Tuesday, May 8, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "The Embrace" by Mark Doty


You weren’t well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness

tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought

to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.


I didn’t for a moment doubt you were dead.

I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.

You’d been out--at work maybe?--

having a good day, almost energetic.


We seemed to be moving from some old house

where we’d lived, boxes everywhere, things

in disarray: that was the
story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative


by your face, the physical fact of your face:

inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert.

Why so difficult, remembering the actual look

of you? Without a photograph, without strain?


So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face,

your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth

and clarity of you--warm brown tea--we held

each other for the time the dream allowed.


Bless you. You came back, so I could see you

once more, plainly, so I could rest against you

without thinking this happiness lessened anything,

without thinking you were alive again.

by Mark Doty


Photo Credit: Starr Black

For more information about poet, Mark Doty, see:


Tuesday, May 1, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Out of Town" by Piotr Sommer


Years later, the water still drips—
there's no one to tighten the valve.
It courses through old pipes
down to the septic tank.

Next morning in the cellar
I start the motor with a stick.
It shakes and rumbles, and chirps—

the switch is broken is all.


At night the water arrives

illegally, undergroundly,

to the very grave where

last spring parsley sprouted,


and at the foot, beside it,

feral sorrel darkens

tastily and tartly

like clandestine sex.


The motor lifts the spirits

and returns the night's deductions.

It's morning, I hum softly—

a stranger will replace me.


In the cellar a stream of light

rinses the window grate,

it pulses, strikes the meter—

I catch my rhythm on the stairs.


And for memory's sake I hum—

as I pass the septic tank—

a fluid, underground song

about sorrel and a stranger.

by Piotr Sommer


For more information about poet, Piotr Sommer, see:



Tuesday, April 24, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Celebration" by Andrew M. Bell



Kookaburras start every morning with laughter.
Magpies are innately comic,
strutting about in waistcoats
like squires inspecting the estate.
Twenty-eights are flying surprises,
exploding from the trees like abstract art.
Willy wagtails cavort to unheard rhythms.

Up on the wire, a party of galahs
mock stony-faced people in serious cars.
Butcherbirds soft-shoe shuffle
for an unappreciative audience
of trouble-tranced commuters.
Wattlebirds limber up their throats
with unholy imitations of industrial noise.
Robins interpret the sun in miniature. 

As I walk down to the dam,
lemon and peppermint fragrances
carry their aspirations on the rising dew.
Herons go lazily aloft like paper kites
while frogs taunt the swamp hens
with marshland gossip. 

Surrounded by this joie de vivre
I wonder why our desires are many
when our needs are few.
Have we lost our invitation
to the celebration of the world?

For more information about the poet, Andrew M. Bell, see:
http://ambell4.wixsite.com/andrew-m-bell-author

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Morning Song" by Sylvia Plath


Love set you going like a fat gold watch. 
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements. 

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue. 
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother 
Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear. 

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral 
In my Victorian nightgown. 
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes; 
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

by Sylvia Plath


For more information about the poet, Sylvia Plath, see:


Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Tuesday Poem: "Born To Be Mild" (A Parody with apologies to the band, Steppenwolf) by Andrew M. Bell


Photograph Copyright 2018 Andrew M. Bell

Get your mobility scooter runnin'
Head out on the highway
Lookin' for a toilet
Or whatever comes I’ll take

Yeah, Senior, go make it happen
Take the footpath in a love embrace
Fire all of your guns at once
Then go have a little lie down

I used to smoke like lightning
And now I snore like thunder
Racin' with incontinence
And the feelin' that I'm under…the weather

Yeah, Senior, go make it happen
Take the hospital in a love embrace
Fire all of your guns at once
Then have a nice cup of tea

Like a true nature's child
We were born, born to be mild
We can climb so high
I think I’m gonna die
Born to be mild
Born to be mild

Get your scooter runnin'
Head out to the Bingo
Lookin' for adventure
And a big win on the Lotto

Yeah, Senior, go make it happen
Take arthritis in a love embrace
Fire all of your guns at once
Then fall asleep in front of Coro Street

Like a true nature's child
We were born, born to be mild
We can climb so high
Sometimes I nearly die
Born to be mild
Born to be mild

Born to be Wild (recorded by Steppenwolf)
Song Writer: Mars Bonfire aka Dennis Edmonton