New Year Resolve by May Sarton
The time has come
To stop allowing the clutter
To clutter my mind
Like dirty snow,
Shove it off and find
Clear time, clear water.
Time for a change,
Let silence in like a cat
Who has sat at my door
Neither wild nor strange
Hoping for food from my store
And shivering on the mat.
Let silence in.
She will rarely speak or mew,
She will sleep on my bed
And all I have ever been
Either false or true
Will live again in my head.
For it is now or not
As old age silts the stream,
To shove away the clutter,
To untie every knot,
To take the time to dream,
To come back to still water.
from Collected Poems 1930-1993
photo Rose Cook
Russell Brand talks about Revolution
His mother must be proud after all,
fighting addiction isn’t easy. Clean now,
his intelligence, quick as fish, darts fast.
Her brave boy, thrown helter skelter bipolar,
Fear travels quickly, love a little slower.
the cynic’s clown,
the people’s narcissist
but bearing witness,
Do you step up?
poem by Rose Cook
published on http://poetry-24.blogspot.co.uk/
photo from http://www.dudesnews.com/2013/11/02/the-revolution-will-be-televised-russell-brand-on-bbcs-newsnight/
‘A poem expresses one’s most private feelings, and these turn out to be the feelings of everyone else as well.’ Galway Kinnell
After Making Love We Hear Footsteps
For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small he has to screw them on—
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child.
In the half darkness we look at each other
and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body—
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.
I am pleased to say that today my poem High Street has been published by Nutshells and Nuggets here: http://nutshellsandnuggets.tumblr.com/
photo Rose Cook
The Chalice and the Heart
He explained as clearly as he could
about the heart inside each vertebrae.
He drew and it was beautiful,
our spinal cord rising through a series of hearts.
One of mine is no longer a heart,
but a chalice, like a cocktail glass.
Eventually, it may shrink to the rune
Algiz, the earth, which is also Z the end.