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.