Poetry | Hudson Valley; Chronogram

Poem: All You Hear Is a Squeak

The creaking as the wind holds the door open. The breeze pushes back the yellow tipped grass with a swish.

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Poem: small success

one foot in front of the next with only one toe stubbed

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Poem: Indigo Child

God’s messenger drifts through the hallway, scattering scraps in her wake. She keeps The Word on a Post-it, mistranslates Rilke to taste truth in a foreign tongue, tears leaves from old books and whites out lines to reveal the kernel that sprouts because poetry is the seed of all things.

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Poem: No Fishing Allowed

No Se Perite La Pesca On the Rondout Creek, we watch a heron tiptoe across a tight rope from dock to boat. We cheer him on to rev the engine, speed out on the water, wave his legs to a gaggle of geese.

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Poem: The Bus Stop Gang

You were all tiny then, excited to play with each other in the morning on the patch of grass in front of our home until the yellow bus appeared. In the afternoons, we rushed from work to gather you up with twirls and hollers of joy, tussling your heads, or sometimes with silence and a quiet, questioning glance.

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Poem: Déjà Vu

We make eye contact Instantly, I am dazzled. I know that sparkle because it’s inside of me, too and always has been.

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Poem: Love Letters

You don’t write to me anymore Cursive curves and letters forgotten You don’t want to waste the paper

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Poem: Leaf and Tree

Number six train: dad reads book to son amid din; leaf and tree seem one.

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Poem: Seeking Conquistadors

I can’t explain to you why I’m suddenly in the market for antique Spanish swords from our war against Iberians in Teddy Roosevelt’s Caribbean but here I am hoping that geographic cures will work— A call to arms that only the wounded would heed. It hurts to be so sober on a Friday, half past eight scouring Bannerman catalogues 110 years old for militaria that one can no longer purchase though if your love has left you then perhaps you can relate.

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Poem: Streetpoet

I live in the street I sleep in the gutter Among the shabby hordes that stumble and mutter I do my best to sing for my supper And distinguish myself before you It’s true I do steal cigarette butts from ash cans And I have been known to drink But suffer me my friends I am a man I can still think And with this sidewalk as my stage I know that I can entertain you still With poetry Pure verse In the most beautiful way I know how let me converse with you About how I tried to be like you To do things the way the way that you do Until I broke my hands, and my ribs, and my mind on the task Now all I ask is to be forgiven And be given one last chance to dance for you With all that is left of me And if I can make you laugh If I can make you cry if it’s worth anything at all to you help me survive I am the last of the living poets That ply my trade in the streets And I live and I die in the hearts and the minds Of the beautiful strangers that I meet. And try to make my friends

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Poem: I Remember

I remember a Sunday winter in the Bronx the barren streets enveloped by a bitter cold sky a grey blanket covering our apartment buildings I remember the wind cutting through the alleyways whipping across the elevated train tracks lifting falling swirling passing McArdle’s bar the cutting wind issuing a drunken howl before turning the corner The barbershop pole of colored stripes whirling red white and blue the sweetshop awning flapping fiercely Joe’s shoe repair sign creaking back and forth I also remember so clearly on that Sunday afternoon snapping Liz’s picture as she stood in close-up smiling facing the wind

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Poem: Ouroboros

I found you coiled on my doorstep, patiently waiting for the locks to turn so you could show me how to shed my old skin. But I hissed and slithered back to safety, unwilling to accept the time had come.

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Poem: Imagery

Pushed by the wind, A leaf skates across the icy pond Though the day is mild.

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Poem: The Thief

“Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroke its sum, You did not come…”—Thomas Hardy I stole a jelly jar of wishbones once from a dead man— they sang like a rattle, those ten conjoined clavicles, and I spent the day dreamily shaking them like a cup of dice— wondering if I could harvest hope; wondering if one day you would return; wondering if un-granted wishes arrived like a still-born? I buried the forked bones in the yard.

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Poem: Epiphanies VIII.

Through April mud I track cloven hooves to tread the trail of hidden deer, though a subtle music on the boughs suggests instead that Pan is near.

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Poem: A Poem for Joel

A poem for you sits meditates on the blazing woodstove puts its feet up on the hearth oak smoke permeates every line This particular poem talks freely says what it wants breaks a sentence but does not judge knows when to stoke the fire

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Taos Journey: High Desert Portraits of Time @ Albert Wisner Public Library

Taos Journey: High Desert Portraits of Time

Mondays-Sundays, 9 a.m.-5 p.m. Continues through April 27 — Exhibit offers art enthusiasts a unique glimpse into the wide-ranging spectrum of...
Art & Words: An Exhibition of Art & Poetry Inspiring One Another @ Emerge Gallery & Art Space

Art & Words: An Exhibition of Art & Poetry Inspiring One Another

Mondays, Thursdays-Sundays. Continues through April 30 — 22 artists and 21 poets create new art and poetry inspired by...

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  • Re: Poem: Love Letters

    • A lot can be said in a few line, the impact of TVs was heavy…

    • on April 10, 2018
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