“What can I bring to prayer?” “Little soul, do you remember?” It’s “Sad isn’t it (not a bit)”
“What was it like to listen to the angels?” Or see “The writing in the air of swallowtails”, “And all the beautiful things that lead our thoughts and give us reason”
“Modern times are too cautious.” Our “God’s toes are buried deep in the earth”. “Ignorance will carry me through to the last days”,
“And Reason’s self shall bow the knee”.
— Lines from the following poems – “Faith” by Michael Schmidt “Wood. Salt. Tin.” by Jane Hishfield “What Lights Up…?” by Keki Daruwalla “An Altogether Different Language” by Anne Porter “Swallowtails” by Allan Peterson “A Time” by Allison Hedge Coke “The White Campion” by Donald Revell “The Present” by Jim Harrison “Psalm to Be Read with Closed Eyes” by D. Nurkse “The Indian Burying Ground” by Philip Freneau
This poem is not ready to move on, but its adjectives have abandoned the rhyme for warm, blue waters and sandy shores. The nouns are running a marathon with the moon and it finds itself no longer (verb)ose. This poem is left with only two feet and no rhythm, and the meter is almost on empty. It has become un(in)formed and blank. Maybe now is the time to stand(za) up, pack up its ink and go. But it will be back to repeat the refrain.
This poem has one last chance to play the game, make a name for itself. It (day)dreams of fame and glory, the hero of a story staring moon and muses. It refuses to give up – turns up, tuned up and ready to poem It’s running out of time, maybe you could spare a rhyme – a little rosemary and thyme But don’t worry my dear, there’s always tomorrow
Morning starts with the raucous music of birds, like a choir with too many sopranos. I rouse myself from sheets tangled as if I survived a shipwreck during the night and stumble awkwardly down stairs that seem to descend into the center of the Earth. Only the whistle of the tea kettle, like a siren call to a sailor, keeps me on course to the kitchen and your smiling face – a beacon into the safe harbor of your arms.