Subscribe: by Email | in Reader

If What You're Waiting for is Christmas -- David Devine

(Poem #232)If What You're Waiting for is Christmas
 If what you're waiting for is Christmas
 You don't need me to tell you so
 If you've been looking for somebody
 You might not have that far to go
 
 See how the candle dances 
 With all the shadows on the wall
 If what you're waiting for is Christmas
 It might be coming after all
 
 Sometimes I feel so tired
 Sometimes I feel so blue
 I'm just going thru the motions
 Of almost anything I do
 
 But guess I'm getting better
 Even I'm a bit surprised
 When I see my own reflection
 In a dark haired angel's eyes
 
 Maybe all that really matters
 Try to feel the mystery 
 Found in people left abandoned
 Burning, blooming poetry
 
 If for miracles you hunger
 You might see a few come true
 If what you're waiting for is Christmas
 It might be waiting there for you.
-- David Devine

Lines -- Martha Collins

(Poem #231)Lines
 Draw a line. Write a line. There.
 Stay in line, hold the line, a glance
 between the lines is fine but don't 
 turn corners, cross, cut in, go over
 or out, between two points of no
 return's a line of flight, between
 two points of view's a line of vision.
 But a line of thought is rarely
 straight, an open line's no party
 line, however fine your point. 
 A line of fire communicates, but drop
 your weapons and drop your line,
 consider the shortest distance from x
 to y, let x be me, let y be you. 
-- Martha Collins

The Tree of Song -- Sara Teasdale

(Poem #230)The Tree of Song
 I sang my songs for the rest,
 For you I am still;
 The tree of my song is bare
 On its shining hill.

 For you came like a lordly wind,
 And the leaves were whirled
 Far as forgotten things
 Past the rim of the world.

 The tree of my song stands bare
 Against the blue --
 I gave my songs to the rest,
 Myself to you.
-- Sara Teasdale

The Light Above Cities -- Jay Leeming

(Poem #229)The Light Above Cities
 Sitting in darkness,
 I see how the light of the city
 fills the clouds, rosewater light
 poured into the sky
 like the single body we are. It is the sum
 of a million lives; a man drinking beer
 beneath a light bulb, a dancer spinning
 in a fluorescent room, a girl reading a book
 beneath a lamp.
 
 Yet there are others — astronomers,
 thieves, lovers — whose work is only done
 in darkness. Sometimes
 I don't want to show these poems
 to anyone, sometimes
 I want to remain hidden, deep in the coals
 with the one who pulls the stars
 through a telescope's glass, the one who listens
 for the click of the lock, the one
 who kisses softly a woman's eyes.
-- Jay Leeming

where we are -- Gerald Locklin

(Poem #228)where we are
 i envy those
 who live in two places:
 new york, say, and london;
 wales and spain;
 l.a. and paris;
 hawaii and switzerland.

 there is always the anticipation
 of the change, the chance that what is wrong
 is the result of where you are. i have 
 always loved both the freshness of
 arriving and the relief of leaving. with 
 two homes every move would be a homecoming.
 i am not even considering the weather, hot
 or cold, dry or wet: i am talking about hope.
-- Gerald Locklin

Unclaimed -- Vikram Seth

(Poem #227)Unclaimed
 To make love with a stranger is the best.
 There is no riddle and there is no test. --

 To lie and love, not aching to make sense
 Of this night in the mesh of reference.

 To touch, unclaimed by fear of imminent day,
 And understand, as only strangers may.

 To feel the beat of foreign heart to heart
 Preferring neither to prolong nor part.

 To rest within the unknown arms and know
 That this is all there is; that this is so.
-- Vikram Seth

Sex Without Love -- Sharon Olds

(Poem #226)Sex Without Love
 How do they do it, the ones who make love
 without love? Beautiful as dancers,
 Gliding over each other like ice-skaters
 over the ice, fingers hooked
 inside each other's bodies, faces
 red as steak, wine, wet as the
 children at birth, whose mothers are going to
 give them away. How do they come to the
 come to the come to the God come to the
 still waters, and not love
 the one who came there with them, light
 rising slowly as steam off their joined
 skin? These are the true religious,
 the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
 accept a false Messiah, love the
 priest instead of the God. They do not
 mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
 they are like great runners: they know they are alone
 with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
 the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
 vascular health--just factors, like the partner
 in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
 single body alone in the universe
 against its own best time.
-- Sharon Olds

The Story We Know -- Martha Collins

(Poem #225)The Story We Know
 The way to begin is always the same. Hello,
 Hello. Your hand, your name. So glad, Just fine,
 And Good-bye at the end. That's every story we know,

 And why pretend? But lunch tomorrow? No?
 Yes? An omelette, salad, chilled white wine?
 The way to begin is simple, sane, Hello,

 And then it's Sunday, coffee, the Times, a slow
 Day by the fire, dinner at eight or nine
 And Good-bye. In the end, this is a story we know

 So well we don't turn the page, or look below
 The picture, or follow the words to the next line:
 The way to begin is always the same Hello.

 But one night, through the latticed window, snow
 Begins to whiten the air, and the tall white pine.
 Good-bye is the end of every story we know

 That night, and when we close the curtains, oh,
 We hold each other against that cold white sign
 Of the way we all begin and end. Hello,
 Good-bye is the only story. We know, we know.
-- Martha Collins

Portrait of the Artist as a Prematurely Old Man -- Ogden Nash

(Poem #224)Portrait of the Artist as a Prematurely Old Man
 It is common knowledge to every schoolboy and even every Bachelor of Arts,
 That all sin is divided into two parts.
 One kind of sin is called a sin of commission, and that is very important,
 And it is what you are doing when you are doing something you ortant,
 And the other kind of sin is just the opposite and is called a sin of omission
         and is equally bad in the eyes of all right-thinking people, from
         Billy Sunday to Buddha,
 And it consists of not having done something you shuddha.
 I might as well give you my opinion of these two kinds of sin as long as,
         in a way, against each other we are pitting them,
 And that is, don't bother your head about the sins of commission because
         however sinful, they must at least be fun or else you wouldn't be
         committing them.
 It is the sin of omission, the second kind of sin,
 That lays eggs under your skin.
 The way you really get painfully bitten
 Is by the insurance you haven't taken out and the checks you haven't added up
         the stubs of and the appointments you haven't kept and the bills you
         haven't paid and the letters you haven't written.
 Also, about sins of omission there is one particularly painful lack of beauty,
 Namely, it isn't as though it had been a riotous red-letter day or night every
         time you neglected to do your duty;
 You didn't get a wicked forbidden thrill
 Every time you let a policy lapse or forget to pay a bill;
 You didn't slap the lads in the tavern on the back and loudly cry Whee,
 Let's all fail to write just one more letter before we go home, and this round
         of unwritten letters is on me.
 No, you never get any fun
 Out of things you haven't done,
 But they are the things that I do not like to be amid,
 Because the suitable things you didn't do give you a lot more trouble than the
         unsuitable things you did.
 The moral is that it is probably better not to sin at all, but if some kind of
         sin you must be pursuing,
 Well, remember to do it by doing rather than by not doing.
-- Ogden Nash

The Talking Back of Miss Valentine Jones: Poem # one -- June Jordan

(Poem #223)The Talking Back of Miss Valentine Jones: Poem # one
 well I wanted to braid my hair
 bathe and bedeck my
 self so fine
 so fully aforethought for
 your pleasure
 see:
 I wanted to travel and read
 and runaround fantastic
 into war and peace:
 I wanted to
 surf
 dive
 fly
 climb
 conquer
 and be conquered
 THEN
 I wanted to pickup the phone
 and find you asking me
 if I might possibly be alone
 some night
 (so I could answer cool
 as the jewels I would wear
 on bareskin for you
 digmedaddy delectation:)
 "WHEN
 you comin ova?"
 But I had to remember to write down
 margarine on the list
 and shoepolish and a can of
 sliced pineapple in casea company
 and a quarta skim milk cause Teresa's
 gaining weight and don' nobody groove on
 that much
 girl
 and next I hadta sort for darks and lights before
 the laundry hit the water which I had
 to kinda keep an eye on be-
 cause if the big hose jumps the sink again that
 Mrs. Thompson gointa come upstairs
 and brain me with a mop don' smell too
 nice even though she hang
 it headfirst out the winda
 and I had to check
 on William like to
 burn hisself to death with fever
 boy so thin be
 callin all day "Momma! Sing to me?"
 "Ma! Am I gone die?" and me not
 wake enough to sit beside him longer than
 to wipeaway the sweat or change the sheets/
 his shirt and feed him orange
 juice before I fall out of sleep and
 Sweet My Jesus ain but one can
 left
 and we not thru the afternoon
 and now
 you (temporarily) shownup with a thing
 you says' a poem and you
 call it
 "Will The Real Miss Black America Standup?"

                       guilty po' mouth
                       about duty beauties of my
                       headrag
                       boozeup doozies about
                       never mind
                       cause love is blind

 well
 I can't use it

 and the very next bodacious Blackman
 call me queen
 because my life ain shit
 because (in any case) he ain been here to share it
 with me
 (dish for dish and do for do and
 dream for dream)
 I'm gone scream him out my house
 be-
 cause what I wanted was
 to braid my hair/bathe and bedeck my
 self so fully be-
 cause what I wanted was
 your love
 not pity
 be-
 cause what I wanted was
 your love
 your love
-- June Jordan

Epitaph on a tyrant -- W H Auden

(Poem #222)Epitaph on a tyrant
 Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after
 And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
 He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
 And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
 When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
 And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
-- W H Auden

The Light in the Eyes -- Miller Williams

(Poem #221)The Light in the Eyes
 Who knows
 where it goes?
-- Miller Williams

Hello In There -- John Prine

(Poem #220)Hello In There
 We had an apartment in the city,
 Me and Loretta liked living there.
 Well, it'd been years since the kids have grown,
 A life of their own left us alone.
 John and Linda live in Omaha,
 And Joe is somewhere on the road.
 We lost Davy in the Korean war,
 And I still don't know what for, it don't matter anymore.

 You know that old trees just grow stronger,
 And old rivers grow wilder ev'ry day.
 Old people just grow lonesome
 Waiting for someone to say, "Hello in there, hello."

 Me and Loretta, we don't talk much more,
 She sits and stares through the back door screen.
 And all the news just repeats itself
 Like some forgotten dream that we've both seen.
 Someday I'll go and call up Rudy,
 We worked together at the factory.
 But what could I say if he asks "What's new?"
 "Nothing, what's with you? Nothing much to do."

 You know that old trees just grow stronger,
 And old rivers grow wilder ev'ry day.
 Old people just grow lonesome
 Waiting for someone to say, "Hello in there, hello."

 So if you're walking down the street sometime
 And spot some hollow ancient eyes,
 Please don't just pass 'em by and stare
 As if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello."
-- John Prine

Postcard -- Margaret Atwood

(Poem #219)Postcard
 I'm thinking of you. What else can I say?
 The palm trees on the reverse
 are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
 What we have are the usual
 fractured coke bottles and the smell
 of backed-up drains, too sweet,
 like a mango on the verge
 of rot, which we have also.
 The air clear sweat, mosquitos
 & their tracks; birds, blue & elusive.

 Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
 day after the other rolling on;
 I move up, its called
 awake, then down into the uneasy
 nights but never
 forward. The roosters crow
 for hours before dawn, and a prodded
 child howls & howls
 on the pocked road to school.
 In the hold with the baggage
 there are two prisoners,
 their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates
 of queasy chicks. Each spring
 there's a race of cripples, from the store
 to the church. This is the sort of junk
 I carry with me; and a clipping
 about democracy from the local paper.
 Outside the window
 they're building the damn hotel,
 nail by nail, someone's
 crumbling dream. A universe that includes you
 can't be all bad, but
 does it? At this distance
 you're a mirage, a glossy image
 fixed in the posture
 of the last time I saw you.
 Turn you over, there's the place
 for the address. Wish you were
 here. Love comes
 in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on
 & on, a hollow cave
 in the head, filling and pounding, a kicked ear.
-- Margaret Atwood

Having A Coke With You -- Frank O'Hara

(Poem #218)Having A Coke With You
 is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, IrĂșn, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
 or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
 partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
 partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
 partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
 partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
 it is hard to believe when I'm with you that there can be anything as still
 as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
 in the warm New York 4 o'clock light we are drifting back and forth
 between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
 
 and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
 you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
 
 I look
 at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
 except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it's in the Frick
 which thank heavens you haven't gone to yet so we can go together the first time
 and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
 just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
 at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
 and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
 when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
 or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn't pick the rider as carefully
 as the horse
 
 it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
 which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it
-- Frank O'Hara

A Drinking Song -- William Butler Yeats

(Poem #217)A Drinking Song
 Wine comes in at the mouth
 And love comes in at the eye;
 That’s all we know for truth
 Before we grow old and die.
 I lift the glass to my mouth,
 I look at you, and I sigh.
-- William Butler Yeats

The Love Cook -- Ron Padgett

(Poem #216)The Love Cook
 Let me cook you some dinner.   
 Sit down and take off your shoes   
 and socks and in fact the rest   
 of your clothes, have a daquiri,   
 turn on some music and dance   
 around the house, inside and out,   
 it’s night and the neighbors   
 are sleeping, those dolts, and   
 the stars are shining bright,   
 and I’ve got the burners lit   
 for you, you hungry thing.
-- Ron Padgett

Summer Is Still Very Far Away -- Bai Hua

(Poem #215)Summer Is Still Very Far Away
 One day passes after another 
 Secretly, something approaches you 
 Sitting, walking 
 Watching the leaves drop 
 Watching the rain fall 
 Watching as someone walks down the street 
 Summer is still very far away
 
 It happened so fast, vanishing at birth 
 All that is good entered on an October night 
 So beautiful, entirely unnoticed 
 A great serenity like your clean cloth shoes 
 The past, vague and gentle, lingers by the bedside 
 Like an old box 
 A faded bookmark 
 Summer is still very far away
 
 Meeting by chance, perhaps you can't recall 
 It was a little cold outside 
 Your left hand was tired, too 
 Secretly you walked all the way to the left 
 Far away, deep in 
 The sole infatuation of your heart 
 Summer is still very far away
 
 Never again easy to anger, easy to love 
 To take up those old bad habits of yours 
 Losing heart with each passing year 
 A small bamboo house, a white shirt 
 Are you in the prime of life? 
 Seldom can a decision be made 
 Summer is still very far away
-- Bai Hua

Mark Stern Wakes Up -- Frederick Feirstein

(Poem #214)Mark Stern Wakes Up
 Shining cratefuls of plum, peach, apricot
 Are flung out of the fruit man's tiny store.
 Behind the supermarket glass next door:
 Landslides of grapefruit, orange, tangerine,
 Persimmon, boysenberry, nectarine.
 The florist tilts his giant crayon box
 Of yellow roses, daffodils, and phlox.
 A Disney sun breaks through, makes toys of trucks
 And waddling movers look like Donald Ducks
 And joke book captions out of storefront signs:
 Café du Soir, Austrian Village, Wines.
 Pedestrians in olive drabs and grays
 Are startled by the sun's kinetic rays,
 Then mottled into pointillistic patches.
 The light turns green, cars passing hurl out snatches
 Of rock-and-roll and Mozart and the weather.
 The light turns red. Why aren't we together?
-- Frederick Feirstein

Clenched Soul -- Pablo Neruda

(Poem #213)Clenched Soul
 We have lost even this twilight.
 No one saw us this evening hand in hand
 while the blue night dropped on the world.

 I have seen from my window
 the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

 Sometimes a piece of sun
 burned like a coin in my hand.

 I remembered you with my soul clenched
 in that sadness of mine that you know.

 Where were you then?
 Who else was there?
 Saying what?
 Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
 when I am sad and feel you are far away?

 The book fell that always closed at twilight
 and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

 Always, always you recede through the evenings
 toward the twilight erasing statues.
-- Pablo Neruda

Splendour in the Grass -- William Wordsworth

(Poem #212)Splendour in the Grass
 What though the radiance
 which was once so bright
 Be now for ever taken from my sight,
 Though nothing can bring back the hour
 Of splendour in the grass,
 of glory in the flower,
 We will grieve not, rather find
 Strength in what remains behind;
 In the primal sympathy
 Which having been must ever be;
 In the soothing thoughts that spring
 Out of human suffering;
 In the faith that looks through death,
 In years that bring the philosophic mind.
-- William Wordsworth

Lullaby -- Tom Waits

(Poem #211)Lullaby
 Sun is red; moon is cracked
 Daddy's never coming back
 Nothing's ever yours to keep
 Close your eyes, go to sleep
 If I die before you wake
 Don't you cry don't you weep
 
 Nothing's ever as it seems
 Climb the ladder to your dreams
 If I die before you wake
 Don't you cry; don't you weep
 Nothing's ever yours to keep
 Close your eyes; go to sleep
-- Tom Waits

A Good Son -- Miller Williams

(Poem #210)A Good Son
 He called home every once in a while
 to tell his mother,
 just so he could imagine how she would smile,
 something or other
 
 about a girlfriend
 or work or a new movie he might have seen,
 whatever was right.
 He lied some, but mostly he stayed between
 
 fantasy and fact.
 He was a good son. He loved his mother a lot
 and knew what she needed--
 to live through him whether he lived or not.
-- Miller Williams

Evening in the Sanitarium -- Louise Bogan

(Poem #209)Evening in the Sanitarium
 
 The free evening fades, outside the windows fastened 
 with decorative iron grilles.
 The lamps are lighted; the shades drawn; the nurses are watching a little.
 It is the hour of the complicated knitting on the safe bone needles; 
 of the games of anagrams and bridge;
 The deadly game of chess; the book held up like a mask.
 
 The period of the wildest weeping, the fiercest delusion, is over.
 The women rest their tired half-healed hearts; they are almost well.
 Some of them will stay almost well always: 
 the blunt-faced woman whose thinking dissolved
 Under academic discipline; the manic-depressive girl
 Now leveling off; one paranoiac afflicted with jealousy.
 Another with persecution. Some alleviation has been possible.
 
 O fortunate bride, who never again will become elated after childbirth!
 O lucky older wife, who has been cured of feeling unwanted!
 To the suburban railway station you will return, return,
 To meet forever Jim home on the 5:35.
 You will be again as normal and selfish and heartless as anybody else.
 
 There is life left: the piano says it with its octave smile.
 The soft carpets pad the thump and splinter of the suicide to be.
 Everything will be splendid: the grandmother will not drink habitually.
 The fruit salad will bloom on the plate like a bouquet
 And the garden produce the blue-ribbon aquilegia.
 
 The cats will be glad; the fathers feel justified; the mothers relieved.
 The sons and husbands will no longer need to pay the bills.
 Childhoods will be put away, the obscene nightmare abated.
 
 At the ends of the corridors the baths are running.
 Mrs. C. again feels the shadow of the obsessive idea.
 Miss R. looks at the mantel-piece, which must mean something.
-- Louise Bogan

This Room -- John Ashbery

(Poem #208)This Room
 The room I entered was a dream of this room.
 Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine.
 The oval portrait
 of a dog was me at an early age.
 Something shimmers, something is hushed up.
 
 We had macaroni for lunch every day
 except Sunday, when a small quail was induced
 to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things?
 You are not even here.
-- John Ashbery

Stars All Seem To Weep -- Beth Orton

(Poem #207)Stars All Seem To Weep
 Stayed true to the things I knew when I was younger
 And food and love was all but left to hunger.
 'Cause when I stray from my truth as I grow older
 Too much leaves an empty hollow hunger.
 
 I think about you on a moonlit night
 And the stars all seem to weep.
 When there's so much to lose
 There's never any time for sleep.
 
 Look at me doing all these things without you.
 We always left a new world untrue.
 Where was it we tried hard not to go to?
 I think that's how I finally came through.
 
 All the things we took for granted
 The words still live on in my head
 All the times I took for granted
 All the words I never said.
 
 I think about you in the moonlit night,
 And the stars all seem to weep.
 When there's so much love to give,
 There's never any time for sleep, yeah.
 
 So I stayed true to the things I knew when I was younger
 And human life was all but left to hunger,
 'Cause when I stray from the truth as I grow older
 Too much leaves an empty hollow hunger.
 Too much leaves an empty hollow hunger.
 
 Living without you
 Living without you.
 Living without you, oh.
-- Beth Orton

The Perfect Day -- Alice N. Persons

(Poem #206)The Perfect Day
 You wake with
 no aches
 in the arms
 of your beloved
 to the smell of fresh coffee
 you eat a giant breakfast
 with no thought
 of carbs
 there is time to read
 with a purring cat on your lap
 later you walk by the ocean
 with your dog
 on this cut crystal day
 your favorite music and the sun
 fill the house
 a short delicious nap
 under a fleece throw
 comes later
 and the phone doesn't ring
 at dusk you roast a chicken,
 bake bread, make an exquisite
 chocolate cake
 for some friends
 you've been missing
 someone brings you an 
 unexpected present
 and the wine is just right with the food
 after a wonderful party
 you sink into sleep
 in a clean nightgown
 in fresh sheets
 your sweetheart doesn't snore
 and in your dreams 
 an old piece of sadness
 lifts away
-- Alice N. Persons

What We Want -- Linda Pastan

(Poem #205)What We Want
 What we want
 is never simple.
 We move among the things
 we thought we wanted:
 a face, a room, an open book
 and these things bear our names—
 now they want us.
 But what we want appears
 in dreams, wearing disguises.
 We fall past,
 holding out our arms
 and in the morning
 our arms ache.
 We don't remember the dream,
 but the dream remembers us.
 It is there all day
 as an animal is there
 under the table,
 as the stars are there
 even in full sun.
-- Linda Pastan

Meeting Point -- Louis MacNeice

(Poem #204)Meeting Point -- Louis MacNeice
 Time was away and somewhere else,
 There were two glasses and two chairs
 And two people with the one pulse
 (Somebody stopped the moving stairs)
 Time was away and somewhere else.

 And they were neither up nor down;
 The stream's music did not stop
 Flowing through heather, limpid brown,
 Although they sat in a coffee shop
 And they were neither up nor down.

 The bell was silent in the air
 Holding its inverted poise -
 Between the clang and clang a flower,
 A brazen calyx of no noise:
 The bell was silent in the air.

 The camels crossed the miles of sand
 That stretched around the cups and plates;
 The desert was their own, they planned
 To portion out the stars and dates:
 The camels crossed the miles of sand.

 Time was away and somewhere else.
 The waiter did not come, the clock
 Forgot them and the radio waltz
 Came out like water from a rock:
 Time was away and somewhere else.

 Her fingers flicked away the ash
 That bloomed again in tropic trees:
 Not caring if the markets crash
 When they had forests such as these,
 Her fingers flicked away the ash.

 God or whatever means the Good
 Be praised that time can stop like this,
 That what the heart has understood
 Can verify in the body's peace
 God or whatever means the Good.

 Time was away and she was here
 And life no longer what it was,
 The bell was silent in the air
 And all the room one glow because
 Time was away and she was here.
-- Meeting Point

Daily I Fall in Love with Mechanics -- Susan Thurston

(Poem #203)Daily I Fall in Love with Mechanics
 Daily I fall in love with mechanics
 with their smudged coveralls and names embroidered
 over where their hearts just might be
 PETE STEWART RAY CHUCK BUTCH
 and thick soled boots.
 I love how they jack up my car
 and press the pneumatic drill
 to my tires and with hip
 press lean into the whir of liberation
 nuts and bolts falling
 released from so much spinning
 and holding everything tight in place.
 I feel their hands
 roughened by spark plugs and washer fluid
 yet sweetened by overflowing oil pans
 slide over me.
 Their arms and shoulders
 remind me of deep river valleys
 and other places where we could tumble
 after setting the parking brake...
 fumbling and clutching so melodiously
 I am left grateful for their engine knowledge.
 Daily I fall in love with mechanics
 with their grease smudged bad boy grins
 and come hither wide opening garage doors.
 They tell secrets in the pit
 and I want them.
 I know them.
 They slip belts back into place
 their legs diesel dark
 
 They have lovers or spouses or children 
 or all.
 They are strut bearing reliable—
 they know how timing belts twist.
 Their toothpick punctuated grins
 reassure you they are giving you the best
 deal in town and they would not let you drive
 without checking all your fluid levels.
 Daily I fall in love with mechanics.
 They are better than Free Air
 want my vehicle to be safe and sound
 but they never travel far enough
 before pulling the next car into the station.
-- Susan Thurston

Daily I Fall In Love With Waitresses -- Elliot Fried

(Poem #202)Daily I Fall In Love With Waitresses
 Daily I fall in love with waitresses
 with their white bouncing name tags
 KATHY MARGIE HONEY SUE
 and white rubber shoes.
 I love how they bend over tables
 pouring coffee.
 Their perky breasts hover above potatoes
 like jets coming in to LAX
 hang above the suburbs—
 shards of broken stars.
 I feel their fingers
 roughened by cube steaks softened with grease
 slide over me.
 Their hands and lean long bodies
 keep moving so...
 fumbling and clattering so harmoniously
 that I am left overwhelmed, quivering.
 Daily I fall in love with waitresses
 with their cream-cheese cool.
 They tell secrets in the kitchen
 and I want them.
 I know them.
 They press buttons creases burgers buns—
 their legs are menu smooth.
 
 They have boyfriends or husbands or children
 or all.
 They are french dressing worldly—
 they know how ice cubes clink.
 Their chipped teeth form chipped beef
 and muffin syllabics.
 Daily I fall in love with waitresses.
 They are Thousand Island dreams
 but they never stand still long enough
 as they serve serve serve.
-- Elliot Fried

O Karma, Dharma, pudding and pie -- Philip Appleman

(Poem #201)O Karma, Dharma, pudding and pie
 O Karma, Dharma, pudding and pie,
 gimme a break before I die:
 grant me wisdom, will, & wit,
 purity, probity, pluck, & grit.
 Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, kind,
 gimme great abs & a steel-trap mind,
 and forgive, Ye Gods, some humble advice—
 these little blessings would suffice
 to beget an earthly paradise:
 make the bad people good—
 and the good people nice;
 and before our world goes over the brink,
 teach the believers how to think.
-- Philip Appleman

Desert Places -- Robert Frost

(Poem #200)Desert Places
 Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast 
 In a field I looked into going past, 
 And the ground almost covered smooth in snow, 
 But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
 
 The woods around it have it--it is theirs. 
 All animals are smothered in their lairs. 
 I am too absent-spirited to count; 
 The loneliness includes me unawares.
 
 And lonely as it is that loneliness 
 Will be more lonely ere it will be less-- 
 A blanker whiteness of benighted snow 
 With no expression, nothing to express.
 
 They cannot scare me with their empty spaces 
 Between stars--on stars where no human race is. 
 I have it in me so much nearer home 
 To scare myself with my own desert places.
-- Robert Frost

Romantic Moment -- Tony Hoagland

(Poem #199)Romantic Moment
 After seeing the documentary we walk down Canyon Road,
 Into the plaza of art galleries and high end clothing stores

 Where the mock orange is fragrant in the summer light
 And the smooth adobe walls glow fleshlike in the dark.

 It is just our second date, and we sit down on a bench,
 Holding hands, not looking at each other,

 And if I were a bull penguin right now I would lean over
 And vomit softly into the mouth of my beloved

 And if I were a peacock I’d flex my gluteal muscles to
 Erect and spread the quills of my cinemax tail.

 If she were a female walkingstick bug she might
 Insert her hypodermic probiscus directly into my neck

 And inject me with a rich hormonal sedative
 Before attaching her egg sac to my thoracic undercarriage,

 And if I were a young chimpanzee I would break off a nearby treelimb
 And smash all the windows in the plaza jewelry stores.

 And if she was a Brazilian leopardfrog she would wrap her impressive
 Tongue three times around my right thigh and

 Pummel me softly against the surface of our pond
 And I would know her feelings were sincere.

 Instead we sit awhile in silence, until
 She remarks that in the relative context of tortoises and igunanas,

 Human males seem to be actually rather expressive
 And I say that female crocodiles really don’t receive

 Enough credit for their gentleness,
 Then she suggests that it is time for us to go

 To get some ice cream cones and eat them.
-- Tony Hoagland

Valentine -- Wendy Cope

(Poem #198)Valentine
 My heart has made its mind up
 And I’m afraid it’s you.
 Whatever you’ve got lined up,
 My heart has made its mind up
 And if you can’t be signed up
 This year, next year will do.
 My heart has made its mind up
 And I’m afraid it’s you.
-- Wendy Cope

Math Is Beautiful and So Are You -- Becky Dennison Sakellariou

(Poem #197)Math Is Beautiful and So Are You
 If n is an even number
 then I’ll kiss you goodnight right here,
 but if the modulus k is the unique solution,
 I’ll take you in my arms for the long night.
 
 When the properties are constrained as well as incomplete,
 I’ll be getting off the train at this stop.
 However, if there is some positive constant,
 then I’ll stay on board for a while longer.
 
 When it says that the supremum deviates from the least zero,
 my heart closes off.
 But if all moments are infinite and you can hear me,
 I will open out for you.
 
 This sequence satisfies the hypothesis of uniformity,
 and because we know that approximation is possible
 and that inequality is an embedding factor,
 come, let’s try once more.
-- Becky Dennison Sakellariou