you know it is spring when
the thunder is your lullaby
and the birds are your alarm clock
and math is left undone
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the thunder is your lullaby
and the birds are your alarm clock
and math is left undone
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This is a true story: I wrote this poem during a quiz, which I left 90% blank, in Mr. Lynch's pre-calculus class, sometime around April my junior year of high school. The next year I took statistics.
As an added Earth Day Celebration, comment to this post with your favorite poems about nature, the earth, environmentalism, bears, little streams, the polar ice caps, Thoerau, or garbage day.
As an added Earth Day Celebration, comment to this post with your favorite poems about nature, the earth, environmentalism, bears, little streams, the polar ice caps, Thoerau, or garbage day.
"In the Garden" by Jay Hopler
ReplyDeleteAnd the sky!
Nooned with the steadfast blue enthusiasm
Of an empty nursery.
Crooked lizards grassed in yellow shade.
The grass was lizarding,
Green and on a rampage.
Shade tenacious in the crook of a bent stem.
Noon. This noon--
Skyed, blue and full of hum, full of bloom.
The grass was lizarding.
"Wing to Root" by Jack Myers
ReplyDeleteWhen the sun tilts back wing to root
in a fierce sleep, the birds inhabit the branches like doubts. They soak
in the dusk rocking themselves into
small blind possessions of the wood
and sing one note into the falling
temperature. By dawn they are black
fruit hanging from the bark you think
looks so much like anger. It's home.
"Advice of the Mad Angler" --Michael Delp
ReplyDeleteIf you are miles from a river,
and you hear moving water,
have the sense to follow the woman next to
you out the door, into the woods,
where her body will slowly surround you,
the pure current of her flesh
smoothing you into that dark river stone
she will always carry in her pocket.
"Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota"
ReplyDeleteby James Wright
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.