"Miles to go before I sleep"... Poetry Friday, Volume Two!

Praying

by Mary Oliver


It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

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Advice for a Stegosaurus

by Jessica Goodheart


Never mind the asteroid,
the hot throat of the volcano,
a sun that daily drops into a void.

Comb the drying riverbed for drink.
Strut your bird-hipped body.
Practice a lizard grin. Don't think.

Stretch out your tail. Walk, as you must,
in a slow deliberate gait.
Don't look back, Dinosaur. Dust is dust.

You'll leave your bones, your fossil feet
and armored eye-lids.
Put your chin to the wind. Eat what you eat.

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When Your Face Came Rising

by Yevgeny Vevtushenko


When your face came rising
above my crumpled life,
the only thing I understood at first
was how meager were all possessions.
But your face cast a peculiar glow
on forests, seas, and rivers,
initiating into the colors of the world
uninitiated me.
I'm so afraid, I'm so afraid,
the unexpected dawn might end,
ending the discoveries, tears, and raptures,
but I refuse to fight this fear.
This fear - I understand -
is love itself. I cherish this fear, not knowing how to cherish,
I, careless guardian of my love.
This fear has ringed me tightly.
These moments are so brief, I know,
and for me, the colors will disappear
when once your face has set...

************************************************

Earth

by John Hall Wheelock


"A planet doesn't explode of itself," said drily
The Martian Astronomer, gazing off into the air -
"That they were able to do it is proof that highly
Intelligent beings must have been living there."

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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

*************************************************

Curiosity

by Alastair Reid

may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.

Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.

Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.

Only the curious have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.

Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

As for my two blogger poets that I'm highlighting, I count myself as disgustingly lucky because I actually knew them in person long before any of us started our crazy blogs. I went to college with the incredible JMarls over at Snapshots, and let me tell you: all the rumors of her being the hot, quiet girl who blew everyone away with her acting talent are absolutely true. And to make things worse...ugh. She's an amazing creative writer and fantastic poet. (She actually labels her poetry under "Bad Poetry." Gross, I know, right?) So please...go check out her blog for yourself and prepare to be blown away.

The other gorgeous girl that I'm introducing to you has a wicked wit, a freakin' awesome tattoo, and a vocabulary that could make you cry. Introducing Mildly Sensational over at Sunlight in my Threshold, who doesn't blog nearly enough for my liking but when she does...wow. Just...wow. Her cute little throwaway poems, like this one or this one, are fantastic...and her creative short stories? Also kick ass. So not fair.

So that's all folks...enjoy the poetry, I hope each poem livens your spirits and your Friday just a bit, and please, go give some of these blogger poets who pour out their hearts a little love and some kind comments. They deserve it :)

Have a fantastic weekend!