Dunga Brook Diary

The rural life through the lens of an iPhone and notes from the field…

Archive for poem

Shoulders, a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye

Shoulders

A man crosses the street in rain,
stepping gently, looking two times north and south,
because his son is asleep on his shoulder.

No car must splash him.
No car drive too near to his shadow.

This man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo
but he’s not marked.
Nowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
HANDLE WITH CARE.

His ear fills up with breathing.
He hears the hum of a boy’s dream
deep inside him.

We’re not going to be able
to live in this world
if we’re not willing to do what he’s doing
with one another.

The road will only be wide.
The rain will never stop falling.

John Keats (1795 – 1821)

John Keats (1795 - 1821)

One life,-a little gleam of time between two Eternities.

Iphoneography and the Open Road Poem

Iphoneography, Open Road Poem

The Roads Less Traveled

We turned off the main highway
summer break
because that is what we do

She wakes us better than the rest

I’ll tell you why-

beyond the steering wheel
past the bugs splattered on glass
across the dust-covered hood

we live but a moment

Boulders, bunnies and rain, no lights

this is where we truly live
where no one lives anymore

Just like us now
stuck in cities now
dead-end jobs now

dazed and empty of desire

The road less travelled promises redemption
with each
blind
curve

An Endless April Road Poem

And Endless April Road Poem

The Crazy Days of April

You are probably busy
picking up your uniformed school children,

listening to your heels scrape linoleum in the frozen food section,

holding your breath as your jet hits turbulence somewhere over Kansas,

sticking your card into the reader at the gas pump and waiting for your credit to be approved,

sitting in a dark room listening to your father draw his last breaths,

dabbing perfume on your wrist, your neck, while you stare in the mirror
at the wrinkles you didn’t expect.

Much like you do, one foot in front of the other, one breath after the next,

I slog through the crazy days of April-

the sky is either endless and blue or clogged with clouds and spitting rain,

another in between,
alone in space.

Another year,
and who could have imagined
all this undone?

On Friday, I’ll see him again, you’ll see her again, he’ll see you.

We’ll drink and laugh and look at each other with children’s eyes.

Oh, to be young again…

to bark at the moon.

A poem for the second day of Spring by Qabbani (and an iPhoto of My Frickin Tree)

IMG_7331

 

I knew when I said
I love you
that I was inventing a new alphabet
for a city where no one could read
that I was saying my poems
in an empty theater
and pouring my wine
for those who could not
taste it.

Qabbani

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