Tag Archives: Poetry

Bonus Wednesday Night Poetry Blogging


~Mary Oliver
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

Picture found here.

Wednesday Evening Poetry Blogging



~ Carl Phillips

There is a difference it used to make,
seeing three swans in this versus four in that
quadrant of sky. I am not imagining. It was very large, as its
effects were. Declarations of war, the timing fixed upon for a sea-
             departure; or,
about love, a sudden decision not to, to pretend instead to a kind
of choice. It was dramatic, as it should be. Without drama,
what is ritual? I look for omens everywhere, because they are everywhere
to be found. They come to me like strays, like the damaged,
something that could know better, and should, therefore—but does not:
a form of faith, you’ve said. I call it sacrifice—an instinct for it, or a habit
             at first, that
becomes required, the way art can become, eventually, all we have
of what was true. You shouldn’t look at me like that. Like one of those
on whom the birds once settled freely.

Picture found here.

Thursday Night Poetry Blogging


I do not have a personal relationship with this Goddess, but a number of her friends have been posting this poem, and so I will make bold to post it here. It meets Archibald MacLeish’s requirement that “A poem should not mean/But be,” and I post it here because it gave me real goosebumps, which is always a sure, certain, and definite sign that the magic is working.

Morrigan Visits Hobby Lobby

~ c.–Kate Holly-Clark, 2014

That morning, they should

have paid attention to the woman

washing blood off the Lexus

in the parking lot.

The doors bang open to the conference room

with a gesture from Her long thin fingers

and walks inside with a wild wind

snatching at papers, swirling the toupees

but somehow not ruffling

a single feather of Her

long cloak of ravenblack.

did you think She says
that I would not know what you are doing?

They all see stars; these godly men and women

for a moment, so bright and burning

their eyes water and
they find themselves in

the ribbon aisle.

She shakes one marble arm from the cloak
sweeps sideways with Her hand

a thousand cawing crows fill the air

the ribbons start slithering

and entwine their feet
with the fear of a teenage girl

caught between

the baby and the coat hanger

Did you think I would not know what you are doing to

My daughters and sons? She says

a rain of pink and yellow kitty buttons ping off their heads
each stinging pain

a mother struggling to feed two children

afraid a third
will starve them all

My daughters and sons and mothers and fathers

and nieces and nephews will not forget says She

zebrastriped ottomans slam into them
with the blows to the gut

of endometriosis gone out of control

the bleeding endlessly into anemia

dizziness dropping them to their knees
cramps as if their guts are being drawn

and wrapped around trees

Sons of the hounds, She cries, COME HERE AND GET MEAT!

Finn MaCool and Herne sweep in at the head

of caroling, slavering gabrielhounds

and the wind’s roaring is so loud they think

their ears will explode and the crashing

of painted crystal and flower vases is

the continous roar of the ocean

they are cut with a thousand tiny shards of glass
their faces all scratches and tiny tears of blood streaming

puking up with fear

like 8 hours after Plan B
feet anchored to the floor with

layer after layer of Disney stickers

and terror of the Phantom Queen

My children choose, says She.
Not you. not in My name

not in My dominion

not for My daughters and sons and mothers and fathers and lovers

not for My children and My non-children

they are Mine and you shall not interfere in My name

the battles they fight are Ours and sacred

no matter what they decide, My children are blessed

they can hear Her voice like dreadful bells

clear right through the hurricane
up under the suspended ceiling
the tiles rippling like an earthquake
dust and glitter swirling through the air

so thick the light is gray

She sweeps back Her cloak
both hands palms down

there is a silence that rings as loud as Her voice

the hounds and the heroes file neatly out the

automatic doors that crunch across

the broken glass

The Battle Crow eyes the board members

one by one with bright black eyes

stripping them down

to their profits and loss
their knees shaking

like they had worked eighteen hours

on an assembly line making wreaths and bows

for a dollar a day

Do not invoke god in your decisions for your fellow folk, She says
until you know Who will answer.

Picture found here.

Happy Bloomsday

All acts of love & pleasure are rituals of the Goddess.

Those Who Live Alone


As someone who lives and gardens alone,* I love what David Whyte has to say about it:


It happens to those
who live alone
that they feel sure
of visitors
when no one else
is there.

Until the one day
and the one particular
working in the
quiet garden,

when they realize
at once
that all along
they have been
an invitation
to everything
and every kind of trouble

and that life
happens by
to those who

like the bees
the tall mallow
on their legs of gold,
or the wasps
going from door to door
in the tall forest
of the daisies.

I have my freedom
because nothing
really happened

and nobody came
to see me,
only the slow
growing of the garden
in the summer heat

and the silence of that
unborn life
making itself
known at my desk,

my hands
with the crumbling
as I write
and watch

the first lines
of a new poem
like flowers
of scarlet fire
coming to fullness
in a clear light.

* I can actually count on one hand the times that I’ve been truly alone (way, way, way up in the lonely San Gabriel Mountains and way, way, way out over the Atlantic) and they were glorious. I work in a city and live in a close-in suburban neighborhood and, with my highly-permeable Pisces boundaries, I’m never really alone. I’ve learned, over 58 years, to shield and to block out a lot of the “noise,” but that takes a constant, sustained effort — one that I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was always performing. That takes energy and it’s not surprising that we Introverts get drained by too much company.

And then there is my Bit of Earth, my landbase, and whenever I am “alone” at home, I am engaged in a relationship with the place, with the powers, and spirits, and beings of this place. So, “alone” is a relative term.

Nonetheless, I agree with Mr. Whyte that life happens to those who inhabit silence.

Picture found here.

Today, I Would Totally Go

May the Goddess Guard Her. May She Find Her Way to the Summerlands. May Her Friends and Family Know Peace.

Friday Poetry Blogging


Love Is Enough

~ William Morris

LOVE is enough: though the World be a-waning,
And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,
Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover
The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,
Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,
And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass’d over,
Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;
The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter
These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

Picture found here

A Poem for the Salmon, for the River, for the Bear

Another One or Two Before National Poetry Month Is Come and Gone


~ David Whyte

Take the road above
to Caheranadurrish
one day soon, in springtime,
when you’ve given yourself
that miracle hour alone

so that below you
the green valley is filled
from end to end
with the arriving waveform
of whitethorn and birdsong

while above,
the blue moving sky
is torn
with wind and cloud

and follow the road to the top
as if you could walk
straight off that horizon
and go on
into the thin air
of your waiting life…

Picture by the blogger; if you copy, please link back.