May the desert lavender, poppy, marigold buds,
studded along the trails of Windgate pass,
open their mouths to a gentle rain
then burst into blossom
just for you.
Let it be a merciful Spring.
When the McDowell mountains sing
ancient songs of promise,
may your heart remain unbroken.
May every street and avenue of this city
lead you to blessings of good health.
And when you stand near the banks
of the Salt River,
with only the humming cicadas
to keep you company and
the Sweet Acacia trees to bear witness,
may this be a singular moment
of peace.
Let it be so, and
if and when
you dare to look up at a moonless night sky,
may a thousand flickering stars
overwhelm you.
May you see in the dazzle of white lights
the faces of everyone you’ve ever loved and lost.
May they guide you to a better life—
let it be so.
Copyright © 2024 Lois Roma-Deeley. Reprinted by permission of the author.
The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind happiness not always being so very much fun if you don’t mind a touch of hell now and then just when everything is fine because even in heaven they don’t sing all the time The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t mind some people dying all the time or maybe only starving some of the time which isn’t half so bad if it isn’t you Oh the world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don’t much mind a few dead minds in the higher places or a bomb or two now and then in your upturned faces or such other improprieties as our Name Brand society is prey to with its men of distinction and its men of extinction and its priests and other patrolmen and its various segregations and congressional investigations and other constipations that our fool flesh is heir to Yes the world is the best place of all for a lot of such things as making the fun scene and making the love scene and making the sad scene and singing low songs of having inspirations and walking around looking at everything and smelling flowers and goosing statues and even thinking and kissing people and making babies and wearing pants and waving hats and dancing and going swimming in rivers on picnics in the middle of the summer and just generally ‘living it up’ Yes but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician
From A Coney Island of the Mind, copyright © 1955 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
Not because of the hours or the pay, which could be worse. Not because of my commute into this office park, or that no one else appreciates that phrase as much as I do. Not the dim unholy hum of energy-efficient lights, recycled air with hints of garlic and scorched wool, the break room fridge with its mysterious stains, open bottle of rosé no one will drink or claim. Not the thousand bloodless paper cuts, copier that jams in high humidity, the legion e-mails labeled Urgent, their emoticons and useless FYIs. Not the spreadsheets and reports that are assigned, written, revised and never spoken of. Not the tedium of meetings at which nothing is discussed, managers who barely learned my name before they disappeared. Not because of everything that doesn’t function—water fountains, window blinds, the entire marketing department. Not even because of office politics, the gossip and jockeying, spats over power we don’t have. Because the work I love is what I spend the least time doing. Because I jerk awake at 4:00 am, my fists already clenched, have stopped feeling concern for coworkers upset by bad reviews, sick pets or family cancer. Because every shift in policy makes my life slightly worse, and I can’t find the line between caring too much and total apathy. Because ever since I started here I’ve been assured things will improve, but I’m afraid that staying means becoming bitter and entrenched, unhappy but unable to move on.
Copyright © 2017 Carrie Shipers. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Spring 2017.
A downpour pounded the asphalt as I walked home
among legions of tiny ballerinas in a brief choreography.
Soon, I would be dry, sipping cocoa. I’d belong somewhere again.
I often sat cross-legged on the porch with books, listening to distant
laughter from above. Elm trees were ripe with other children,
all with upper-arm strength and a bold insistence to claim the sky.
Afraid to climb, I was certain I’d be unable to make my way
back to earth. I learned to ride a bicycle, pedaling hard down
our hill, then I’d lean into the wind, free yet still mostly alone.
My Brownie leader’s daughter formed her tight clique. I waited
for the day we’d fly up, when I’d accrue more merit badges
than friends, when I could abandon the shame of corrective shoes.
Mrs. Schneider taught the class the times tables and cursive.
For a quarter, we could purchase a green plastic ballpoint
resembling a fountain pen, leaving pencils and erasers behind.
My fingers wrapped the pen and letters formed, fluid and full
of potential. Like tributaries. Like family. Words swift
as bike tires on hot pavement. No one but me, the wind, the dancing
rain, and burning sky, the region where all these poems were seeded.
How lonely and marvelous the gestation, beyond definition and logic,
beyond the lonely boundaries of the invisible.
From Living with Haints (Tiger Bark Press, 2024) by Georgia Popoff. Copyright © 2024 Georgia Popoff. Reprinted by permission of the author.
if you have had
your midnights
and they have drenched
your barren guts
with tears
I sing you sunrise
and love
and someone to touch
From Continuum: New and Selected Poems (Just Us Books, Inc., 2007 and 2014) by Mari Evans. Copyright © 2007 and 2014 by Mari Evans. Used with the permission of the Estate of Mari Evans.
You are enough
Divinity flows in your fingertips
with light so radiant
every beat of your heart
a victory march
made of whole universes
stitched by the hands of creation
with flawless design
a prophecy You fulfill perfectly with every breath
You
The sun wouldn’t shine the same without it
Creation is only waiting for You
to smile back at it
Do you see it yet?
You are enough
For the birds to sing about
For the seeds to sprout about
For the stars to shoot about
Do you see it yet?
Gardens in your speech
Fields of wildflowers in your prayers
Lighthouses in your eyes
No one else can see it for you
You have always been enough
You will always be enough
Your simple act of being is enough
Do you see it yet?
Copyright © 2022 by Andru Defeye. Sacramento Poetry Center Anthology (2022). Used with permission of the poet.