Posts Tagged ‘poem 7’

in order to understand something, you have to be one with that something

–thich nhat hanh


a woman buys a man dinner

in her essay, at least

just now she sits between

two classmates, swinging her legs

she closely observed another human

in his loneliness and she sat with him

from across the room


we sit together

we are one with loneliness

one with compassion

we understand this idea


a man shares his appreciation

that his mother offers him a comfortable chair

another man buys a classmate donuts

because he does not know

how to fix sorrow

the third writes a letter

to conjure forgiveness from air


a woman watches her life

collapse like a human pyramid

one woman talks about her father’s death

while another woman weeps


how to explain the way a grief

so specific and sharp

ghosts through the room


the teacher instructs us

to send our compassion

waves and waves

into the heart of others


driving back in my car

I feel the compassion

of strangers

in solitude

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Monday (poem 7)



Small dogs blow down the street like leaves,

their small heads bobbing. The children shine

on their way to school, sails adrift amidst blacktop


and metal. I read them the way mystics

read tea leaves. The signs all portend

spring. Observe: the tulips yearn toward


blossomed branches, which wag and ripple in the wind.

The mountains dance on the horizon, festooned

with snow and ribbons of grass. I want to sing


my sorrows like an ode: Oh, Spring,

you are too much with me, late and soon,

your sunshine dogs my day, the long beams


lapping at my  legs; you run recklessly

over my desire to gripe and moan.

Oh Spring, you successfully seduce me. 


(for this poem, I came up with a list of verbs and then I just chose a form)

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