The Voice (Monday Poem)

by Shel Silverstein

There is a voice inside of you

That whispers all day long,

"I feel that this is right for me,

I know that this is wrong."

No teacher, preacher, parent, friend

Or wise man can decide

What's right for you-- just listen to

The voice that speaks inside.

https://internetpoem.com/shel-silverstein/the-voice-poem/

Spring (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

Somewhere

    a black bear

        has just risen from sleep

            and is staring

down the mountain.

    All night

        in the brisk and shallow restlessness

            of early spring

 

I think of her,

    her four black fists

        flicking gravel,

            her tongue

 

like a red fire

    touching the grass,

        the cold water.

            There is only one question;

 

how to love this world.

    I think of her

        rising

            like a black and leafy ledge

 

to sharpen her claws against

    the silence

        of the trees.

            Whatever else

 

my life is

    with its poems

        and its music

            and its glass cities,

 

it is also this dazzling darkness

    coming

        down the mountain,

            breathing and tasting;

 

all day I think of her--

     her white teeth,

        her wordlessness,

            her perfect love.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

    

Moles (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

Under the leaves, under

the first loose

levels of earth

they're there--quick

as beetles, blind

as bats, shy

as hares but seen

less than these--

traveling

among the pale girders

of appleroot,

rockshelf, nests

of insects and black

pastures of bulbs

peppery and packed full

of the sweetest food:

spring flowers.

Field after field

you can see the traceries

of their long

lonely walks, then

the rains blur

even this frail

hint of them--

so excitable,

so plush,

so willing to continue

generation after generation

accomplishing nothing

but their brief physical lives

as they live and die,

pushing and shoving

with their stubborn muzzles against

the whole earth,

finding it 

delicious.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

White Heron Rises Over Blackwater (Monday Poem)

by Mary Oliver

 

 

 I wonder

     what it is

        that I will accomplish

            today

 

if anything

    can be called

        that marvelous word.

            It won't be

 

my kind of work,

    which is only putting

        words on a page,

            the pencil

 

haltingly calling up

    the light of the world,

        yet nothing appearing on paper

            half as bright

 

as the mockingbird's

    verbal hilarity

        in the still unleafed shrub

            in the churchyard--

 

or the white heron

    rising

        over the swamp

            and the darkness,

 

his yellow eyes

    and broad wings wearing

        the light of the world

            in the light of the world--

 

ah yes, I see him.

    He is exactly

        the poem

            I wanted to write.

 

 

 

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

 

I wonder (Monday Poem)

 by Christina Rossetti

I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,

If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,

If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun,

And crocus fires are kindling one by one:

Sing, robin, sing.

I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.

from Garden of Bright Images, Instagram

Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

His beak could open a bottle, 

and his eyes -- when he lifts their soft lids--

go on reading something

just beyond your shoulder--

Blake, maybe,

or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only

the black-smocked crickets,

and dragonflies if they happen

to be out late over the ponds, and of course

the occasional festal mouse.

Never mind that he's only a memo

from the offices of fear--

it's not size but surge that tells us

when we're in touch with something real,

and when I hear him in the orchard

fluttering

down the little aluminum

ladder of his scream--

when I see his wings open, like two black ferns,

 

a flurry of palpitations

as cold as sleet

rackets across the marshlands

of my heart,

like a wild spring day.

 

Somewhere in the universe,

in the gallery of important things,

the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish,

sits on its pedestal.

Dear, dark dapple of plush!

A message, reads the label,

from that mysterious conglomerate:

Oblivion and Co.

The hooked head stares

from its blouse of dark, feathery lace.

It could be a valentine.

 

 

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

 

 

 

The Hermit Crab (Monday Poem)

by Mary Oliver

 

 

Once I looked inside

    the darkness

        of a shell folded like a pastry,

            and there was a fancy face--

 

or almost a face--

    it turned away

        and frisked up its brawny forearms

            so quickly

 

against the light

    and my looking in

        I scarcely had time to see it,

            gleaming

 

under the pure white roof

    of old calcium.

        When I set it down, it hurried

            along the tideline

 

of the sea,

    which was slashing along as usual,

        shouting and hissing

            toward the future,

 

turning its back

    with every tide on the past,

        leaving the shore littered

            every morning

 

with more ornaments of death--

    what a pearly rubble

        from which to choose a house

            like a white flower--

 

and what a rebellion

    to leap into it

        and hold on,

            connecting everything,

 

the past to the future--

    which is of course the miracle--

        which is the only argument there is 

            against the sea.

 

 

 

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

 

     

Storage (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

When I moved from one house to another

there were many things I had no room

for. What does one do? I rented a storage

space. And filled it. Years passed.

Occasionally I went there and looked in,

but nothing happened, not a single

twinge of the heart.

As I grew older the things I cared 

about grew fewer, but were more

important. So one day I undid the lock

and called the trash man. He took

everything.

I felt like the little donkey when

his burden is finally lifted. Things!

Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful

fire! More room in your heart for love,

for the trees! For the birds who own

nothing -- the reason they can fly.

 

 

 

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

 

I Dream a World (Monday Poem)

by Langston Hughes

 

 

I dream a world where man

No other man will scorn,

Where love will bless the earth

And peace its paths adorn

I dream a world where all

Will know sweet freedom's way,

Where greed no longer saps the soul

Nor avarice blights our day.

A world I dream where black or white,

Whatever race you be,

Will share the bounties of the earth

And every man is free,

Where wretchedness will hang its head

And joy, like a pearl, 

Attends the needs of all mankind-

Of such I dream, my world!

 

 

 from https://allpoetry.com/I-Dream-A-World