Speak

“A closed mouth never gets fed.”Remember the words you said.Shadows of a time that fled,feelings followed where hearts led. Random fears dance in my head.“A closed mouth never gets fed”Whispered voices fade till dead,wish I could sing loud instead. Hesitance steadily treads,balancing poise on a thread.“A closed mouth never gets fed.”Hope deep inner thoughts are […]

Speak

The longest day

The longest day This day will be long,the blackbirds say,and the golden orioles, so we lie backand listento their gentle songs. We close our eyes,as the sun clears the cloud,and we make a warm darkness, a matrix filled with an ocean,wine-dark, salt-sweet,where we drift on rising,falling,waves of birdsong, as if the worldwas no morethan a […]

The longest day

Why Poetry: A Partial Autobiography [“It’s about to rain, suddenly…”]
BY CRAIG MORGAN TEICHER

Why Poetry: A Partial Autobiography [“It’s about to rain, suddenly…”]
BY CRAIG MORGAN TEICHER

Why Poetry: A Partial Autobiography [“It’s about to rain, suddenly…”]
BY CRAIG MORGAN TEICHER

Why Poetry: A Partial Autobiography [“It’s about to rain, suddenly…”]
BY CRAIG MORGAN TEICHER


It’s about to rain, suddenly
and without mercy.
The rain will be brief, I can tell.

but I will be driven inside within earshot

of those anxious sounds bent
on occluding my mind
like a pile of unpaid bills

—perhaps I will even see the pile of bills.
The rain will be brief, but no matter—I won’t

get back outside tonight.

~

So, I have maybe ten minutes

for this to get said
before all is wet and after the fact

~

because I have only a succession
of chances,
most missed.

~

Cal is finally fast asleep; the machine
that makes the mist that keeps
his trach moist rattles like an idling truck.

Simone is plotting something, standing and yelling
in her crib, jumping now,
her sleep a bad joke.

Ten years since last I was alone.
My mind is not my own.

~

Reading the new poems tonight of my old teacher
—she was never taken with me, not
particularly—I admire her lifelong pursuit

of childhood
through art.

She has pursued art as though
it is as serious as childhood,
which we all pursue to the end.

~

And yet, if her poems—ornate as stained glass
leaning against a wall in the glass shop, windows
looking in on almost
nothing—say anything,

it is, I am alone; beauty is everything
except company, so beauty is nothing, almost.

~

Does she want what I have? Do I? My poems
lie.

The rain is coming. A few drops more and I’ll lose
these letters. Simone still won’t sleep.

Passing and Other Poems

academyoftheheartandmind's avatarAcademy of the Heart And Mind

By Stephen Kingsnorth

Passing

How quickly turns that silken purse - as though sow’s ear is taking space, hears jealousy, lost in revenge - but dew has dried, curl edges bruised, and secateurs deadhead at speed, already eager for rebirth. From best of blooms that nodding spreads, as if in shame, taut stretch neck drapes, so dozing head flops, ruby weak, cut gemstone seen as paste instead. Last pheromones drain scent away, flight summer buzz ignores its red, as all that feasted, lustre days, desert the call of luscious bed. While petal flesh clings to old veins, before the drop that feeds ahead - that ground where dust to dust will bear creation’s cycle, nature’s bled, the sacrifice, bone fingers, nails, sharp thorn surround for bowing head - see crown of glory, powerless. But passing, hand on, rests awhile, caresses dreams, wealth known before, and all is well as love…

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