Category Archives: Poetry

Why I Love Thee!

Why I Love Thee?
by Sadakichi Hartmann

Why I love thee?
Ask why the seawind wanders,
Why the shore is aflush with the tide,
Why the moon through heaven meanders
Like seafaring ships that ride
On a sullen, motionless deep;
Why the seabirds are fluttering the strand
Where the waves sing themselves to sleep
And starshine lives in the curves of the sand!


Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe
byTimothy Thomas Fortune

I know not why, but it is true—it may,
In some way, be because he was a child
Of the fierce sun where I first wept and smiled—
I love the dark-browed Poe. His feverish day
Was spent in dreams inspired, that him beguiled,
When not along his path shone forth one ray
Of light, of hope, to guide him on the way,
That to earth’s cares he might be reconciled.
Not one of all Columbia’s tuneful choir
Has pitched his notes to such a matchless key
As Poe—the wizard of the Orphic lyre!
Not one has dreamed, has sung, such songs as he,
Who, like an echo came, an echo went,
Singing, back to his mother element.


Pic of the Day


Lifted

Lifted
by Craig Morgan Teicher

Well, I guess no one can have everything.
I must learn to celebrate when I fail.
Inner growth and fortitude follow the sting,
right? Won’t I rise with holy wind in my sails?
Yet they always seem to get what I want,
door after door flung open. Why are
the keepers of doors, who haunt
the hopeful halls of fate and desire
so partial to them, but not to me?
Yes, I do feel sorry for myself—don’t, brother,
pretend the bitter blanket of self-pity,
hasn’t warmed your bones. It’s not lovers
or fame I crave, nor even happiness, particularly.
Only to be lifted, just once, above all others.

About This Poem

“Poetry is, among other things, a place to let my demons graze. This, alas, is one of them: the voice of someone not inured to the regular wrist slaps of rejection that are part of the writer’s life. It’s also one of many sonnets I wrote during a period of time when I became a bit addicted to them. Beware of sonnets; they can be habit-forming.”
Craig Morgan Teicher

Craig Morgan Teicher

Craig Morgan Teicher is the author of three books of poems, most recently The Trembling Answers (BOA Editions, 2017), winner of the 2018 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize from the Academy of American Poets, and We Begin in Gladness: How Poets Progress (Graywolf, 2018), his first book of essays. He works in publishing, teaches at NYU, and lives in New Jersey.


Nothing To Do

Nothing To Do
by James Ephraim McGire

The fields are white,
The laborers are few;
Yet say the idle,
There’s nothing to do.

Jails are crowded,
In Sunday Schools few;
We still complain
There’s nothing to do.

Drunkards are dying,
Your sons, it is true;
Mothers’ arms folded,
With nothing to do.

Heathens are dying,
Their blood falls on you;
How can you people
Find nothing to do?


My Son Wants to Know Who His Biological Father Is

My Son Wants to Know Who His Biological Father Is
by Blas Falconer

My son wants to know
his name. What does he look like? What does
he like? My son swims
four days a week. When my son swims
underwater, he glides
between strokes. When he glides underwater, he is
an arrow aimed
at a wall. Four days a week, his coach says,
Count—1…2…—before
coming up for air.
My father had blue eyes, blonde hair,
though mine are brown.
My father could not speak
Spanish and wondered, How can you love
another man? We rarely touched.
When my son
is counting, I count
with him. I say, I am
your father, too. 1…2…

About this Poem

“One day I was listening to my son’s swim coach and her feedback on his breaststroke, how he couldn’t muscle his way across the pool, how stillness and patience were important components of good technique. To encourage this, she had him count while his head was under the water, and it seemed like good advice for a lot of things, bearing what troubles you, for example, or writing a poem that is particularly challenging.”
Blas Falconer


To Television

To Television
by Robert Pinsky

Not a “window on the world”
But as we call you,
A box a tube

Terrarium of dreams and wonders.
Coffer of shades, ordained
Cotillion of phosphors
Or liquid crystal

Homey miracle, tub
Of acquiescence, vein of defiance.
Your patron in the pantheon would be Hermes

Raster dance,
Quick one, little thief, escort
Of the dying and comfort of the sick,

In a blue glow my father and little sister sat
Snuggled in one chair watching you
Their wife and mother was sick in the head
I scorned you and them as I scorned so much

Now I like you best in a hotel room,
Maybe minutes
Before I have to face an audience: behind
The doors of the armoire, box
Within a box–Tom & Jerry, or also brilliant
And reassuring, Oprah Winfrey.

Thank you, for I watched, I watched
Sid Caesar speaking French and Japanese not
Through knowledge but imagination,
His quickness, and Thank You, I watched live
Jackie Robinson stealing

Home, the image–O strung shell–enduring
Fleeter than light like these words we
Remember in, they too winged
At the helmet and ankles.


March Evening

March Evening
by Amy Lowell, 1874 – 1925

Blue through the window burns the twilight;
Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.
Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,
Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.

Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plot
Dents into pools where a foot has been.
Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, not
Of water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.

Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embers
Scattering wide at a stronger gust.
Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembers
Creaking, to turn, in its centuried rust.

Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,
Wrapping the mists round her withering form,
Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow
Travails to birth in the womb of the storm.


Love the Light-Giver

Love the Light-Giver
by Michelangelo Buonarroti

To Tommaso De’ Cavalieri

Veggio co’ bei vostri occhi.*

With your fair eyes a charming light I see,
For which my own blind eyes would peer in vain;
Stayed by your feet, the burden I sustain
Which my lame feet find all too strong for me;
Wingless upon your pinions forth I fly;
Heavenward your spirit stirreth me to strain;
E’en as you will, I blush and blanch again,
Freeze in the sun, burn ’neath a frosty sky.
Your will includes and is the lord of mine;
Life to my thoughts within your heart is given;
My words begin to breathe upon your breath:
Like to the moon am I, that cannot shine
Alone; for lo! our eyes see nought in heaven
Save what the living sun illumineth.

*Wonder with your beautiful eyes.


Sometimes I Cry

Sometimes I Cry
By DJ

I told a million lies now it’s time to tell a single truth
Sometimes I cry
It’s hard dealing with my pride
Not knowing whether to fight or flee
Sometimes I cry
Hard to maintain this image of a tough guy
When deep down inside I am terrified
If I ever told you I wasn’t scared I lied
Struggling to make it back
To society and my family
I cry
I cry for my son who I barely see
Due to these mountains
And me and his mom’s beef
I cry for my siblings who never knew their older brother
Because he stayed in the streets
I cry for my grandma who is now deceased
I cry for my life, half of which they took for me
I cry for my anger and rage
The only emotions I can show in this place
I cry for how we treat each other inside these walls
I cry for the lack of unity we have most of all
When will it end I want to know
Till then all I can do is let these tears flow

About This Poem
This poem was published in partnership with Free Minds Book Club & Writing Workshop, an organization based in Washington, DC. They are committed to elevating and amplifying the voices of those directly impacted by the prison system. Through creative writing, job readiness training, and violence prevention outreach, Free Minds assists members who are incarcerated or formerly incarcerated youths and adults to realize their own potential. The poet’s last name is withheld on request in consideration of their privacy.

To add to this description, I think there are times we all cry. I know last week, I had a day when I just wanted to sit down and cry. There was no particular reason. Nothing bad had happened. I just felt like crying. It’s possible this was a reaction to one of my medications that can make me hyperemotional, but I think many of us have down days. If you have had days like this more often than not in the past two weeks, I urge you to seek out your doctor and let him/her know what is going on. Depression is a serious illness that can be treated.

Furthermore, sometimes we also cry for certain events in our life; we cry for our now deceased Grandmama or we cry for the pet we just lost. It may be that we miss a friend or that we feel overwhelmed. There are many reasons to cry. And do you know what the best solution is? Let yourself cry. It will make you feel so much better.

He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God. Aeschylus


Consider Faith: A Blog on Christian Social Justice

A blog on Social Justice from the Christian Perspective

A Gay Christian Life

Love is Love <3

BosGuy

The life and interests of a gay, urban professional from Boston

myhusband&i

two guys making out & trying to make it

NAKd.life Opus

Real men. Really NAKd.

Jamie Fessenden's Blog

The musings of a gay fiction author

Stumbling Through Life

the struggles of a Pansexual Christian

jackiperrette

exploring life, writing & alternative romance

gaygeeks.wordpress.com/

Authors, Artists, Geeks, Husbands

A Queens' Queen in Exile

Memoirs on the death of camp

Kade Boehme

Southern boy...hold the charm...extra sass.

The Amazon Iowan

Blog of Author Heidi Cullinan • full website at heidicullinan.com

Mia Kerick

Love is What I See

The Novel Approach Reviews

Where Fiction and Reality Meet

badass theology

very reformed. very christian. very gay.

Get It Write

Perseverance Press authors' blog