Love this poem from today's Verse Daily:
Such jazzy arrhythmia,
the white storks'
Plosive and gorgeous leave-takings suggest
Oracular utterance where the blurred
Danube disperses its silts.
Then the red-
Billed, red-legged creatures begin to spiral,
To float among thermals like the souls, wrote
Pythagoras, praising the expansive
Grandeur of black-tipped wings, of dead poets.
Most Eastern cultures would not allow them
To be struck, not with slung stone or arrow
Or, later, lead bullet—
birds who have learned,
While living, to keep their songs to themselves,
Who return to nests used for centuries,
Nests built on rooftops, haystacks, telegraph
Poles, on wooden wagon wheels placed on cold
Chimneys by peasants who hoped to draw down
Upon plague-struck villages such winged luck.
If the body in its failure remains
A nest, if the soul chooses to return...
Yet not one stork has been born in Britain
Since 1416, the last nest renounced
When Julian of Norwich, anchoress,
Having exhausted all revelations,
Took earthly dispensation, that final
Stork assuring, even while vanishing,
"Sin is behovely, but all shall be well."
Copyright © 2011 Michael Waters All rights reserved
from Gospel Night
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
And this one from a few days ago on Poem-A-Day
by Cornelius Eady
The trouble is, you can never take
That flower from Billie's hair.
She is always walking too fast
and try as we might,
there's no talking her into slowing.
Don't go down into that basement,
we'd like to scream. What will it take
to bargain her blues,
To retire that term when it comes
to her? But the grain and the cigarettes,
the narcs and the fancy-dressed boys,
the sediment in her throat.
That's the soil those petals spring from,
Like a fist, if a fist could sing.