+1 if you like poetry.

Monday, February 28, 2011

Touched by an Angel by Maya Angelou

We, unaccustomed to courage

exiles from delight

live coiled in shells of loneliness

until love leaves its high holy temple

and comes into our sight

to liberate us into life.

Love arrives

and in its train come ecstasies

old memories of pleasure

ancient histories of pain.

Yet if we are bold,

love strikes away the chains of fear

from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity

In the flush of love's light

we dare be brave

And suddenly we see

that love costs all we are

and will ever be.

Yet it is only love

which sets us free.

by Maya Angelou

Poetry of the day review:
This poem is really nice and enlightening. Didnt they make a movie and a television show based on the same name? Im not sure how i feel about the literal existence of angels, perhaps symbolically. Galaxies look alot like angels. Angels could instead be ancient astronauts. Im not sure but the idea of their existence is a kind of romanticized one. I love this poem regardless lol.

Word of the day:


   KOSS-it  , transitive verb;
To treat as a pet; to treat with excessive indulgence; to pamper.
A pet, especially a pet lamb.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

Sunday Morning by Wallace Stevens


Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.


Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measure destined for her soul.


Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.


She says, 'I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?'
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.


She says, 'But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.'
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.


Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set pear upon those river-banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.


Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feel shall manifest.


She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, 'The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.'
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

by Wallace Stevens


   ROO-bih-kund  , adjective;
Inclining to redness; ruddy; red.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Grey Grey Sky by Grace Hutton

Someday I will ride the great bird
Into the sky, into the grey
And will take a bright secret of mine
Into the grey, grey sky.

And the light will come, piercing my eyes
Out of the sky, out of the grey
Come blinding and searing these eyes
Out of the grey, grey sky.

And I will find comfort in this
In the wide sky, in the wide grey
In the painful dark brightness of light
Light of the grey, grey sky.

My secret will fly away home
Into the sky, into the grey
And the great bird will follow it there
Into the grey, grey sky.

And I will be riding that bird
Bird of the sky, bird of the grey
And I will come home once again
Home to the grey, grey sky.

But for now I am weighted, earthbound
One of the mud, one of the ground
And I write this sad song to sad sound
Girl of the pavement sighs. 

Grace Hutton <-- i tried to look for a wiki or something but failed.. who is she?

grey skys north carolina 27889
Poetry of the day review:Skies are still grey outside. Its been depressing lately, not only here but around the world. I Cant wait until the next clear day. While searching for grey skies poetry I came across this piece. I think the poem is really good and fits the weather perfect. I also tried searching for more work by her and couldnt find anything. Hmmmm. No wiki or anything.

Word of the day:


  lek-suh-KAH-gruh-fee  , noun;
The writing or compiling of dictionaries; the editing or making of dictionaries.
The principles and practices applied to writing dictionaries.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

No More Blood for Oil! by Patrick Mackeown dedicated to Muammar Al-Qaddafi

No More Blood for Oil!

A man's blood stains tides
Grotesque and twisted
A bloated, floating corpse
bobbing in an apathetic sea

His hands drift uselessly
They held a baby once
His chapped lips kissed
farewell, grieving wife

Dying soldiers gurgle
Salt seawater weighting
They fought for corporations
Expired for profit's sake

A man's blood stains tides
The guts of nations seeping
But does it mark consciences
Of Western politicians?

No blood for oil:
Patrick Mackeown

Poetry of the day Review:
Yesterday I drove by the gas station, with money in my pocket. Looked at the price with a faint hope in my heart that I would wake up and be able to save a penny or two. Boy was I wrong as hell. I woke up to a 46 cent increase per gallon. With a damn near empty tank to boot. Needless to say i'm kinda ticked off about it. This post is dedicated to that. Btw I kinda hope Muammar Al-Qaddafi  destroys those oil fields in Libya, because then it will force the market to make a change. Else we will be forever a slave to the will power of tyrants. I vote we need to organize a week of boycott for the oil companies. If you let them have power, they will have power. Power corrupts, and absolute power is suicide.

Word of the day:

boy·cott [boi-kot]

–verb (used with object)
to combine in abstaining from, or preventing dealings with, as a means of intimidation or coercion: to boycott a store.
to abstain from buying or using: to boycott foreign products.
the practice of boycotting.
an instance of boycotting.

More work by Patrick Mackeown:

  1. The Expendability Doctrine
  2. Hemispheric Verse: A Poetry Collection

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

It’s Dusty #oneshotwednesday by @Moondustwriter

That’s not my name
it is my occupation -Dusting
Well~ dusting one particular orb in the sky.
“why would you do that?” they ask
“It has to be done!”
As I was dusting one day, I came across something.
Sheaves and sheaves of manuscript paper;
Some of it was scribbled on.
Some of it was blank
Here’s what one page said:
“I gaze below
look upon blue and hope
water they say
it makes things grow
dust grows here
and I will die
for lack of anything
blue or green
nothing colorful in the sky.”
With a tear in my eye
a smudge on my cheek
I sent a reply (written in Moondust)
to: ” nothing colorful”
what is your name anyway?
you have plenty of hope
people gaze at you
they write songs
some kiss a lover or two
use you for calendars and such
you have a glowing reflection
that the world misses so much
when you are not showing
dont look at the dust
look at the moon
she has sweet yellow glowing.
Who cares if you are rarely up at noon!
Dear “ Moondustwriter”
“I have
I caught a ride to earth awhile back
you are right
she is beautiful
big eyes
beautiful smile
and a glow seen far and wide
and lovers …
well that’s another story.”
From yours ~” gazing at the moon”
When People ask how I got my name, Moondustwriter, I say “well that’s another story…”

Poetry of the day REVIEW:
I believe this woman has more power with words then a religious manuscript. This piece here is just one diamond more she can add to her vault of brilliantly hand crafted jewels. The whole way through this piece I could feel the solitude and desolation the moon must feel peering back at such a busy, ever changing, always evolving planet. Wishing the hecould return to its original place in the comos. Not realizing how much of a vital role he plays in the heavens. Not knowing how his existence allows for the indigo glow that he admires so much. BRILLIANCE! I totally teared up a little.



\ NIM-buhs \  , noun;
(Fine Arts) A circle, or disk, or any indication of radiant light around the heads of divinities, saints, and sovereigns, upon medals, pictures, etc.; a halo.
A cloud or atmosphere (as of romance or glamour) that surrounds a person or thing.
(Meteorology) A rain cloud.

Or search on the android market for "poetry of the day"

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Winter by Mark R Slaughter

A cracked lip; raw skin.
I pined for orange flickers
Dancing off a cheery fire.

A gelid blast of arctic air
Had caught me unawares –
Reinforcing my desire.

Turning down an avenue,
I froze; suspicious trees –
Likely destined for a pyre –

Were laughing off the icy chill
Of callous winter nights.
And I? Simply to retire

Snug, inside a balmy chair
Of warming solitude:
Ah! my carol, my festive choir.

by Mark R Slaughter 

not exactly like this.. but it feels like it

Poetry of the day Review:
I live in eastern n.carolina , and for the past week the weather has been amazing, if you cant tell by my choices of poetry. Well today is so cold. Its body breaking cold. feelsbadman.jpg I really like this author though, this poem cheered me up a bit. Oh and one can not have Slaughter with out Laughter.

Word of the day:


\ BAY-luh-wik \  , noun;

A person's specific area of knowledge, authority, interest, skill, or work.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Letter to Brooks: Spring Garden by Major Jackson

When you have forgotten (to bring into 
Play that fragrant morsel of rhetoric,
Crisp as autumnal air), when you
Have forgotten, say, sunlit corners, brick
Full of skyline, rowhomes, smokestacks,
Billboards, littered rooftops & wondered 
What bread wrappers reflect of our hunger,

When you have forgotten wide-brimmed hats,
Sunday back-seat leather rides & church,
The doorlock like a silver cane, the broad backs 
Swaying or the great moan deep churning,
& the shimmer flick of flat sticks, the lurch
Forward, skip, hands up Aileyesque drop,
When you have forgotten the meaningful bop,

Hustlers and their care-what-may, blasý
Ballet and flight, when you have forgotten
Scruffy yards, miniature escapes, the way
Laundry lines strung up sag like shortened
Smiles, when you have forgotten the Fish Man
Barking his catch in inches up the street 
“I’ve got porgies. I’ve got trout. Feeesh

Man,” or his scoop and chain scale, 
His belief in shad and amberjack; when 
You have forgotten Ajax and tin pails,
Blue crystals frothing on marble front
Steps Saturday mornings, or the garden
Of old men playing checkers, the curbs 
White-washed like two lines out to the burbs,

Or the hopscotch squares painted new
In the street, the pitter-patter of feet 
Landing on rhymes. “How do you 
Like the weather, girls? All in together, girls,
January, February, March, April... ”
The jump ropes’ portentous looming,
Their great, aching love blooming.

When you have forgotten packs of grape-
Flavored Now & Laters, the squares
Of sugar flattening on the tongue, the elation
You felt reaching into the corner-store jar, 
Grasping a handful of Blow Pops, candy bars
With names you didn’t recognize but came 
To learn. All the turf battles. All the war games.

When you have forgotten popsicle stick
Races along the curb and hydrant fights, 
Then, retrieve this letter from your stack
I’ve sent by clairvoyant post & read by light,
For it brought me as much longing and delight.
This week’s Father’s Day; I’ve a long ride to Philly.
I’ll give this to Gramps, then head to Black Lily.

BY Major Jackson
One of my favorite candies, they used to make my tounge burn after eating too many though.

Since this is black history month, ive decieded to submit one of my favorite poems written by a black poet. This piece is complete nostalgia for me, the piece takes me way back. How do you feel about the poem?

The word of the day for dictionary.com is a kinda lame today, doesnt take much thought to figure our what an inkhorn is.. a horn that holds ink BINGO. So instead i have chosen to use a past word of the day that i havnt used before :D.


   loo-kyoo-BRAY-shun; loo-kuh-  , noun;
The act of studying by candlelight; nocturnal study; meditation.
That which is composed by night; that which is produced by meditation in retirement; hence (loosely)any literary composition.

After hours of lucubration with my baby, i realzed why she is just too amazing.

More poetry information: