At the New Year

BY KENNETH PATCHEN

In the shape of this night, in the still fall

        of snow, Father

In all that is cold and tiny, these little birds

        and children

In everything that moves tonight, the trolleys

        and the lovers, Father

In the great hush of country, in the ugly noise

        of our cities

In this deep throw of stars, in those trenches

        where the dead are, Father

In all the wide land waiting, and in the liners

        out on the black water

In all that has been said bravely, in all that is

        mean anywhere in the world, Father

In all that is good and lovely, in every house

        where sham and hatred are

In the name of those who wait, in the sound

        of angry voices, Father

Before the bells ring, before this little point in time

        has rushed us on

Before this clean moment has gone, before this night

        turns to face tomorrow, Father

There is this high singing in the air

Forever this sorrowful human face in eternity’s window

And there are other bells that we would ring, Father

Other bells that we would ring.

"Little Bird" -The Weepies

Sometimes it's hard to say even one thing true
When all eyes have turned aside
They used to talk to you
And people on the street seem to disapprove
So you keep moving away
And forget what you wanted to say

Little bird, little bird
Brush your gray wings on my head
Say what you said, say it again
They tell me I'm crazy
But you told me I'm golden

Sometimes it's hard to tell the truth from a lie
Nobody knows what's in the hold of your mind
We are all buildings and people inside
Never know who'll walk through the door
Is it someone that you've met before?

Little bird, little bird
Brush your gray wings on my head
Say what you said, say it again
They tell me I'm crazy
But you told me I'm golden

I know what I know
A wind in the trees
And a road that goes winding under
From here I see rain, I hear thunder
Somewhere there's sun, and you don't need a reason

Sometimes it's hard to find a way to keep on
Quiet weekends, holidays, you come undone
Open your window and look upon
All the kinds of alive you can be
Be still, be light, believe me

Little bird, little bird
Brush your gray wings on my head
Say what you said, say it again
They tell me I'm crazy
But you told me I'm golden
I'm golden

SONG, HERE

THEY KNEW WHAT THEY WANTED

In memory of a poet and movie fan. Each line is the name of a movie.

By John Ashberry

They all kissed the bride.
They all laughed.
They came from beyond space.
They came by night.

They came to a city.
They came to blow up America.
They came to rob Las Vegas.
They dare not love.

They died with their boots on.
They shoot horses, don’t they?
They go boom.
They got me covered.

They flew alone.
They gave him a gun.
They just had to get married.
They live. They loved life.

They live by night.
They drive by night.
They knew Mr Knight.
They were expendable.

They met in Argentina.
They met in Bombay.
They met in the dark.
They might be giants.

They made me a fugitive.
They made me a criminal.
They only kill their masters.
They shall have music.

They were sisters.
They still call me Bruce.
They won’t believe me.
They won’t forget.

Dear Reader

BY RITA MAE REESE

You have forgotten it all.

You have forgotten your name,

where you lived, who you

loved, why.

                      I am simply

your nurse, terse and unlovely

I point to things

and remind you what they are:

chair, book, daughter, soup.

 

And when we are alone

I tell you what lies

in each direction: This way

is death, and this way, after

a longer walk, is death,

and that way is death but you

won’t see it

until it is right

in front of you.

 

              Once after

your niece had been to visit you

and I said something about

how you must love her

or she must love you

or something useless like that,

you gripped my forearm

in your terrible swift hand

and said, she is

everything—you gave

me a shake—everything

to me.

               And then you fell

back into the well. Deep

in the well of everything. And I

stand at the edge and call:

                  chair, book, daughter, soup.

swallowed
by pinny bulman

i walk the winter park late
listening for the fleeting
moment the unmarked ground releases a cry,
my small rebellions
swallowed here long ago
but this night even time itself
has frozen to stillness
hanging off the tree branches
translucent and sharp
so i close my eyes
to hear a beating heart and
somewhere far above
snow settling on a still hungry surface.

By Emily D

Hope is the thing with feathers 

That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words, 
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

~Emily Dickinson

See this beautiful piece on the poem:
http://therumpus.net/2014/11/the-last-poem-i-loved-hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers-by-emily-dickinson/

SON

By Craig Morgan Teicher


I don’t even know where my father lives.
I know his number, and whenever
I call he answers and gives
the usual update about getting together
with the stepkids and their kids,
about the latest minor crises
with his health, about what he did
with Maryanne for their anniversary.
He lives somewhere in Connecticut,
near where he lived before.
It’s been easy not to go there, but
I know I should—there won’t always be more
time. There will always be less.
I don’t even know my father’s address.