Tag Archives: mood

Poetry: I Tell You

I could not predict the fullness
of the day. How it was enough
to stand alone without help
in the green yard at dawn.

How two geese would spin out
of the ochre sun opening my spine,
curling my head up to the sky
in an arc I took for granted.

And the lilac bush by the red
brick wall flooding the air
with its purple weight of beauty?
How it made my body swoon,

brought my arms to reach for it
without even thinking.

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-Susan Glassmeyer

Book Love

Books let the light in – Coffeegirl

music and writingrt

walden book photo

rt

Book photography with typewriter

rt Ursula Uriarte

   -Love, C

Art Love: Rain on the Docks

rainy day pastel painting

Before just the daylight
Come and I stand by
Waiting to catch the quickest plane
Fly me to nowhere
it’s better than somewhere
That’s where I’ve been and nothing’s changed –

“Angel of Mercy,” One Republic

Poetry: On the Late Bus

ahead of me

on the late bus to Bristol

the woman leaned her head

upon the rain-smeared window

and surrendered herself to sleep

I was reading,

no, fighting through

a novel an ex had given me,

when grace feathered my hands

wisps of a ponytail,

the ends of ten golden inches,

kissed my book-cradling fingers

I held pose

as if meditating

until her awakening

-Tony Press, Right Hand Pointing

The Sea Brings Dreams of Home

sea ocean girl photography

by Oleg Oprisco

The sea brings dreams of home

Fall and Umbrella

rain clear umbrella photography

by Amorito Citrella

Did you write today? Did you make art? Did you let a glaze of raindrops sweep across your opened palm? Let light in, let air, let hope and breathing. Let fall sweep you up with its voluminous wings into crisp mouthfuls of breezes, cherry tea steaming, warm on fingers and in cafes, rain on clear windows and clearer umbrellas – let it make you come more awake.

Snow on the Desert

“Each ray of sunshine is eight minutes old,”
Serge told me in New York one December
night. “So when one looks at the sky, one sees

the past?” “Yes, Yes,” he said, “especially
on a clear day.” On January 19,
1987, as I very

early in the morning drove my sister
to Tucson International, suddenly
on Alvernon and 22nd Street

the sliding doors of the fog were opened,
and the snow, which had fallen all night, now
sun-dazzled, blinded us, the earth whitened

out, as if by cocaine, the desert’s plants,
its mineral-hard colors extinguished,
wine frozen in the veins of the cactus.

* * *

The Desert Smells Like Rain: in it I read:
The syrup from which sacred wine is made

is extracted from the saguaros each
summer. The Papagos place it in jars,

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