Archives for posts with tag: random

by Amy Lowell

Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper
Like draggled fly’s legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my uncertain window and thebare floor
Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness
Beneath my hand.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Amy Lowell (1874-1925) was an American poet of the imagist school from Brookline, Massachusetts, who posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926.


“Always be on the lookout for the presence if wonder.” E.B.WHITE

PHOTO: E.B. White consulting with his beloved dachshund Minnie, 1940s.

For a fun frolic into the world of erasure poetry, visit the wonderful Wave Books site — and create an erasure poem with ease.


Below is my humble offering (taken from MOBY DICK by Herman Melville).

MY ERASURE POEM, “Moby Money”:

Try it yourself!

Send in your erasure poems and we’ll publish them on our blog!

Happy erasing! 

WRITING ADVICE FROM FRANZ KAFKA: Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion.”

ARTWORK: “Butterfly” by Andy Warhol 

Note: In ancient Greek, the word for butterfly is “Psyche,” a term now equated with “soul.”

Download Kafka’s classic tale of transformation, THE METAMORPHOSIS, for free at


“Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.” 


Artwork: “Flowers” (1964) by Andy Warhol

Joan Jobe Smith, author of the Silver Birch Press release CHARLES BUKOWSKI EPIC GLOTTIS: His Art, His Women (& me) paid a visit to her friend and mentor on Sunday, June 16th — Father’s Day. She offers these details: “Confettied his grave with pink geraniums. Buk loved flowers, preferred yellow roses and sunflowers. He didn’t say what he thought about [my book] EPIC GLOTTIS. But he has said ‘Don’t try!’ And I didn’t. Writing my Buk Book came easy. Buk was one fine Muse. He is also the Literary Father to me and Fred [Voss — Joan’s husband].”

PHOTO: Joan Jobe Smith stands next to Charles Bukowski‘s grave while offering pink geraniums and her memoir, CHARLES BUKOWSKI EPIC GLOTTIS. Photo by Fred Voss. (Charles Bukowski is buried at Green Hills Memorial Park in Rancho Palos Verdes, California.)


by Jim Harrison

A secret came a week ago though I already

knew it just beyond the bruised lips of consciousness.

The very alive souls of thirty-five hundred dead birds

are harbored in my body. It’s not uncomfortable.

I’m only temporary habitat for these not-quite —
weightless creatures. I offered a wordless invitation

and now they’re roosting within me, recalling

how I had watched them at night

in fall and spring passing across earth moons,

little clouds of black confetti, chattering and singing

on their way north or south. Now in my dreams 

I see from the air the rumpled green and beige,

the watery face of earth as if they’re carrying

me rather than me carrying them. Next winter

I’ll release them near the estuary west of Alvarado

and south of Veracruz. I can see them perching

on undiscovered Olmec heads. We’ll say goodbye

and I’ll return my dreams to earth.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jim Harrison is the author of thirty books, including Legends of the Fall, Dalva, and Shape of the Journey. His work has been translated into two dozen languages and produced as four feature-length films. In 2007, Mr. Harrison was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters. He divides his time between Montana and southern Arizona.

Painting: “L’Homme au Chapeau Melon” (1964) by René Magritte

by Conrad Aiken


all day long 

we hear your scraping 

summer song 






as through
the meadow 


we pass 

such funny legs 

such funny feet 

and how we wonder 

what you eat 

maybe a single blink of dew 

sipped from a clover leaf would do
then high in air 

once more you spring
to fall in grass again
and sing. 

PAINTING: “Grasshopper on Flowering Plant” by Tsuji Kako (1870-1931)

By Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean –
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down –
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

…From New and Selected Poems (Beacon Press, 1992) © 1992, Mary Oliver, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Illustration: “Grasshopper,” interchangeable jewelry available for just $2.37 from

by Juan Olivarez

The Pecan tree, he’s no one’s fool, 
My papi once told me.
As long as the weather still is cool, 
Not a single leaf, on him you’ll see.

Sometimes it’s May, or maybe June, 
Before his leaves appear.
He never sports new clothes too soon, 
Not until the weather’s clear.

But once in leaf, no tree around, 
Comes close to the Pecan.
With shade and fruit, he does abound, 
Standing in the Texas sun.
(4/3/11 Alton Texas)

Painting: “Texas Trilogy” (1998) — Texas Mockingbirds at their Pecan Tree nest in a landscape of Blue Bonnets (Texas state bird, tree, and flower) — by Jon Janosik, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Prints available at