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

Everyday Carry

in my messenger
bag with lipstick and Carmex
my iPad and keys
the little book that holds little
books a wallet
a plastic bag to use
if I go shopping
I carry five faded memories
which reminds me
what do you carry
everyday

Promise of More

And though it may be 
dry outside now
there is recognizable
assurance, trusted
suspicion that you 
recognize
the water 
will run again

Yes, you can
smell it
the abundance of 
lilacs in this city 
every year, one 
after another
the welcome 

of heady bushes
purple and green 
against the ruddy
earth, the little 
acequia

the rain.

1130 Miles: Pink Umbrella: Peregrine

if one is uncareful

a turkey buzzard can be mistaken

for a hawk

at a distance infatuation can be mistaken

for love

the sweep and soaring are the same

and the tears at the ending

so years later you

will be hesitant

uncertain

reluctant 

to embrace those past murmurs as a sign of anything more than past