[little tree] (Monday Poem)

by e. e. cummings

 

 

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see            i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don’t be afraid

look           the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i’ll give them all to you to hold.
every finger shall have its ring
and there won’t be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you’re quite dressed
you’ll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they’ll stare!
oh but you’ll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we’ll dance and sing
“Noel Noel”

 

Public domain 

A Country Boy in Winter (Monday Poem)

 by Sarah Orne Jewett

 

 

 

The wind may blow the snow about,

For all I care, says Jack,

And I don’t mind how cold it grows,

For then the ice won’t crack.

Old folks may shiver all day long,

But I shall never freeze;

What cares a jolly boy like me

For winter days like these?

 

Far down the long snow-covered hills

It is such fun to coast,

So clear the road! the fastest sled

There is in school I boast.

The paint is pretty well worn off,

But then I take the lead;

A dandy sled’s a loiterer,

And I go in for speed.

 

When I go home at supper-time,

Ki! but my cheeks are red!

They burn and sting like anything;

I’m cross until I’m fed.

You ought to see the biscuit go,

I am so hungry then;

And old Aunt Polly says that boys

Eat twice as much as men.

 

There’s always something I can do

To pass the time away;

The dark comes quick in winter-time—

A short and stormy day

And when I give my mind to it,

It’s just as father says,

I almost do a man’s work now,

And help him many ways.

 

I shall be glad when I grow up

And get all through with school,

I’ll show them by-and-by that I

Was not meant for a fool.

I’ll take the crops off this old farm,

I’ll do the best I can.

A jolly boy like me won’t be

A dolt when he’s a man.

 

I like to hear the old horse neigh

Just as I come in sight,

The oxen poke me with their horns

To get their hay at night.

Somehow the creatures seem like friends,

And like to see me come.

Some fellows talk about New York,

But I shall stay at home.

 

 

Public domain 

 

Yellow Butter (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Ann Hoberman

 

 

Yellow butter purple jelly red jam black bread

 

Spread it thick 

Say it quick

 

Yellow butter purple jelly red jam black bread

 

Spread it thicker

Say it quicker

 

Yellow butter purple jelly red jam black bread

 

 Now repeat it

While you eat it

 

Yellow butter purple jelly red jam black bread

 

Don't talk

With your mouth full!

 

 

from Forget-Me-Nots: Poems to Learn by Heart 

Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman

Little, Brown & Co, 2012 

 

Tsegihi (Monday Poem)

by N. Scott Momaday

 

 

House made of dawn,

House made of evening light,

House made of dark cloud,

House made of male rain,

House made of dark mist,

House made of female rain,

House made of pollen,

House made of grasshoppers,

Dark cloud is at the door.

The trail out of its dark cloud.

The zigzag lightning stands high upon it.

Male deity!

Your offering I make.

I have prepared a smoke for you.

Restore my feet for me.

Restore my legs for me.

Restore my body for me.

Restore my mind for me.

Restore my voice for me.

This very day take out your spell for me.

Your spell moves from me.

You have taken it away for me;

Far off it has gone.

Happily I recover.

Happily my interior becomes cool.

Happily I go forth.

My interior feeling cool, may I walk.

No longer sore, may I walk.

Impervious to pain, may I walk.

With lively feelings may I walk.

As it used to be long ago, may I walk.

Happily may I walk.

Happily, with abundant dark clouds, may I walk. 

Happily, with abundant showers, may I walk.

Happily, with abundant plants, may I walk.

Happily may I walk.

Being as it used to be long ago, may I walk.

May it be beautiful before me,

May it be beautiful behind me,

May it be beautiful below me,

May it be beautiful above me,

May it be beautiful all around me.

In beauty it is finished.

 

 

Exerpt of the Navajo Night Chant song, 

from House Made of Dawn by N. Scott Momaday

HarperCollins, 1999 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's Raining in Honolulu (Monday Poem)

 by Joy Harjo

 

 

There is a small mist at the brow of the mountain,

each leaf of flower, of taro, tree and bush shivers with ecstasy.

And the rain songs of all the flowering ones who have called for the rain

can be found there, flourishing beneath the currents of singing.

Rain opens us, like flowers, or earth that has been thirsty for more than a season.

We stop all of our talking, quit thinking, or blowing sax to drink the mystery.

We listen to the breathing beneath our breathing.

This is how the rain became rain, how we became human.

The wetness saturates everything, including the perpetrators of the second overthrow.

We will plant songs where there were curses.

 

 

from How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems 1975-2001

by Joy Harjo

W. W. Norton and Company 2002

 

Trickster (Monday Poem)

 by Joy Harjo

 

 

Crow, in the new snow.

You caw, caw

                    like crazy.

Laugh.

Because you know I'm a fool,

too, like you

skimming over the thin ice

to the war going on

all over the world.

 

 

from How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems 1975-2001

by Joy Harjo

W. W. Norton and Company 2002

 

Naming (Monday Poem)

 by Joy Harjo

 

 

I call my sisters to dress for the stomp dance

As all the little creatures hum and sing

in the thick grass around the grounds.

Lightning bugs are tiny stars

dancing in the river of dusk.

Our stomachs are full of meat and fry bread

and the talk of aunts and uncles.

Beautiful fire at the center of the dance

and the dusk has been lit.

We lace up our turtle shells so we

can dance into the circle.

And in this spirit world is the grocery

store over the hill, and all the houses,

the river, the sky, and the highway.

We have been here forever

say our mother, our father.

And this is the name we call ourselves

I tell my sisters,

this name that gives our legs the music

to shake the shells---

a name that is unspeakable

by those who disrespect us

---a name with power to thread us through

the dark to dawn

and leads us faithfully to the stars.

 

 

from How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems 1975-2001

by Joy Harjo

W. W. Norton and Company 2002

 

Morning Song (Monday Poem)

by Joy Harjo

 

 

The red dawn now is rearranging the earth 

Thought by thought

Beauty by beauty

Each sunrise a link in the ladder

Thought by thought

Beauty by beauty

The ladder the backbone

Of shimmering deity

Thought by thought

Beauty by beauty

Child stirring in the web of your mother

Do not be afraid

Old man turning to walk through the door

Do not be afraid

 

 

from How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems 1975-2001

by Joy Harjo

W. W. Norton and Company 2002

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

It's Only the Storm (Monday Poem)

 by David Greygoose

 

 

'What's that creature that rattles the roof?'

'Hush, it's only the storm.'

 

'What's blowing the tiles and the branches off?'

'Hush, it's only the storm.'

 

'What's riding the sky like a wild white horse,

Flashing its teeth and stamping its hooves?'

 

'Hush, my dear, it's only the storm,

Racing the darkness till it catches the dawn.

Hush, my dear, it's only the storm,

When you wake in the morning, it will be gone.'

 

 

from Poetry by Heart: A Child's Book of Poems to Remember

compiled by Liz Attenborough

Scholastic 2001

 

Bat Patrol (Monday Poem)

 by Georgia Heard

 

 

Quickly and quietly,

the bat patrols the night,

sending an invisible song

echoing like ripples on a pond,

chasing moths around a streetlight.

Quickly and quietly,

the bat patrols the night.

 

 

from Forget-Me-Nots: Poems to Learn by Heart 

Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman

Little, Brown & Co, 2012 

 

A Frog in a Well Explains the World (Monday Poem)

by Alice Schertle

 

 

The world is round

    and deep

    and cool.

The bottom of the world's

    a pool

with just enough room

    for a frog alone.

The walls of the world

    are of stone on stone.

At the top of the world,

when I look up high,

    I can see a star

in a little round sky.

 

 

from Forget-Me-Nots: Poems to Learn by Heart 

Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman

Little, Brown & Co, 2012 

 

 

 

 

Strategy (Monday Poem)

 by Gary Soto

 

 

I went to class, sat in a chair

That wobbled and rocked. Got up

 

And changed seats.

I got up again, and again.

That's how I happened 

To sit next to you.

 

 

from Forget-Me-Nots: Poems to Learn by Heart 

Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman

Little, Brown & Co, 2012 

 

My Name (Monday Poem)

by Lee Bennett Hopkins

 

 

I wrote my name on the sidewalk

But the rain washed it away.

 

I wrote my name on my hand

But the soap washed it away.

 

I wrote my name on the birthday card

I gave to Mother today

 

And there it will stay

For mother never throws

 

ANYTHING

 

of mine away.

 

 

from Forget-Me-Nots: Poems to Learn by Heart 

Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman

Little, Brown & Co, 2012 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September, 1918 (Monday Poem)

By Amy Lowell

This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.

from Selected Poems of Amy Lowell 

Houghton Mifflin Company, 2002

I'm nobody! Who are you? (Monday Poem)

by Emily Dickinson

 

 

I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

The there's a pair of us --- don't tell!

They'd banish us, you know.

 

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

 

 

from Forget-Me-Nots: Poems to Learn by Heart 

Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman

Little, Brown & Co, 2012 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Twins (Monday Poem)

 by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

 

 

The two-ones is the name for it,

And that is what it ought to be,

But when you say it very fast

It makes your lips say twins you see.

 

When I was just a little thing,

About the year before the last,

I called it two-ones all the time,

But now I always say it fast.

 

 

from Forget-Me-Nots: Poems to Learn by Heart 

Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman

Little, Brown & Co, 2012 

 

Poem for Rodney (Monday Poem)

by Nikki Giovanni

 

 

people always ask what

am i going to be

when i grow 

up and i always

just think

i'd like to grow

up

 

 

from Forget-Me-Nots: Poems to Learn by Heart 

Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman

Little, Brown & Co, 2012 

 

Sometimes (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Ann Hoberman

 

 

Sometimes I like to be alone

And look up at the sky

And think my thoughts inside my head ---

Just me, myself, and I.

 

 

from Forget-Me-Nots: Poems to Learn by Heart 

Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman

Little, Brown & Co, 2012 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fireflies (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Ann Hoberman

 

 

Fireflies at twilight

In search of one another

Twinkle off and on.

 

 

from Forget-Me-Nots: Poems to Learn by Heart 

Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman

Little, Brown & Co, 2012 

Yes! No! (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

 

 

How necessary it is to have opinions! I think the spotted trout

lilies are satisfied, standing a few inches above the earth. I

think serenity is not something you just find in the world,

like a plum tree, holding up its white petals.

 

The violets, along the river, are opening up their blue faces,

like small dark lanterns.

 

The green mosses, being so many, are as good as brawny.

 

How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,

looking at everything and calling out

 

Yes! No! The

 

swan, for all his pomp, his robes of glass and petals, wants

only to be allowed to live on the nameless pond. The catbrier

is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy

rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better

than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless

and proper work.

 

 

 

from Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

by Mary Oliver

Penguin Random House, 2020  

 

 

 

 

Turtle (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

 

 

Now I see it--

it nudges with its bulldog head

the slippery stems of the lilies, making them tremble;

and now it noses along in the wake of the little brown teal

 

who is leading her soft children

from one side of the pond to the other; she keeps

close to the edge

and they follow closely, the good children--

 

the tender children,

the sweet children, dangling their pretty feet

into the darkness.

And now will come-- I can count on it--the murky splash,

 

the certain victory

of that pink and gassy mouth, and the frantic

circling of the hen while the rest of the chicks

flare away over the water and into the reeds, and my heart

 

will be most mournful

on their account. But, listen,

what's important?

Nothing's important

 

except that the great and cruel mystery of the world,

of which this is a part,

not be denied. Once,

I happened to see, on a city street, in summer,

 

a dusty, fouled turtle plodding along--

a snapper --

broken out I suppose from some backyard cage-- 

and I knew what I had to do--

 

I looked it right in the eyes, and I caught it--

I put it, like a small mountain range,

into a knapsack, and I took it out

of the city, and I let it

 

down into the dark pond, into

the cool water,

and the light of the lilies,

to live.

 

 

 

from Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

by Mary Oliver

Penguin Random House, 2020  

 

 

What Shall I Pack in the Box Marked "Summer" (Monday Poem)

 by Bobbi Katz

 

 

A handful of wind that I caught with a kite

A firefly's flame in the dark of night

The green grass of June that I tasted with toes

The flowers I knew from the tip of my nose

The clink of the ice cubes in pink lemonade

The fourth of July Independence parade!

 The sizzle of hot dogs, the fizzle of coke

Some pickles and mustard and barbecue smoke

The print of my fist in the palm of my mitt,

As I watched for the batter to strike out or hit

The splash of the water, the top-to-toe cool

Of a stretch-and-kick trip through a blue swimming pool

The tangle of night songs that slipped through my screen

Of crickets and insects too small to be seen

The seed pods that formed on the flowers to say

That summer was packing her treasures away.

 

 

 

from The Family Read-Aloud HolidayTreasury

selected by Alice Low

Little, Brown & Co, 1991   

 

Sleeping in the Forest (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver 

 

 

I thought the earth remembered me, 
she took me back so tenderly, 
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets 
full of lichens and seeds. 

I slept as never before, a stone on the riverbed, 
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars 
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths 
among the branches of the perfect trees. 

All night I heard the small kingdoms 
breathing around me, the insects, 
and the birds who do their work in the darkness. 

All night I rose and fell, as if in water, 
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning 
I had vanished at least a dozen times 
into something better. 

from Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

by Mary Oliver

Penguin Random House, 2020  

Hum (Monday Poem)

by Mary Oliver

 

 

What is this dark hum among the roses?

The bees have gone simple, sipping,

that's all. What did you expect? Sophistication?

They're small creatures and they are

filling their bodies with sweetness, how could they not

moan in happiness? The little

worker bee lives, I have read, about three weeks.

Is that long? Long enough, I suppose, to understand

that life is a blessing. I have found them -- haven't you?--

stopped in the very cups of the flowers, their wings

a little tattered -- so much flying about, to the hive,

then out into the world, then back, and perhaps dancing,

should the task be to be a scout -- sweet dancing bee.

I think there isn't anything in this world I don't

admire. If there is, I don't know what it is. I

haven't met it yet. Nor expect to. The bee is small,

and since I wear glasses, so I can see the traffic and

read books, I have to

take them off and bend close to study and

understand what is happening. It's not hard, it's in fact

as instructive as anything I have ever studied. Plus, too,

it's love almost too fierce to endure, the bee

nuzzling like that into the blouse

of the rose. And the fragrance, and the honey, and of course

the sun, the purely pure sun, shining, all the while, over

all of us.

 

 

 

from Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

by Mary Oliver

Penguin Random House, 2020  

 

 

 

Serenade (Monday Poem)

By Mary Weston Fordham

 

 

Sleep, sleep, love sleep,

The night winds sigh,

In soft lullaby.

The Lark is at rest
With the dew on her breast.
So close those dear eyes,
That borrowed their hue
From the heavens so blue,
Sleep, love sleep.

Sleep, love sleep,
The pale moon looks down
On the valleys around,
The Glow Moth is flying,
The South wind is sighing,
And I am low lying,
With lute deftly strung,
To pour out my song,
Sleep, love sleep.

from She Wields a Pen: American Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century

University of Iowa Press, 1997

 

Invitation (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

 

 

Oh do you have time

   to linger

        for just a little while

             out of your busy

 

and very important day

    for the goldfinches

         that have gathered

              in a field of thistles

 

for a musical battle,

     to see who can sing

         the highest note,

              or the lowest,

 

or the most expressive of mirth,

     or the most tender?

         Their strong, blunt beaks

              drink the air

 

as they strive

    melodiously

        not for your sake

            and not for mine

 

and not for the sake of winning

     but for sheer delight and gratitude ---

          believe us, they say,

              it is a serious thing

 

just to be alive

     on this fresh morning

         in this broken world.

             I beg of you,

 

do not walk by

     without pausing

         to attend to this

              rather ridiculous performance.

 

It could mean something.

     It could mean everything.

          It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:

               You must change your life.

 

from Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

by Mary Oliver

Penguin Random House, 2020  

      

 

 

A Red, Red Rose (Monday Poem)

by Robert Burns

 

 

O my Luve is like a red, red rose
   That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
   That’s sweetly played in tune.

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
   So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
   Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
   And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
   While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
   And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
   Though it were ten thousand mile. 

from PoetryOutLoud.org

Recuerdo (Monday Poem)

 by Edna St Vincent Millay

 

 

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

 

from Collected Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1931

 

Rabbits and Fire

 By Alberto Ríos

 

Everything’s been said
But one last thing about the desert,
And it’s awful: During brush fires in the Sonoran desert,
Brush fires that happen before the monsoon and in the great,
Deep, wide, and smothering heat of the hottest months,
The longest months,
The hypnotic, immeasurable lulls of August and July—
During these summer fires, jackrabbits—
Jackrabbits and everything else
That lives in the brush of the rolling hills,
But jackrabbits especially—
Jackrabbits can get caught in the flames,
No matter how fast and big and strong and sleek they are.
And when they’re caught,
Cornered in and against the thick
Trunks and thin spines of the cactus,
When they can’t back up any more,
When they can’t move, the flame—
It touches them,
And their fur catches fire.
Of course, they run away from the flame,
Finding movement even when there is none to be found,
Jumping big and high over the wave of fire, or backing
Even harder through the impenetrable
Tangle of hardened saguaro
And prickly pear and cholla and barrel,
But whichever way they find,
What happens is what happens: They catch fire
And then bring the fire with them when they run.
They don’t know they’re on fire at first,
Running so fast as to make the fire
Shoot like rocket engines and smoke behind them,
But then the rabbits tire
And the fire catches up,
Stuck onto them like the needles of the cactus,
Which at first must be what they think they feel on their skins.
They’ve felt this before, every rabbit.
But this time the feeling keeps on.
And of course, they ignite the brush and dried weeds
All over again, making more fire, all around them.
I’m sorry for the rabbits.
And I’m sorry for us
To know this.

from The Smallest Muscle in the Human Body, by Alberto Ríos. Copper Canyon Press, 2002

This Land is a Poem (Monday Poem)

by Joy Harjo

 

 

This land is a poem of ocher and burnt sand I could never write,

unless paper were the sacrament of sky, and ink the broken line of

wild horses staggering the horizon several miles away. Even then,

does anything written ever matter to the earth, wind and sky?

 

 

from How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems: 1975-2001

by Joy Harjo, W. W. Norton, 2002

Daffodowndilly (Monday Poem)

 by A. A. Milne

 

 

She wore her yellow sun-bonnet,

She wore her greenest gown;

She turned to the south wind

And curtsied up and down.

She turned to the sunlight

And shook her yellow head,

And whispered to her neighbor:

"Winter is dead."

 

 

 

Queen Anne's Lace (Monday Poem)

by William Carlos Williams

 

 

Her body is not so white as
anemony petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand’s span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over—
or nothing.

from The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, Volume I, 1909-1939, edited by Christopher MacGowan, New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1938

 

 

 

I'm Glad (Monday Poem)

 by Nelda Dishman

The trees share their shade with

all who pass by,

But their leaves whisper secrets

only to the wind.

from The Family Read-Aloud Holiday Treasury

selected by Alice Low, illustrated by Marc Brown

Little, Brown and Company, 1991

Blow-up (Monday Poem)

 by X. J. Kennedy

Our cherry tree

Unfolds whole loads

Of pink-white bloom--

It just explodes.

 

For three short days

Its petals last.

Oh, what a waste.

But what a blast.

 

 

from The Family Read-Aloud Holiday Treasury

selected by Alice Low, illustrated by Marc Brown

Little, Brown and Company, 1991

 

Perhaps the World Ends Here (Monday Poem)

 by Joy Harjo

 

 

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

 

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

 

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. The scrape their knees under it.

 

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

 

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

 

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

 

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

 

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

 

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

 

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

 

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

 

 

from 

How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems: 1975-2001 

by Joy Harjo

W. W. Norton & Company, 2002

Promise of Blue Horses (Monday Poem)

 by Joy Harjo

 

 

A blue horse turns into a streak of lightning,     

                                                                then the sun ----

relating the difference between sadness

                                                                and the need to praise

that which makes us joyful. I can't calculate

                                                                how the earth tips hungrily

toward the sun---then soaks up rain---or the density

                                                                of this unbearable need

to be next to you. It's a palpable thing---this earth philosophy

                                                                and familiar in the dark

like your skin under my hand. We are a small earth. It's no

                                                                simple thing. Eventually

we will be dust together, can be used to make a house, to stop

                                                                a flood or grow food

for those who will never remember who we were, or know

                                                                that we loved fiercely.

Laughter and sadness eventually become the same song turning us

                                                                toward the nearest star---

a star constructed of eternity and elements of dust barely visible

                                                                in the twilight as you travel

east. I run with the blue horses of electricity who surround

                                                                the heart

and imagine a promise made when no promise was possible.

 

 

from How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems: 1975-2001 

by Joy Harjo

W. W. Norton & Company, 2002 

"Scientists find universe awash in tiny diamonds"* (Monday Poem)

by Pat Mayne Ellis

 

 

But haven't we always known?

The shimmer of trees, the shaking of flames

every cloud lined with something

clean water sings

right to the belly

scouring us with its purity

it too is awash with diamonds

 

"so small that trillions could rest

on the head of a pin"

 

Is it not unwise then to say

that the air is hung close with diamonds

that we breathe diamond

our lungs hoarding, exchanging

our blood sowing them rich and thick

along every course it takes

Does this explain

why some of us are so hard

why some of us shine

why we are all precious

 

that we are awash in creation

spumed with diamonds

shot through with beauty

that survived the death of stars

 

 

*quotations found in a newspaper clipping on the subject

 

 

from Cries of the Spirit: A Celebration of Women's Spirituality

edited by Marilyn Sewell

Beacon 1991 

Buckingham Palace (Monday Poem)

 by A. A. Milne

 

 

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace--

Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

Alice is marrying one of the guard.

"A soldier's life is terrible hard,"

                                                    Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace--

Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

We saw a guard in a sentry box.

"One of the sergeants looks after their socks." 

                                                    Says Alice.

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace--

Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

We looked for the King, but he never came.

"Well, God take care of him, all the same,"

                                                     Says Alice.                                            

 

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace--

Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

They've great big parties inside the grounds.

"I wouldn't be King for a hundred pounds,"

                                                     Says Alice.

 

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace--

Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

A face looked out, but it wasn't the King's.

"He's much too busy a-signing things,"

                                                     Says Alice.

 

They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace--

Christopher Robin went down with Alice.

"Do you think the King knows all about me?"

"Sure to, dear, but it's time for tea,"

                                                     Says Alice.

 

 

from When We Were Very Young,

by A. A. Milne

Dell 1972 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                           

Silver (Monday Poem)

 by Walter de la Mare

Slowly, silently, now the moon

Walks the night in her silver shoon;

This way, and that, she peers, and sees

Silver fruit upon silver trees;

One by one the casements catch

Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;

Couched in his kennel, like a log,

With paws of silver sleeps the dog;

From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep

Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;

A harvest mouse goes scampering by,

With silver claws, and silver eye;

And moveless fish in the water gleam,

By silver reeds in a silver stream.

 

 

from Poetry by Heart: A Child's Book of Poems to Remember

compiled by Liz Attenborough

Scholastic 2001

 

Everyone Sang (Monday Poem)

by Siegfried Sassoon

 

 

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;

And I was filled with such delight

As prisoned birds must find in freedom,

Winging wildly across the white

Orchards and dark green fields; on -- on --and out of sight.

 

Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;

And beauty came like the setting sun:

My heart was shaken with tears; and horror

Drifted away . . . O, but Everyone

Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

 

 

from Poetry by Heart: A Child's Book of Poems to Remember

compiled by Liz Attenborough

Scholastic 2001

 

The Fountain (Monday Poem)

 by Denise Levertov

Don't say, don't say there is no water

to solace the dryness at our hearts

I have seen

the fountain springing out of the rock wall

and you drinking there. And I too

before your eyes

found footholds and climbed

to drink the cool water.

The woman of that place, shading her eyes,

frowned as she watched--but not because

she grudged the water,

only because she was waiting

to see we drank our fill and were

refreshed.

 

Don't say, don't say there is no water.

That fountain is there among its scalloped

green and gray stones,

 

it is still there and always there

with its quiet song and  strange power

to spring in us,

up and out through rock.

 

 

from Cries of the Spirit: A Celebration of Women's Spirituality

edited by Marilyn Sewell

Beacon 1991

Fire (Monday Poem)

 by Joy Harjo

a woman can't survive

by her own breath

                  alone

she must know

the voices of mountains

she must recognize

the foreverness of blue sky

she must flow

with the elusive

bodies

of night winds

who will take her

into herself

 

look at me

i am not a separate woman

i am the continuance

of blue sky

i am the throat

of the mountains

a night wind

who burns

with every breath

she takes

 

 

 

from How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems 1975-2001

by Joy Harjo

W. W. Norton and Company 2002

Remember (Monday Poem)

 by Joy Harjo

Remember the sky that you were born under,

know each of the star's stories.

Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her

in a bar once in Iowa City.

Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the

strongest point of time. Remember sundown

and the giving away to night.

Remember your birth, how your mother struggled

to give you form and breath. You are evidence of

her life, and her mother's, and hers.

Remember your father. He is your life also.

Remember the earth whose skin you are:

red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth

brown earth, we are earth.

Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their

tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,

listen to them. They are alive poems.

Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the

origin of this universe. I heard her singing Kiowa war

dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central once.

Remember that you are all people and that all people

are you.

Remember that you are this universe and that this

universe is you.

Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.

Remember that language comes from this.

Remember the dance that language is, that life is.

Remember.

 

 

from Cries of the Spirit: A Celebration of Women's Spirituality

edited by Marilyn Sewell

Beacon 1991

 

 

Valentine (Monday Poem(

by Wendy Cope

 

 

My heart has made its mind up

And I'm afraid it's you.

Whatever you've got lined up,

My heart has made its mind up

And if you can't be signed up

This year, next year will do.

My heart has made its mind up

And I'm afraid it's you.

 

 

from Poetry by Heart: A Child's Book of Poems to Remember

compiled by Liz Attenborough

Scholastic 2001

This I Know (Monday Poem)

 by Anne Corkett

The light of day

cannot stay.

The fading sun

will not come

to anybody's calling.

The cold moon light

Is clear and white.

She will not go,

this I know,

'til all the stars have fallen.

from Poetry by Heart: A Child's Book of Poems to Remember

compiled by Liz Attenborough

Scholastic 2001

My Life Has Turned to Blue (Monday Poem)

 by Maya Angelou

Our summer's gone,

the golden days are through.

The rosy dawns I used to 

wake with you

have turned to grey,

my life has turned to blue.

The once green lawns

glisten now with dew.

Red robin's gone,

down to the South he flew.

Left here alone,

my life has turned to blue.

I've heard the news

that winter too will pass,

that spring's a sign

that summer's due at last.

But until I see you

lying in green grass,

my life has turned to blue.

from The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou, by Maya Angelou

Random House, 1994

i am running into a new year (Monday Poem)

 by Lucille Clifton

i am running into a new year

and the old years blow back

like a wind

that i catch in my hair

like strong fingers like

all my old promises and

it will be hard to let go

of what i said to myself

about myself

when i was sixteen and

twentysix and thirtysix

even thirtysix but

i am running into a new year

and i beg what i love and

i leave to forgive me

from Cries of the Spirit: A Celebration of Women's Spirituality

edited by Marilyn Sewell

Beacon 1991

Waking Up (Monday Poem)

by Eleanor Farjeon

 

 

Oh! I have just had such a lovely dream!

An then I woke,

And all the dream went out like kettle-steam,

Or chimney smoke.

 

My dream was all about -- how funny, though!

I've only just 

Dreamed it, and now it has begun to blow

Away like dust.

 

In it I went -- no! in my dream I had --

No, that's not it!

I can't remember, oh, it is too bad,

My dream a bit.

 

But I saw something beautiful, I'm sure --

Then someone spoke.

And then I didn't see it anymore,

Because I woke.

 

 

from Poetry by Heart: A Child's Book of Poems to Remember

compiled by Liz Attenborough

Scholastic 2001

 

The Storm (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

Now through the white orchard my little dog

    romps, breaking the new snow

    with wild feet.

Running here running there, excited,

    hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins

until the white snow is written upon

    in large exuberant letters,

a long sentence, expressing

    the pleasures of the body in this world.

 

Oh, I could not have said it better

    myself.

 

 

from Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver, by Mary Oliver

Penguin Random House, 2017