Tuesday, November 25, 2014

the day is near

beyond the shadows, 

she rises amid the mist

as the light gathers

Thursday, November 13, 2014


she sent me flowers for my birthday.

roses for remembrance, iris for faith —

and thistles, for the fray.


by Ted Hughes 

Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.
Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasped fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up
From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.
Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

Wednesday, November 5, 2014

the bee.

i’d been lying in bed for a long time, 

focused on my pain

and where my body might be taking me 


i’d been lying in bed for a very long time —

and then i saw the bee.

it was just outside the window, hovering,

like a tiny alien spacecraft 

suspended between earth and sky.

it was only a bee.

but it was also a miracle,

i could see that. 

and as it zipped away, i remembered 

to believe