Poem of the Day

Mythologies

Abigail the Able Minded

drove a cart into the fields west
of town. The villagers saw her
as she found the lost calf
fed it, returned it to the flock.

Olbie the Obese

hungered for fame while still
in the womb. Inhaling whole realms
he paused to sketch a fork.
It was really nice
the remaining said.

Terrence the Terse

jerk.

Cerious the Furrow-browed poor speller

scrawled a note demanding
one denizen of eggs
and when the puzzled farmer
was brought before him
he again began to cry.
He insisted on writing his own
history which began:
"I fell god." This ensured
a handsome advance.

Hilarious the Glinting

made his enemies laugh
until their insides boiled.
He is necessarily storied.

Tacitus the Quick

"I" was all he ever said.

Poem of the Day

My Baby is a Red Radio

I thought I saw my baby
hovering over the market
holding a clove of garlic
in her fist. She dressed
like the baby Jesus, in cloud
and consequence.

I feigned something in my eye--
an old trick of mine--asked
a stranger the price of eggplant
and walked down the street,
my baby crying above
the indifferent world.

When I woke the ground
was papered and pungent
but the sky clear with blue
that went on and on.

And you're in a library reading
with a smirk but there's a crumb
on your collar, and a hair
from my beard curls buried
in the crack between floorboards.

And you're my baby in bluejeans
the color of pulsing veins. You're
a song I remember when it warms
through the honeyed tubes
of the dusty red Zenith.

I saw my baby on the bus
dressed as an old woman, crying
and cursing us, laughing
into her broken coat. I followed
to her house your house.

My baby went to sleep on a bed
lit by light from the moon
we used to share.

Low Rent Poem of the Day

The Best Beer

Hitching across Oklahoma in July heat
I scuffed my shoes beside the highway.
In the woods on 62 a rusting truck
pulled off the road and the driver handed me
a Sunday beer. He didn't call me "Bub"
and didn't offer me a ride, but we talked
as the sun began to fade, about wanting
and not getting, about people helping
each other out. A bird called in the distance
he tipped his hat, got into the truck
and I headed home to Fayetteville.

Poem of the Day

The Saddest Song in the World

Was sung today by 12 year old Violet Small
in white stockings with a dirt stain on one knee.

The song was sung into a sour November wind
but no one heard as she dropped her head

adjusted her collar and sang like a million cellos
burning by the ocean, sifting to the sea.

Her tears reflected the stars, the moon
and the blue light from 7816 televisions

playing popular tragedies with theme songs
and muted graphics fading to gray.

Violet whispered the last verse
lit by candles in an empty church

on a quiet street, bell rusting to the dust
of a billion chords. She closed her eyes

dabbed at her cheeks and stumbled past
a crying dog beside her father's final house.

Poem of the Day

Song Without Notes for the Shadows to Sing on the Longest Day of the Year

The blackbirds sulk, and the stars go blue
on the longest day of the year.

A woman walked by in a tattered gold suit
on the longest day of the year.

The tv sets all fade to gray
dim fireflies knit her name
the fading light will spark her eyes
on the longest day of the year.

On the longest day of the year
we sing, on the longest day of the year;
in the fading light, you'll lose your heart
on the longest day of the year.

The Cubs win the game in the top of the eighth
on the longest day of the year.

A jet flies by while the pilot sleeps
on the longest day of the year.

The tiger stirs in the fading zoo
while the monkeys shriek my name.
My mother stirs her tea to cool
on the longest day of the year.

On the longest day of the year
we sing, on the longest day of the year;
in the fading light, I'll lose my heart
on the longest day of the year.

Poem of the Day

 

Summer in North Little Rock

Summer of poodles clicking hardwood, 

candied oranges from Melrose Grocery 

who delivered bleeding bones 

for the shepherds out back. 

Summer of big clouds and no rain 

of flystrip heat and no wind. 

North Little Rock the froggy scent 

of wet earth and trains. 

Summer of Grandfather sleepwatching 

the Cardinals of my talcumed grandmother 

smoking Kools on the road to McCain. 

Summer of cut-offs and religion, 

smiling women looming with cookiebreath 

and Christ smiling from the ivory plastic 

lightswitch. Campbell soup summer 

of hunnybuns and sweet water 

from the river Jordan rusting the lid--salvation 

on the neighbor's television set. 

A dollar for malt balls hidden 

in sweating palms on the way 

to the Boy's Club where we caught 

a fever from the water 

from the screaming black boys 

who spoke a language 

my brother and I had never heard, 

bloodlight fear of the electric wire 

in the German shepherds' pen. 

Static pop of linoleum, soap operas 

of desperate lovers and my grandparents 

in separate rooms. Summer of Jesus, 

patient and disappointed hanging 

on the bedroom wall.

Poem of the Day

Why I'm a Cubs Fan

Because the ivy turns from brown to green
and the grooved fields of Illinois play songs
in the spring. Because one day the girl
cracking jokes at the back of the class
will wink and toss me a kiss. Because I stood
in the dust with sweat on my lip, waiting
for my name. Because the most hopeful man
I ever knew imagined each woman the lost queen
of Australia. Because at dusk I wait
for the rarest bird to land, shuddering and safe
in my tiny outstretched hand.

Poem of the Day

A City Lit with Fireflies

The waxed face of the priest intones.
Birds fly the rafters as the sun gives up
while night watchmen weep to their elbows
and the women tremble under dry sheets.
In the town square, bayonettes cut the moon
to ribbons of light. Darkness feathers
the streets to shadow. The priest stumbles home
from the candled room, the evening like wine
on his lips. The baker sings a song of night
shakes a cloud of sugar from his hip.
He sings some words, a prayer for love
and wanders his town alone.

Poem of the Day

When The World Began

Green fists of hail
punch the ground
between her house

and the pale ocean.
She stands silent
over her dog while
her man checks
the news, sips tea
from a china cup.

In his sleep Alfred
dreams of masters,
chasing dancing
leashes in the rain.

The man realizes
words are symbols
of his boredom
and his wife drops
tears on the coat
of the silent dog.

Poem of the Day

Kisses of the Union: All the Way to Arkansas

Drunken flies buzzed my ear
as I whispered to her mouth,
"Guess the state" and kissed her
my idea of Tennessee--
its long-night drive
and its whiskey breath,
its rusted roadside wrecks
and burning barns.

"Alabama?" she drawled
into my neck and dropped
a scuffed shoe
on the concrete floor. "My turn"
she said with two blinks
and a serious laugh.

And so I am here,
driving through bugs
breaking like pills
on my windshield
driving through the moon
splashed on the macadam
all the way to Arkansas.

Poem of the Fortnight

Poetry 101

Talk softly
when you speak
of the rain

The moon
is mean
and true

A purple iris--
the poor poem's
tattered flag