liriostigre:

Naomi Shihab Nye, “Ringing.” A Maze Me: Poems for Girls

honey-sipping-muse:

Rhiannon McGavin

filmnoirsbian:

Joan Tierney

89words:

“Swarms of bees, beetles, soft music of the world, a gentle humming; brent geese, barnacle geese, shortly before All Hallows, music of the dark wild torrent.”

— Medieval poem by a monk of Ynys Enlli, an island off the coast of Wales, quoted by Robert Macfarlane in Wild Places

dragons-and-flowers:

engulfes:

F. Douglas Brown

[ID: A poem titled “Make Out Sonnet”:

The first time I saw two men kissing, I was six,

Living in 1970s L.A. My mom took care

Of an elderly woman who found herself in a fix

And moved into a complex of all men, bare

Chested men, with cutoff jeans and tinted glasses.

My mother’s friend gave me chocolates that matched

Her skin - this must be heaven. These sons’ asses

Peeked out beneath their shorts, but watched

Over her better than mom. Took donations for heat,

A sofa and a new wig - all changed her mood.

They even did her laundry. They did sweet

Better than honey. Did family better than blood.

And between duties, two men always off alone

So desire, like the dishes, could also get done.

End ID]

blossomfully:

Sue Zhao

firstfullmoon:

So here’s what I’ve got, the reasons why our marriage
might work: Because you wear pink but write poems
about bullets and gravestones. Because you yell
at your keys when you lose them, and laugh,
loudly, at your own jokes. Because you can hold a pistol,
gut a pig. Because you memorize songs, even commercials
from thirty years back and sing them when vacuuming.
You have soft hands. Because when we moved, the contents
of what you packed were written inside the boxes.
Because you think swans are overrated and kind of stupid.
Because you drove me to the train station. You drove me
to Minneapolis. You drove me to Providence.
Because you underline everything you read, and circle
the things you think are important, and put stars next
to the things you think I should think are important,
and write notes in the margins about all the people
you’re mad at and my name almost never appears there.
Because you make that pork recipe you found
in the Frida Kahlo Cookbook. Because when you read
that essay about Rilke, you underlined the whole thing
except the part where Rilke says love means to deny the self
and to be consumed in flames. Because when the lights
are off, the curtains drawn, and an additional sheet is nailed
over the windows, you still believe someone outside
can see you. And one day five summers ago,
when you couldn’t put gas in your car, when your fridge
was so empty—not even leftovers or condiments—
there was a single twenty-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew,
which you paid for with your last damn dime
because you once overheard me say that I liked it.

— Matthew Olzmann, “Mountain Dew Commercial Disguised as a Love Poem”