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Thin are the night-skirts left behind By daybreak hours that onward creep, And thin, alas! the shred of sleep That wavers with the spirit's wind: But in half-dreams that shift and roll And still remember and forget, My soul this hour has drawn your soul A little nearer yet.

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Now you hear what the house has to say. Pipes clanking, water running in the dark, the mortgaged walls shifting in discomfort, and voices mounting in an endless drone of small complaints like the sounds of a family that year by year you've learned how to ignore.

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I Leaguered in fire The wild black promontories of the coast extend Their savage silhouettes; The sun in universal carnage sets, And, halting higher, The motionless storm-clouds mass their sullen threats, Like an advancing mob in sword-points penned, That, balked, yet stands at bay.

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If I speak for the dead, I must leave this animal of my body, I must write the same poem over and over, for an empty page is the white flag of their surrender. If I speak for them, I must walk on the edge of myself, I must live as a blind man who runs through rooms without touching the furniture.

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it's just not me , he'd murmur, walking away. , he'd explain, apologetic but firm, leaving some job they'd found him. They found him others: he'd go, smiling his smile, putting his best foot forward, till again he'd find himself reluctantly concluding that this, too, wasn't him.

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Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.

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The spirits have dispersed, the woods faded to grey from midnight blue leaving a powdery residue, night music fainter, frivolous gods withdrawing, cries of yin and yang, discords of the bionic young; cobweb and insects, hares and deer, wild strawberries and eglantine, dawn silence of the biosphere, amid the branches a torn wing - what is this enchanted place?

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We thought the birds were singing louder. We were almost certain they
were. We spoke of this, when we spoke, if we spoke, on our zoom screens
or in the backyard with our podfolk. Dang, you hear those birds? Don't
they sound loud?...

By Beth Ann Fennelly

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In icy fields.Is water flowing in the tank?Will they huddle together, warm bodies pressing?(Is it the year of the goat or the sheep?Scholars debating Chinese zodiac,follower or leader.)O lead them to a warm corner,little ones toward bulkier bodies.Lead them to...

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"I cannot say enough about Poetry Out Loud and what the program has done for my colleagues and our students. I have seen what this amazing program does for poetry lovers and poetry skeptics alike."

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The Author to Her Book : Poetry Out Loud

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Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth didst by my side remain, Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick view, Made thee in raggs, halting to th' press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).