Monday, September 30, 2013

The Laughing Heart

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

Charles Bukowski

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Star Bright Star Light

The vast majority of humanity
will not drive a Mercedes
try a flying car
vacation on a private beach
see the sun rise without heartache
see the sun set without a sense
of hollowness

They won’t own a second home
on the coast in Spain
or even fly there to shop
at the Supermercato.
They won’t be lucky enough to find
a broken umbrella in the rain
or swim in an ocean naked.

They won't fly to the moon to tee off
or visit Mars to discover water.
I don’t think many will see a lion
running free or witness a full blown
eclipse on some dark continent.
Will we all write a poem
to hide in some quiet place?

When will we stop to look up 
freely wish upon a star
that appears and disappears
fleeing quickly between the clouds?

Debbie Calverley


End of day
a fleet of sandpipers
rush the waves
advance retreat
so many footprints
remind us we were
all once there

for just a little while
the empty shore
breathes out

Debbie Calverley

The Poets at the Ball Game

                                             Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting
                                             and baseball is like writing.
                                                   You can never tell with either
                                                         how it will go
                                                         or what you will do . . .
                       —Marianne Moore, "Baseball and Writing" (1961)
are not used to such good seats:
behind third base, a perfect view,
outfield grass as green as Lorca's Verde
que te quiero verde
. They feel a bit like
Miss Moore, honored by the Yankees in '68
to toss out the first pitch,

dream of "Poetry Day at the Park":
a personalized sonnet for the first
one hundred fans and free haiku for kids.
The crowd raps out rhythms with minibats,
signed by the poet laureate, count iambs
during the caesura of the seventh inning stretch,
recite heroic couplets for the hitter who launches

a long fly beyond the upper deck, filled
with visiting midshipmen, white uniforms a blur.
They cheer with the sound of frothing waves,
a thousand cranes in flight.
A forest of blank pages tossed aloft.

                                   Baltimore Orioles vs. Tampa Bay Devil Rays
                                                Camden Yards, Baltimore, Maryland
                                                                                       August 9, 2005

Left to Itself the Heart Could Almost Melt, Mend

When the Amish girl gets off the bus
she walks over and stomps
her small black boot into a drift
in front of McDonald's.
She is maybe new to winter
this far north and wants to know
its depth. Its give. Oh,
be careful. It already has you
by the night of your dress,
violet-black with white-dotted print.

Jill Osier

Sunday, September 1, 2013

One Step Further

Work with me here
And let's be real
Did any of that shit
Ever really happen?

Work with me here
There's a pile of people
Wanting to know
Doorbell constantly ringing.

Work with me here
I've forgotten your face
Even though you're still around
I just can't make it out.

Work with me here
Everything is jumbled together
Into one hot mess
A virtual plate of scrambled eggs

Hearts still beating
We are all left falling
Nothing left to catch
Here, work with me.

Debbie Calverley