William Stafford: "Allegiances"

It is time for all the heroes to go home
if they have any, time for all of us common ones
to locate ourselves by the real things
we live by.

Far to the north, or indeed in any direction,
strange mountains and creatures have always lurked—
elves, goblins, trolls, and spiders:—we
encounter them in dread and wonder,

But once we have tasted far streams, touched the gold,
found some limit beyond the waterfall,
a season changes, and we come back, changed
but safe, quiet, grateful.

Suppose an insane wind holds all the hills
while strange beliefs whine at the traveler's ears,
we ordinary beings can cling to the earth and love
where we are, sturdy for common things.



"Allegiances" by William Stafford. Text as published in The Way It Is: New & Selected Poems (Graywolf Press, 1999 edition).

Art credit: Untitled "shoefiti" photograph from Shutterstock.

Katharine Harer: "How to Hope"

I’m reading a book on hope
which sounds like I’ve taken up tatting
old fashioned and harmless

hope is unpopular
even Buddhists diss it telling us to live
in one awful moment at a time
and these days almost everyone wants to be a Buddhist

hope is hard to grasp when your imagination’s
grown fat on darkness
like the thick underside of a mushroom

tragedy is grand scale
predictably beautiful in its way
hope is hokey
imperfect full of stumbling little acts

the way a strand of neighbors standing in the rain
on the shoulder of Highway One American flags
in their hands and homemade signs:
Peace is Patriotic
can make another strand start up
even in the imagination

standing on a curve of the coast highway
where the land seems to fall away
into the open mouth of the ocean
their bodies like flags
waving sloppily
steadfast in the downpour


        with thanks to Rebecca Solnit for her book, Hope in the Dark

"How to Hope" by Katharine Harer. Text as posted on Talking Writing: The Search for Intelligent Media (03/26/14).

Curator's note: This poem is offered in observance of the Independence Day (July 4th) holiday here in the United States.

Art credit: "Picture of the day: 5 July 2010," photograph by AP. Caption: "An American flag is seen through rain drops on a wind shield on the fourth of July in Salina, Kansas."

Max Reif: "Hitch-Hiker"

The hitch-hiker I
remember best
was someone you
might call a hobo.

Lord knows what he'd
been through, to receive
a gift that some folks get
who've borne so much.

He traveled light.
He owned a little pack,
a little dog;
that's all.

I drove for fifty miles
before he turned
his head to me
and said,

“I think
I'll get out here.
I like the way
the grass looks,
way up
on that hill.

The way the light
falls on it.”



"Hitch-Hiker" by Max Reif. © Max Reif. Text first published in The Mindful Word. Presented here by poet submission. To read more of Max Reif's writings, go to Faith of an Artist—The Writings of Max Reif.

Art credit: "Windmills on Grassy Hills," wallpaper from 1ms.net.

W. S. Merwin: "Elegy for a Walnut Tree"

Old friend now there is no one alive

who remembers when you were young
it was high summer when I first saw you
in the blaze of day most of my life ago

with the dry grass whispering in your shade

and already you had lived through wars

and echoes of wars around your silence

through days of parting and seasons of absence

with the house emptying as the years went their way

until it was home to bats and swallows
and still when spring climbed toward summer

you opened once more the curled sleeping fingers

of newborn leaves as though nothing had happened

you and the seasons spoke the same language

and all these years I have looked through your limbs
to the river below and the roofs and the night

and you were the way I saw the world

"Elegy for a Walnut Tree" by W. S. Merwin, from The Moon Before Morning (Copper Canyon Press, 2014). Text as published in The Guardian (05/24/14).

Art credit: Untitled image of a walnut tree by unknown photographer.

Mary Ruefle: "Keeping It Simple"

I take the bird on the woodpile,
separate it from its function, feather
by feather. I blow up its scale.
I make a whole life out of it:
everywhere I am, its sense of loitering
lights on my shoulder.

  "Keeping It Simple" by Mary Ruefle, from memling's veil (University of Alabama Press, 1982). © Mary Ruefle. Text as posted on the website of the Poetry Foundation.

Art credit: "Blue Bird on My Shoulder 2005," painting by Tascha.

Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer: "The Way It Is"

Over and over we break
open, we break and
we break and we open.
For a while, we try to fix
the vessel—as if
to be broken is bad.
As if with glue and tape
and a steady hand we
might bring things to perfect
again. As if they were ever
perfect. As if to be broken is not
also perfect. As if to be open
is not the path toward joy.

The vase that’s been shattered
and cracked will never
hold water. Eventually
it will leak. And at some
point, perhaps, we decide
that we’re done with picking
our flowers anyway, and no
longer need a place to contain them
We watch them grow just
as wildflowers do—unfenced,
unmanaged, blossoming only
when they’re ready—and mygod,
how beautiful they are amidst
the mounting pile of shards.

 
"The Way It Is" by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. © Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. Reprinted by permission of the poet. Visit the poet's blog, where she posts a poem a day.

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer, perhaps associated with this source.

Martin Willitts, Jr.: "When Stillness Is Heard"

There was nothing there when I heard a voice.
Haven’t you had a strangeness like this?
I did not respond right away, ignoring it,
and its restlessness increased.
I chucked it off as imagination.
Haven’t you ignored queasy feelings?
Perhaps it was from the empty fields,
but there was stillness in the grass and air.
This uneasiness followed me into the car
and went with me.
When stillness is so quiet, nothing is heard.
There was nothing in my house.
Nothing in the sky. Nothing in the isolated miles.
The voice persisted.
Ever ignore something that refused to be ignored?
It was telling me to enjoy and love.
The message was everywhere it needed to be.
All I had to do was listen—then it was everywhere.

"When Stillness Is Heard" by Martin Willitts, Jr. Text as published in Numinous: Spiritual Poetry (Issue 7, 2011).

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Theodore Roethke: "Once More, the Round"

What's greater, Pebble or Pond?
What can be known? The Unknown.
My true self runs toward a Hill
More! O More! visible.

Now I adore my life
With the Bird, the abiding Leaf,
With the Fish, the questing Snail,
And the Eye altering All;
And I dance with William Blake
For love, for Love's sake;

And everything comes to One,
As we dance on, dance on, dance on.

 

"Once More, the Round" by Theodore Roethke, from The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke (Anchor, 2011).

Art credit: "Man Dancing on Top of Mountain," photograph by G. Merrill.

Linda Nemec Foster: "Climbing Cherry Trees"

Before you can possess them in your hand—
soft globes of perfect color—
you must climb and hang on:
become the tree scraping your knees,
the bark leaving its stigmata on your hands.
Only then will you be able to taste
the color, not just the fruit,
but the color of the fruit.
Deep red of fragile skin,
cherry red of succulent heart,
mahogany red of stained pit.
Imagine a stone of pure vermilion
dissolving in your mouth.
The color never leaving your throat
as you sit there in the embrace of the tree
not belonging to the heavens,
but not quite belonging to the earth.

"Climbing Cherry Trees" by Linda Nemec Foster, from Talking Diamonds (New Issues Press, 2009). © Linda Nemec Foster. Text presented here by poet submission.

Art credit: Untitled image of cherries by unknown photographer.

Tom Barrett: "Empty Mind"

Writing about empty mind is not easy.
When I have got it, there are no words.
When the words come, it goes away.

Sitting in anger and fear,
Mind is full of the past and future.
Images of catastrophes big and small
Jostle for a seat at the brain.
Resentment, incredulity and disappointment
Slide their way into heart spaces
Pushing out loving-kindness.
Equanimity lies in pieces.

Some of us scrape up that slimy
Emotional stuff and put it in jars
To carry along with us,
And then we complain that
Our load is too heavy.
We need to put down that
Lumpy sack of ooze
And take a breath.

The sage said,
“I pack no provisions for my long journey—
Entering emptiness under the midnight moon.”
He did not pack his ego,
Or his remembrance of self.
He carried no big plans
Or regrets of the past.
Like a wise fool he may have
Even forgotten to leave.
While he sits still in darkness,
The moon travels the sky.

"Empty Mind" by by Tom Barrett. Text as published on the poet's website, Interlude: An Internet Retreat. Reprinted here by poet permission.

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Rainer Maria Rilke: "I, 12" ["I believe in all that has never been spoken"]

I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.
I want to free what waits within me
so that what no one has dared to wish for

may for once spring clear
without my contriving.

If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,
but this is what I need to say.
May what I do flow from me like a river,
no forcing and no holding back,
the way it is with children.

Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,
these deepening tides moving out, returning,
I will sing you as no one ever has,

streaming through widening channels
into the open sea.



"I, 12" ["I believe in all that has never been spoken"] by Rainer Maria Rilke. Text as published in Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, translated from the original German by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy. Reprinted with permission of the editors.

Read the German text on page 65 of this online source. 

Art credit: Untitled image by unknown photographer.

Robert Morgan: "Honey"

Only calmness will reassure
the bees to let you rob their hoard.
Any sweat of fear provokes them.
Approach with confidence, and from
the side, not shading their entrance.
And hush smoke gently from the spout
of the pot of rags, for sparks will
anger them. If you go near bees
every day they will know you.
And never jerk or turn so quick
you excite them. If weeds are trimmed
around the hive they have access
and feel free. When they taste your smoke
they fill themselves with honey and
are laden and lazy as you
lift the lid to let in daylight.
No bee full of sweetness wants to
sting. Resist greed. With the top off
you touch the fat gold frames, each cell
a hex perfect as a snowflake,
a sealed relic of sun and time
and roots of many acres fixed
in crystal-tight arrays, in rows
and lattices of sweeter latin
from scattered prose of meadow, woods.


 

"Honey" by Robert Morgan. Text as published in Topsoil Road: Poems (LSU Press, 2000). © Robert Morgan. Reprinted by permission of the poet.

The poet reads the poem on his website.  

Art credit: Photograph of a beekeeping smoker, by Michele Onorato.

William Stafford: "How to Regain Your Soul"

Come down Canyon Creek trail on a summer afternoon
that one place where the valley floor opens out. You will see
the white butterflies. Because of the way shadows
come off those vertical rocks in the west, there are
shafts of sunlight hitting the river and a deep
long purple gorge straight ahead. Put down your pack.

Above, air sighs the pines. It was this way
when Rome was clanging, when Troy was being built,
when campfires lighted caves. The white butterflies dance
by the thousands in the still sunshine. Suddenly, anything
could happen to you. Your soul pulls toward the canyon
and then shines back through the white wings to be you again.

"How to Regain Your Soul" by William Stafford, from The Darkness Around Us Is Deep: Selected Poems of William Stafford (Harper Perennial, 1994). Text as posted on The Writer's Almanac (05/26/14).

Art credit: "White Butterflies," photograph by Paul Kiler of PK Perfumes.

Sheila Packa: "Not Forgotten"

I learned to ride
the two wheel bicycle
with my father.
He oiled the chain
clothes-pinned playing cards
to the spokes, put on the basket
to carry my lunch.
By his side, I learned balance
and took on speed
centered behind the wide
handlebars, my hands
on the white grips
my feet pedaling.
One moment he was
holding me up
and the next moment
although I didn't know it
he had let go.
When I wobbled, suddenly
afraid, he yelled keep going—
keep going!
Beneath the trees in the driveway
the distance increasing between us
I eventually rode until he was out of sight.
I counted on him.

That he could hold me was a given
that he could release me was a gift.

"Not Forgotten" by Sheila Packa. Text as published in Cloud Birds (Wildwood River Press, 2011). © Sheila Packa. Reprinted by permission of the poet. This includes permission to archive.

Visit the poet's blog.

Curator's note: Here in the U.S., yesterday was Father's Day. But around the world it was also summer solstice. I chose to postpone the Father's Day poem until today. Enjoy! 

Art credit: "232:366 vintage schwinn kids' bike," photograph taken on August 19, 2012 by Kimberly Knight.

 

Carolyn Miller: "Rose Garden, Summer Solstice"

Everyone here believes that the roses
are blooming only for them, here where the air
by the formal beds is layered with the scent
of roses. From deep in their flushed and darkening hearts
pour odors of lemons and pepper, apricots, honey,
vanilla and myrrh and musk and semen, apples and quince,
raspberries and wine and ocean, the faint
scent of blood and the fragrance of death and the breath
of the life we are living now, in this place
where the roses are blooming for each of us, alone. 

"Rose Garden, Summer Solstice" by Carolyn Miller, from Light, Moving (Sixteen Rivers Press, 2009). © Carolyn Miller.

Art credit: "Charming Purple Rose," image by unknown photographer.

Carole Ann Borges: "Light"

                                                  No, my friends

                                                  darkness is not everywhere

                                                  for here and there

                                                  I find faces illuminated

                                                  from within.

                                                  Japanese lanterns

                                                  floating

                                                  among dark trees

"Light" by Carole Ann Borges. Text as published in Noble Beast (an online journal, 1997). © Carole Ann Borges. Reprinted by permission of the poet. Carole Ann's most recent book is Dreamseeker's Daughter (CreateSpace, 2013).

Art credit: "Lamps #5—Japanese paper lanterns," photograph taken at the Om Gallery, Santa Cruz, California (USA) on July 17, 2010, by gwen.

Curator's note: I offer this poem as a lament for the loss of life in this week's massacre at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, Charleston, South Carolina (USA). I offer it as well as encouragement to those who have been, and continue to be, traumatized by such acts of violence, and to all of us who would be light together, illuminating the deep night until morning.

May morning break soon.

My sincere apologies for not posting a poem in response to this tragedy sooner. I had shoulder surgery this week. I want to thank my friend Ruby Wilson for managing the project with prepared posts in my absence.

Peter Sears: "Night Fishing"

The water is a glaze like loneliness at ease

with itself I cast and close my eyes for the whir

out across the water, the line striking the surface

and sinking. I like waiting for it to settle on the bottom,

then jig it up a little. I imagine the lure in utter dark.

I play it lightly. Fish rise. Just shy of the surface,

they play their glints off the moon on the water.

I see too my own loneliness. It's not too big

and it breathes easily. Soon, it may pretend it's rain.

Rain blurs the water. There is nothing wrong.

with rain. I take a deep breath and cast and cast.

"Night Fishing" by Peter Sears, from Small Talk: New & Selected Poems (Lynx House Press, 2014). Text as posted on The Writer's Almanac (09/10/14).

Art credit: Untitled image of night fishing by unknown photographer.

Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi: "In Every Breath"

in every breath
if you’re the center
of your own desires
you’ll lose the grace
of your beloved

but if in every breath
you blow away
your self claim
the ecstasy of love
will soon arrive

in every breath
if you’re the center
of your own thoughts
the sadness of autumn
will fall on you

but if in every breath
you strip naked
just like a winter
the joy of spring
will grow from within

all your impatience
comes from the push
for gain of patience
let go of the effort
and peace will arrive

all your unfulfilled desires
are from your greed
for gain of fulfillments
let go of them all
and they will be sent as gifts

fall in love with
the agony of love
not the ecstasy
then the beloved
will fall in love with you

"In Every Breath" by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi, from Rumi: Fountain of Fire. Translated from the original Persian by Nader Khalili (Cal-Earth Press, 1994 edition). Text as posted on Jahane Rumi (05/12/07).

Art credit: "Phuket Sunset Dance," photograph by Karim (Kim) Khamzin.

 

Maureen E. Doallas: "Reading Goodnight Moon"

is not like stopping
at McDonald's
for your favorite double-shot latte.

You don't drive through.

You take each word
in a languishing slide off the tongue,
naming what is named
that you never saw before.

Looking, finding, pointing delighted
in the room the moon the light
the red balloon that lifts

Darkness even as sleep
falls fast
and clock's hands change

What you see changing
before a child's eyes.

If you slow long enough
to take in what your child sees
with eyes that

Refuse to be moved
to a new page before
the first page is exhausted

The last page you turn
holds the dream
you thought would never last:

A snuggling close closer still
beneath moon's shadows.


 

"Reading Goodnight Moon" by Maureen E. Doallas. Text as published in Neruda's Memoirs: Poems (T. S. Poetry Press, 2011). © Maureen E. Doallas. Reprinted by permission of the poet.

Art credit: Page from the children's book Goodnight Moon, written by Margaret Wise Brown and illustrated by Clement Hurd.

  

Mary Oliver: "Song of the Builders"

On a summer morning
I sat down
on a hillside
to think about God—

a worthy pastime.
Near me, I saw
a single cricket;
it was moving the grains of the hillside

this way and that way.
How great was its energy,
how humble its effort.
Let us hope

it will always be like this,
each of us going on
in our inexplicable ways
building the universe.

 
"Song of the Builders" by Mary Oliver. Text as published in Why I Wake Early: New Poems (Beacon Press, 2005).

Art credit: "Woman bare feet in flower field," photograph taken in Vanoise, French Alps, by Jeff Maion.