A marvel millions of years in the making.
Where the womb of Earth chaotically meets the surface.
Under a clear blue sky, an expanse of bliss -
But beneath gray rolling clouds, an endless enigma.
The easiest world to get lost in
is one where everything can be found.

One can only build a sand castle where the sand is wet.
But where the sand is wet, the tide comes.
Will it gently lick at your foundations until you give in?
Or will a sudden wave send you crashing down in the blink of an eye?
Either way the outcome is the same.
Yet we still build sand castles.

I stand where the foam wraps around my ankles.
Where my toes squish into the sand.
The salty air is therapeutic.
The breeze is gentle, yet powerful.
I sink my toes into the ultimate boundary line, tempted by the foamy tendrils.
Turn back, and I abandon my peace to erode at the shore.
Drift forward, and I return to Earth forevermore. 

BY KIM STAFFORD

says one. I’m still lonely, says another,

In my poem, says another,

says another. And another says,

in a bold, undeniable voice of power,

And they are beautiful, beautiful,

standing one by one at the mic

where they have come forth at last

from behind the curtain.

Source: Poetry (March 2021)

Committee Meeting.       Burden of Proof.
                  The Simple Truth.      Trying To Be Nice.
Honestly.   I Could Have Died.        I Almost Cried.
              It's Only a Cold Sore.
   It's My Night.     Trust Me.    Dead Serious.
I Have Everything All Under Control.
                I'm Famous For My Honesty.
       I'm Simply Beside Myself.      We're On The Same Page.
                Let's Not Reinvent The Wheel.
For The Time Being.   There Is That.
                      I'm Not Just Saying That.
   I Just Couldn't Help Myself.             I Mean It.

That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,

But as the riper should by time decease,

His tender heir might bear his memory;

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,

Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,

Making a famine where abundance lies,

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content,

And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding.

   Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

   To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;

Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:

   So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

   So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.