#AmericanWriters
Going out to the garden this morning to plant seeds for my winter greens —the strong, fiery mustard
With your unknown to me Odd magic You came To me:
Word reaches us that you are sleeping, sleeping. Dismayed we have turned to the sea. We encounter among others
When you thought me poor, my poverty was shaming. When blackness was unwelcome we found it best that I stay home.
Before I leave the stage I will sing the only song I was meant truly to sing. It is the song of I AM.
Look into her eyes and know: She does not think
When they torture your mother plant a tree When they torture your father plant a tree When they torture your brother
His posture From so many years Holding his robe with one hand Is odd. His gait
I said to Poetry:"I’m finished with you." Having to almost die before some wierd light comes creeping through
I will keep Broken things: The big clay Pot
Reminding us, as they witnessed our curiosity about them, that no matter the losses, there’s something fabulous going on at every stage of Life, something to let go of, maybe, but for d...
If my sorrow were deeper I’d be, along with you, under the ocean’s floor; but today I learn that the oil that pools beneath the ocean floor
Be nobody’s darling; Be an outcast. Take the contradictions Of your life And wrap around
When you see water in a stream you say: oh, this is stream water; When you see water in the river you say: oh, this is water
Did you ever understand this? If my spirit was poor, how could… Was I depressed? Understanding editing, I see how a comma, removed or inse…