winter gale blowing
fiercely upon the shoreline
while the mountains gaze
A Winter’s Gale
Category: Poetry
Tonight’s Haiku: Along The Shore
underneath the sun
walking along the shoreline
grace within winter
Along the Shore
walking by the shore
with geese bobbing in the surf
gentle signs of spring
Yesterday I spent a few hours along the Edmonds waterfront. A place of tranquil happiness for me. A rough week marched by, which I spent fighting a less brutal virus than usual. Sunlight and sea kissed air heal me in many ways.
Another Virus
another virus
inflicting it's annoyance
arrives unbidden
Drifting through the Mists
drifting through the mists
while the rain remains gentle
winter progresses
Black History Month Poets
Harlem
BY LANGSTON HUGHES
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Misty Days
walking through the trees
sunlight hidden by the mists
memories of rain
Black History Month Post 2
Today’s Black History Month poet is James Baldwin.
No, I don’t feel death coming.
I feel death going:
having thrown up his hands,
for the moment.
I feel like I know him
better than I did.
Those arms held me,
for a while,
and, when we meet again,
there will be that secret knowledge
between us.
Signs of Spring
this cold winter air
signs of spring emerge slowly
this fragility
Day One of Black History Month
In honor of Black History Month, I’ll be sharing poems by Black writers and poets. Today I offer up Saeed Jones’ “A Memory”. Mr. Jones is a contemporary poet who has won multiple awards. He is worth your time to explore. You can start by subscribing to his Substack. Now, here’s the poem.
A Memory
by Saeed Jones
When they finished burying me, what was left of me
sent up a demand like a hand blooming in the fresh dirt:
When I’m back, I want a body like a slash of lightning.
If they heard me, I couldn’t hear their answers.
But silence has never stopped me from praying.
Alive, how many nights did I spend knelt between
the knees of gods and men begging for rain, rent,
and reasons to remain? A body like the sky seeking
justice. A body like light reaching right down into the field
where you thought you could hide from me.
They’ve taken their bald rose stems and black umbrellas
home now. They’ve cooked for one another, sung hymns
as if they didn’t prefer jazz. I’m just a memory now.
But history has never stopped me from praying.
Carl Setzer: Word Shaper 