Poems that found me
Poetry Friday
Friends,
Sometimes I don’t have to look for poems. These are the ones that found me this week.
Enjoy!
Jace
Harness
Little soul,
you and I will become
the memory
of a memory of a memory.
A horse
released of the traces
forgets the weight of the wagon.
By Jane Hirshfield
You can hear the poet read it here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/92042/harness-586e948a48fa6Finding The Girl
She pulled the covers
over her head and hid.
She didn’t really want to hide.
She wanted to be found,
but the only way to be found
is first to be lost.
I find her.
Her body heaves. A little lump, she is.
A little lump that whimpers and longs
to be held, even as it kicks
at whatever warmth comes close.
Oh this terrible loneliness.
It becomes a habit. It is so easy
to see the lie of it
as it ravages someone else.
But this morning
when loneliness rose up in myself
I only pretended I wasn’t hiding.
I’ve learned to wear my covers
on the inside. No one notices. Either that,
or perhaps they’ve learned to pretend
to not see that I am a lump,
a little lump just hoping (or is it dreading)
to be found.
Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Perceptive Prayer
The beauty of summer nights
is how they go on –
light lingering so long we can
imagine ourselves immortal.
For moments at a time.
And winter days –
their own kind of beauty.
Any swatch of color:
hint of leaf bud, sway
of dried brown grass, even litter –
a bright yellow bag
light enough for the breeze
to lift and carry,
can render itself as pleasure
to an eye immersed in gray.
May we learn to love
what is both
ordinary and extra.
May our attention be
a kind of praise.
A worship of the all
there really is.
Grace Bauer from sweatpantsandcoffee.comKindergarten Studies the Human Heart Nothing like a valentine, pink construction paper glue-sticked to doilies downstairs in preschool, the sand table filled with flour, the Fours driving trucks through silky powder, white clouds rising to dust their round cheeks. Up here, the Fives are all business: four chambers on the chalkboard, four rooms colored hard in thick-tipped marker, red and red, blue and blue, oxygen rich and oxygen poor, the branching vine of the aorta hanging its muscled fruit, carmine blood-flower blooming in a thick jungle. My girl squeezes her fist to show me the size of it. Pulses it like a live animal. Taps the double rhythm that never stops, not a trot but the echo of a trot, not a drum but the echo of a drum, small palms on the art table laying down the backbeat: become become become. By Diana Whitney in “How to Love the World, edited by James Crews.