by Martha Christina
We’re in water
up to our armpits
and I’m afraid
of going under.
But when you
put your hand
on the small
of my back,
what can I do
but float?
Blogged with the Flock Browser
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by Neal Whitman
I profess to come and go as I please.
Come to a place where my mind and heart are open to what is true.
Go somewhere before or after words take place.
I profess to take the time and make the space for poetry to happen.
Take the time to breath.
Make the space to pay attention.
I profess to learn to write and write to learn.
Come learn something old.
Come write something new.
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by Neal Whitman the Poetry Prof.
Welcome to a new feature. Yes, I am a retired professor. But, when you visit with me, I will not be writing as an English professor (which was not my field). Instead, I will be sharing what I believe deeply or professabout poetry. Some of my beliefs about the writing of poetry appear in a poem posted this month.
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By Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate (2004-2006)
We all know that the manner in which people behave toward one another can tell us a lot about their private lives. In this amusing poem by David Allan Evans, Poet Laureate of South Dakota, we learn something about a marriage by being shown a couple as they take on an ordinary household task.
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by Howie Good
The world is a rifle butt
smashed in your face
a panting hand reaching
for your only child
And now the weather
What if our hearts weren’t
such paper-thin bags
of blood and vomit
what if they were shiny
like the water-bright coats
of prancing red horses
Blogged with the Flock Browser
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by Neal Whitman
Susurrus of red.
Marbled godwits overhead
whoosh onto the mud flats.
A wind from nowhere.
Amazement of avocets fly over.
We whisper reverently.
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