Poetry Month

April 30


Dr. Alexis Pauline Gumbs

For Roberto Tijerina

After Audre Lorde’s “Thanks to Jesse Jackson”

say it like bridge
spell it like splinter

these are the times
when words need carpenters
think out loud reshaping
into places to sit and meet
and walk and not fall through

write it like rice
growing hot and irresistible
undercover in the watched pot of revolution
spell it like cauldron

these are the years
when we eat our words
when the boil-over of desire
is the table we build by sharing

train our tongues to be trans
send ground tap rhythm of meaning
generate light like a helmet
in the mines
like a tread in the sloop
in the loop down of question

this is it

the time when each word
wake tongue
catch fire to ear
clean throat back to pink
when each word
sear like prophecy on our hearts

this is the moment
we all become

April 29

Love Sorrow

Mary Oliver

Love sorrow. She is yours now, and you must
take care of what has been
given. Brush her hair, help her
into her little coat, hold her hand,
especially when crossing a street. For, think,

what if you should lose her? Then you would be
sorrow yourself; her drawn face, her sleeplessness
would be yours. Take care, touch
her forehead that she feel herself not so

utterly alone. And smile, that she does not
altogether forget the world before the lesson.
Have patience in abundance. And do not
ever lie or ever leave her even for a moment

by herself, which is to say, possibly, again,
abandoned. She is strange, mute, difficult,
sometimes unmanageable but, remember, she is a child.
And amazing things can happen. And you may see,

as the two of you go
walking together in the morning light, how
little by little she relaxes; she looks about her;
she begins to grow.

April 28


Matthew Dickman

When grief comes to you as a purple gorilla
you must count yourself lucky.
You must offer her what’s left
of your dinner, the book you were trying to finish
you must put aside
and make her a place to sit at the foot of your bed,
her eyes moving from the clock
to the television and back again.
I am not afraid. She has been here before
and now I can recognize her gait
as she approaches the house.
Some nights, when I know she’s coming,
I unlock the door, lie down on my back,
and count her steps
from the street to the porch.
Tonight she brings a pencil and a ream of paper,
tells me to write down
everyone I have ever known,
and we separate them between the living and the dead
so she can pick each name at random.
I play her favorite Willie Nelson album
because she misses Texas
but I don’t ask why.
She hums a little,
the way my brother does when he gardens.
We sit for an hour
while she tells me how unreasonable I’ve been,
crying in the check-out line,
refusing to eat, refusing to shower,
all the smoking and all the drinking.
Eventually she puts one of her heavy
purple arms around me, leans
her head against mine,
and all of a sudden things are feeling romantic.
So I tell her,
things are feeling romantic.
She pulls another name, this time
from the dead,
and turns to me in that way that parents do
so you feel embarrassed or ashamed of something.
Romantic? She says,
reading the name out loud, slowly
so I am aware of each syllable, each vowel
wrapping around the bones like new muscle,
the sound of that person’s body
and how reckless it is,
how careless that his name is in one pile and not the other.

April 27

The Guesthouse Rumi  

This being human is a guest house.  Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

April 26

Kindness  ~ Naomi Shihab Nye   Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever.   Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive.   Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.


April 25


(In the Age of Corona)

By S.M. Graesser

I would look more closely

at the color of your eyes and hair,

details not so clear in faded memory.

We’d laugh louder, bliss brighter,

linger longer in embrace to savor

every trace of flesh and bones

that each we own. And if we’d walk,

I’d hold your arm in mine, to gather

tactile bonding, now denied.

I’d listen harder for the nuance

of your words, your mood,

ask more questions, share

more fully of my heart, to bring

to bloom our buds of commonality.

I would look into your eyes,

feel the rhythm of your soul, to

seal the ties unique to you and me.

But mostly if you were with me

now, dear friend, I would not

take for granted where and when

we’d meet like this again.


April 24

Though it glistens just out of reach, I continue to pray for hope to shine through
Its glimmer lighting our way
This long awaited great cosmic glow Now that we find ourselves on the dark side of the world
The gods will be there to strengthen the hope we have spread throughout the universe For those left behind, each person’s story and that of their loved ones
It is time to seek a hymn of love for our souls
In the midst of this historic menace, a brief burst of light points to the future
Let us joyfully sing this song of a splendid future
Let’s go   Embraced in deep love and the efforts of people all over the world
Now is the time to overcome, to bring peace
We gathered for love and I hope to fulfil that desire
The time has come to fight and overcome our unhappiness To COVID-19 that stands in our way
I say Disappear from this earth
We shall fight
We shall fight this terrible monster Now is the time for people all over the world to stand up
My deep gratitude goes to all those who are already fighting. Revolutionist of the world by the Art
From Yayoi Kusama    

April 23

    Receiving Place Bonnie Thurston   Place does not normally give what one does not seek. Receiving its gift requires just being there, listening into silence, watching, waiting like the osprey for fish like her chicks for supper like the thirsty sage for evening’s storm, like great boulders for lightening’s shattering strike. Knowing place requires being broken open. 


April 22

William Stafford   Starting here, what do you want to remember? How sunlight creeps along a shining floor? What scent of old wood hovers, what softened sound from outside fill the air?   Will you ever bring a better gift for the world than the breathing respect that you carry wherever you go right now? Are you waiting for time to show you some better thoughts?   When you turn around, starting here, lift this new glimpse that you found; carry into evening all that you want from this day. This interval you spent reading or hearing this, keep it for life – What can anyone give you greater than now, starting  here, right in this room, when you turn around?



April 21

The Miracle of Morning

I thought I’d awaken to a world in mourning.
Heavy clouds crowding, a society storming.
But there’s something different on this golden morning.
Something magical in the sunlight, wide and warming.

I see a dad with a stroller taking a jog.
Across the street, a bright-eyed girl chases her dog.
A grandma on a porch fingers her rosaries.
She grins as her young neighbor brings her groceries.

While we might feel small, separate, and all alone,
Our people have never been more closely tethered.
The question isn’t if we will weather this unknown,
But how we will weather this unknown together.

So on this meaningful morn, we mourn and we mend.
Like light, we can’t be broken, even when we bend.

As one, we will defeat both despair and disease.
We stand with healthcare heroes and all employees;
With families, libraries, schools, waiters, artists;
Businesses, restaurants, and hospitals hit hardest.

We ignite not in the light, but in lack thereof,
For it is in loss that we truly learn to love.
In this chaos, we will discover clarity.
In suffering, we must find solidarity.

For it’s our grief that gives us our gratitude,
Shows us how to find hope, if we ever lose it.
So ensure that this ache wasn’t endured in vain:
Do not ignore the pain. Give it purpose. Use it.

Read children’s books, dance alone to DJ music.
Know that this distance will make our hearts grow fonder.
From a wave of woes our world will emerge stronger.

We’ll observe how the burdens braved by humankind
Are also the moments that make us humans kind;
Let every dawn find us courageous, brought closer;
Heeding the light before the fight is over.
When this ends, we’ll smile sweetly, finally seeing
In testing times, we became the best of beings.

by America’s inaugural Youth Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman


April 20

I think over again my small adventures, My fears,  Those small ones that seemed so big, For all the vital things I had to get and reach; And yet there is only one great thing, The only thing, To live to see the great day that dawns And the light that fills the world. ~attributed to a 19th century Inuit Native American

April 19

Eastering   “Why this sadness toward spring? Half smiles at the first yellow flowers, Tears pooling for no reason with each rain and sunset?   Each year this green show blows wide winter’s coverings and lets us see the swell and push of beginning again.   Am I meant to rise too? To push away what leans against the door of my pinched heart? I cannot. Compassion for myself is a slow growing crop, however carefully tended it yields an unreliable harvest.   These resurrections ask more than I can give every time this hurts more than the pains of my body than the old world full of sorrows this offering of love this unbearable gift of another chance.”   —Barbara Pescan Morning Watch   

April 18

The Morning Paper Mary Oliver   Read one newspaper daily (the morning edition is best, for by evening you know you have lived through another day) and let the disasters, the unbelievable yet approved decisions, soak in. I don’t need to name the countries, ours among them. What keeps us from falling down, our faces to the ground; ashamed, ashamed?    

April 17


April 16


Lyn Cox


Spirit of Life,


Ground of our being,

Root of unified mystery

Growing into myriad branches of expression,

Bring us together now.


Bring us close to the earth,

Ear to the whispering grass,



Waiting with slow breaths,

Listening for the very stones to cry out

With their rocky stories of

Tectonic plates meeting and parting meeting

Their mineral memories of

Hadean days, molten rocks flowing and joining

Their ancient legends of

Stars born out of the collapse of other stars

Help us to re-member.


Help us to piece together

Our one-ness with matter,

Our one-ness that matters.


With one more deep breath,

May we rise, star-stuff walking and rolling

Across the surface of an impossible blue-green planet.


May we join together to heal what is divided.

May we find wholeness within, without, among, between.

Eternal Source, Seed of the Universe, help us to grow peace.


So be it. Blessed be. Amen.


April 15

Sound of Sleat

Jackie Kay


I always looked out at the world,
And wondered if the world looked back at me,
Standing on the edge of something,
On my face- the wind from the cold sea.Across the waters were mirrors to see
Faces that looked like me,
People caught between two places,
People crossing over the seas.And it seemed from my croft
-With the old stones and the sheep,
And the sound of the songs in my sleep-
That the music of folk somewhere meetsOn the edge of the place we would be.
I’ve lived through some hard times.
My face is lined; my body so frail.
I used to think I might be able -When the river ran to meet the sea,
When the sun and moon shared the sky-
To look out as far as the eye could see,
And raise a glass to the girl looking back at me.


April 14

Laura Kelly Fanucci


When this is over, may we never again take for granted


A handshake with a stranger


Full shelves at the store


Conversations with neighbors


A crowded theater


Friday night out


The taste of communion


A routine checkup


The school rush each morning


Coffee with a friend


The stadium roaring


Each deep breath


A boring Tuesday


Life itself.

When this ends


may we find


that we have become


more like the people


we wanted to be


we hope to be


and may we stay


that way – better


for each other


because of the worst.


April 13


Kim Stafford

Long before the pandemic, the trees

knew how to guard one place with 

roots and shade. Moss found

how to hug a stone for life.

Every stream works out how

to move in place, staying home

even as it flows generously

outward, sending bounty far.

Now is our time to practice —

singing from balconies, sending

words of comfort by any courier,

kindling our lonesome generosity

to shine in all directions like stars. 

April 12


Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open —
pools of lace,
white and pink —
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities —
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?



April 11

Is it not possible that a place could have huge affection for those who dwell there?  Perhaps your place loves having you there. It misses you when you are away and in its secret way rejoices when you return.  Could it be possible that a landscape might have a deep friendship with you? That it could sense your presence and feel the care you extend towards it? 

Perhaps your favourite place feels proud of you.

~ John O’Donohue


April 10

May I be radiantly healthy so that others can feel more well.

May I be more infinite so the world can be set free.

May I be more inspired to awaken the artist in every heart.

May I be more loving so the world knows its safe to be open, receptive and vulnerable.

May I be more energetically grounded so that others can feel more connected and aligned.

May I be more forgiving so that all darkness can be transformed by light.

May I be more authentic to dissolve the masks of ego that most people hide behind.

May I be more deliberate with my thoughts, words and actions to bring more mindfulness to this planet.

May I be more decisive and aligned so that the world can know the difference between being present in the flow and being impulsive.

May I be all the things I was born to be and may it all come to life as blessings of worthiness, transformation and expansion for all beings.

~ Matt Kahn


April 9


By Oriah Mountain Dreamer


I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wild-ness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.


April 8


By Richard Hendrick   March 13, 2020


Yes there is fear.
Yes there is isolation.
Yes there is panic buying.
Yes there is sickness.
Yes there is even death.
They say that in Wuhan after so many years of noise
You can hear the birds again.
They say that after just a few weeks of quiet
The sky is no longer thick with fumes
But blue and grey and clear.
They say that in the streets of Assisi
People are singing to each other
across the empty squares,
keeping their windows open
so that those who are alone
may hear the sounds of family around them.
They say that a hotel in the West of Ireland
Is offering free meals and delivery to the housebound.
Today a young woman I know
is busy spreading fliers with her number
through the neighbourhood
So that the elders may have someone to call on.
Today Churches, Synagogues, Mosques and Temples
are preparing to welcome
and shelter the homeless, the sick, the weary
All over the world people are slowing down and reflecting
All over the world people are looking at their neighbours in a new way
All over the world people are waking up to a new reality
To how big we really are.
To how little control we really have.
To what really matters.
To Love.
So we pray and we remember that
Yes there is fear.
But there does not have to be hate.
Yes there is isolation.
But there does not have to be loneliness.
Yes there is panic buying.
But there does not have to be meanness.
Yes there is sickness.
But there does not have to be disease of the soul
Yes there is even death.
But there can always be a rebirth of love.
Wake to the choices you make as to how to live now.
Today, breathe.
Listen, behind the factory noises of your panic
The birds are singing again
The sky is clearing,
Spring is coming,
And we are always encompassed by Love.
Open the windows of your soul
And though you may not be able
to touch across the empty square,


April 7

Instructions on Not Giving Up

Ada Limón  –  1976-

than the fuchsia funnels breaking out

of the
crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s

obscene display of cherry limbs shoving

cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate

sky of
Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees

really gets to me. When all the shock of white

taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave

pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,

leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin

over whatever winter did to us, a return

to the
strange idea of continuous living despite

mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,

take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf

like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

April 6

Kay Ryan

From other
angles the
fibers look
fragile, but
not from the
spider’s, always
hauling coarse
ropes, hitching
lines to the
best posts
possible. It’s
heavy work
fighting sag,
winching up
give. It
isn’t ever
to live.

April 5

let it go-the

smashed word broken

open vow or

the oath cracked lengthwise-

let it go it

was sworn to                   


let them go-the

truthful liars and 

the false fair friends

and the both and 

neither-you must let them go they

were born               

to go

let all go-the

big small middling

tall bigger really 

the biggest and all

things-let all go


so comes love
                 e.e. cummings

April 4

The Miracle



Though I was dwelling in a prison house,  
My soul was wandering by the carefree stream 
Through fields of green with gold eyed daisies strewn,  
And daffodils and sunflower cavaliers.  
And near me played a little browneyed child,  
A winsome creature God alone conceived,  
“Oh, little friend,” I begged. “Give me a flower 
That I might bear it to my lonely cell.”  
He plucked a dandelion, an ugly bloom,  
But tenderly he placed it in my hand,  
And in his eyes I saw the sign of love.  
‘Twas then the dandelion became a rose.


About the author: Fenton Johnson was born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1888. He was a forerunner of the Harlem Renaissance writers and self-published three poetry collections: A Little Dreaming (The Peterson Linotyping Company, 1913), Visions of the Dusk (Trachtenberg Co., 1915), and Songs of the Soil (Trachtenberg Co., 1916). He died in 1958.

April 3, 2020


Lynn Ungar  –  March 11, 2020

What if you thought of it as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.  Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now, on trying to make the worlddifferent than it is. 
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.

And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives
are in one another’s hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.

Promise this world your love–
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.

April 2, 2020

Sheltered-in-Place                    Mark Nepo (3/28/20)

I was walking our dog during the pandemic,

the neighborhood empty, the clouds heavy,

and, through my headphones, the music of a

man now gone, the love from his soul helping

me keep my head above water. And though

it’s hard to bow to the vastness of the sea

when being pulled under, hard to believe

in the merit of light when lost in the dark,

hard to wait on love when painfully lonely—

these larger truths never stop being true.

Even as I voice this, someone is dying in

the hall of an overcrowded hospital, while

another is lifted from their own hell by the

grace of a kindness no one saw coming. As

if the spirit of the one dying arrives like pollen

in the heart of the one stuck in hell, giving them

just enough to begin again. If we could only give

the extra warmth we receive to someone who is

shivering. If we could shed the masks that

keep us from ourselves, there would be

enough to save the world. 

April 1, 2020

Kitty O’Meara

And the people stayed home. And read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and learned new ways of being, and were still. And listened more deeply.

Some meditated, some prayed, some danced. Some met their shadows.

And the people began to think differently. And the people healed.

And, in the absence of people living in ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways, the earth began to heal.

And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had been healed.