download your copy from AppStore now!

Sent from my iPad