I Wish Upon a Starless Sky (Daily Poems Book 5)

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A match that still enflames, a mecca a masterpiece, a mouthpiece, a must-read. After careers as a high school English teacher and an administrator in high tech and academic settings, Linehan now writes full-time and occasionally leads poetry writing workshops. She has had numerous residencies, including recent ones at the Cill Rialaig Project in Co.

She lives in Winchester, MA. Diane Lockward is the author of four poetry books, most recently The Uneaten Carrots of Atonement She is the editor and publisher of Terrapin Books. From to he hosted and produced Poems to a Listener, a nationally distributed radio series of readings and conversation with poets. He lives in Northampton, Massachusetts. The Geese that Fly South in Your Dreams Each night you sleep in your freshly washed undershirt whose sleeves have torn from your shoulder blades. I wondered how you did it—to rip each new shirt as if birds attacked you in your sleep.

Then I saw how your restless muscles grew, how they writhed with a muted fury until the shirt stretched tight, it stretched to bursting— Perhaps it was merely a trick of the eye: I know how the moon transfigures with its rush of white feathers that can catch and channel the light down your back like water. Yet now as I watch you struggle, your shoulder blades twitching, trying to plow up the air, I can't help but think of my father.

He said the shoulder blades were where the wings began, that muscles pushed them out of your back like cotton out of a plowed field. Each year he felt my small nubs of bone waiting for the first pin-feather that never came. When I wake, the shade clacks against the window, curtains buffet the room. Here , says the wind, come.

I step, and freeze— The distant light of an airplane moves, impossibly high. Yet you soar under the moon's influence over rooftops, mountains, and cold streams, your wings glittering with frost. She previously worked in publishing and taught writing courses at UNH. She lives in Boston with six plants and one wicked awesome husband. More of her writing can be found at laurinbeckermacios. Jacquelyn Malone has been a recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship grant in poetry.

Two of her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. One was featured on the website Poetry Daily. I think of the way doctors unpack a body. Primary colors and cold metal joined just right. This is not the scar I show— my love for surgery porn at 1am, orthopedic serpents that re-break bones and muscle memory. Heaven is the sound of tiny mallets, metacarpals piling on top of each other.

Tiny galaxies formed in their mouths a gathering of tongues, souls, and rubble. Dirt that said I eat you to live. I question those souls and scavengers. I want to be the dark animal that roots the ground for peaches, bones, and stars. Originally appeared in Passages North. Recently someone said that art is the place where we reflect on who we are, where we have failed or triumphed, who we want to become, followed by action.

I think poetry embodies that journey and more. I discovered poetry in high school but it took years to join craft, imagination, and a sense of self. But beneath all was the love of language. Like a base melody, words rub against one another, hem an image in, or open an emotion. The desire to explore those connections through language keeps me writing and hopefully someone else reading. I just discovered the word snaggletooth and think everyone needs to put that in a poem. She can be found at http: I woke to more rain, and felt in the dark for how wet the sill was, then rolled back to my radio, and a midnight preacher in my earphone teaching about sin.

I learned that punishment would come like lightning that surprises an innocent shore. Thunder would follow me all my days, stern reminder and sharp rebuke. The long, sleek, and pointed call that rose, as if in response, out of the estuary of night and storm, said it knew well what the given world gave, and wanted more. From The Looking House. Reprinted by permission of the author. Fred Marchant is editor of the Another World Instead: His other collections include: He also teaches in the Colrain Poetry Manuscript Conferences.


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Red bird in the pine, a small thing, considering. Over the low hill whiff of Owl Diner bacon— they sell oatmeal, too. The full empty pool— acres of after-effects in the open field. Who has not looked up and seen the long white jet trails that fade in seconds?

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Glimpse of half-court one-on-none through the diamond fence. Paul Marion is the author of several collections of poetry, including What is the City? He lives in Lowell and works at UMass Lowell. How quickly they shut it down— three men, a garbage truck, cars backed up, leaves blowing wild. A gust sends stink: The men haul bags, heave bales, bassinette, oven door. They laugh and shrug, step up, jump down while we turn to look behind like befuddled owls, no way out. A driver leans out the window, cusses.

The truck labors down the road past rows of triple-deckers, cracked retaining walls. Someone pounds the horn, and the men slow down, smile as they swing the barrels like dance partners. I wanted to write an elegy for the trees, that old comforting wood. A few plots over, a mower buzzes in the heat like a bee working the flowers for its queen. How in her life she had to flee the Old Testament wrath of her father and leave the garden hive of her innocence. I try to whisper a few words. I was adopted at an early age but later, as a teen, came to live with my birth mother before she committed suicide two years later.

The sun, slug-gummed, slid down our careful pre-evening irises which clutched at everything. The glints of its slick trail oil slip and combine, mercury, into stars. Rat eyes white-violet from a thicket. They let off more light the farther we move into night. We grind our calluses until they join, knit an over-skin. The time we have after work. We weed the wild from their hiding.

We pry and pluck. We go fishing every night attaching to our hooks the scaly crickets we find. It is not all wrong. And we are always. Day done the sun inhales and collects its light into a slow ball,. Her poems and essays are widely published and anthologized. We laugh, now, about the time we were almost murdered on Christmas Eve, the night the sky barely wept any snow as the T. The fuzzy colors illuminated his features, but were absent in deep forever running wrinkles hoarded on his untanned skin.

And you, my mother, leapt from the tattered goodwill couch in a speed that defined science; your torso a mountain and pool-noodle arms flailing at the sight of a sharp dagger nestled tightly in his fist, eyes as vacant as a hole. All three of us careened to that place-- face against face against face, spit sputtered in all directions like acid rain, heat radiating from skin as lips receded to show animal like teeth.

And then, as we pulled on the black road gifts tumbling against my shaken body, cold sores tingling on my lips, I knew the measurement of a rumor, untamed and raw and that what they say about parents is true:. They brought you into this world. They can certainly take you out.

Sara McClory is inspired by life, the good, the bad, the abandon places overtaken by nature, our differences, or similarities. She believes everything can bring inspiration if one is open to it. I stopped at a red light on Mass. Like, cranked her wheel, rammed right into my side. I drove a Chevy pickup truck. It being Boston, I got out of the car yelling, swearing at this woman, a little woman, whose first language was not English.

What the fuck is going on? So we swore at each other with perfect posture, unnaturally angled chins. I threw my arms around, sudden jerking motions with my whole arms, the backs of my hands toward where she had hit my truck. She hit the tire; no damage done. Her car was fine, too. We saw this while we were yelling, and then we were stuck.

Sun in the Night: The Poems of Art Poems & Assemblage // Sample Chapter - Ashlee Craft's World

The next line in our little drama should have been Look at this fucking dent! But there was no fucking dent. There was nothing else for us to do. She nodded, and started to cry, so I put my arms around her and I held her, middle of the street, Mass. Shovel after shovel, digging and digging, and the hole getting deeper and him having to throw the sand up because the hole was that deep. He digs and digs deeper into the shadow of his hole. Friends splash in the surf, stretch in the sun.

My friend divorced, moved south to Asheville away from his ex, his kids, his friends, away from me — to dig for his roots, he said. He sat on a bar stool and read with a glass of good wine. Listened to music with a glass of good wine. Sometimes he just sat with his wine.

A good bar customer, the stool became his. No one else sat there. Then no one sat near it. The man in the sand cries out because the soft, shoveled sand collapses, fills to his shoulders and continues to sift down on him. His friends rush to help, call 1. One jumps into the hole to hold his head above the sand. Emergency crews with front-end loaders and breathing tubes arrive. With bare hands, equipment, and a hoist, he is pried lose and walks away.

My friend dug a dark hole. It was too dark for me. I was afraid to jump in. It was easier to let him read, listen to his music and sit on his bar stool. Him in North Carolina and me in Massachusetts. Him in North Carolina, me in Massachusetts. Don McLagan is an entrepreneur and poet. An innovator of business information services for forty years, he is now retired and advises entrepreneurial CEOs.

Don has a B. The chapbook Shoes on a wire Split Oak and the book arts project [box] Small Po[r]tions are forthcoming. He won the Third Coast Poetry Prize, and his poems have appeared in journals such as: Kevin lives in Cambridge Massachusetts. How the thickest of them erupt just above the ear, cresting in waves so stiff no wind can move them. Let us praise them in all of their varieties, some skinny as the bands of headphones, some rising from a part that extends halfway around the head, others four or five strings stretched so taut the scalp resembles a musical instrument.

Let us praise the sprays that hold them, and the combs that coax such abundance to the front of the head in the mirror, the combers entirely forget the back. He has served four times on the nominating committee for the Pulitzer Prize in poetry, and has authored or edited 18 books, including poetry, nonfiction, and anthologies. Grains of sand tangle our hair as the ocean advances up the beach behind our backs and water invades the inlets.

I roll over onto my back and you kiss the salt off my lips, your head looming above. I see your mouth curl: When you pull away, shafts of light shutter my eyes and my skin offers the annual cellular sacrifice: He writes book reviews for The Arts Fuse. His full length works include: Only a black bodied fly could tempt trout in this pause between downpours. Only the deepest hungers will force a rise through the dark brume and the gray drizzle. I float a caddis a foot from the dripping bank, its elk hairs disappearing in the gloomy air and water. Blind fishing, and no guiding angel this shrouded morning.

Reflex and desire my genuflect and prayer. The trout are ghost spirits haunting each bend, each water-scarred tree, each clump of drowned rocks, and darkened men wading. A heavy stare their only companion. A quiet ripple forms beyond my line, a small fish that pulls, runs, and dives against my drab, damp self. I line-haul it toward me. Its splashes break and scatter gray shards of river.

Gary Metras is the author of sixteen books and chapbooks, most recently, Two Bloods: He is a past recipient of the Massachusetts Fellowship in Poetry. He is the editor, publisher, and letterpress printer of Adastra Press. He fly fishes the streams and rivers of western Massachusetts as often as possible. First farm boy then factory worker, my grandfather kept a journal. But every day, he made record in his ruled notebooks, the year in gold foil on each spine, the covers colored like car interiors -burgundy, gray, and black.

Each Christmas my grandmother would pick out a new one at the drugstore. From him I know how a man felt, felt about bowling two strings every Tuesday , the cost of cigars too much but worth it , the shooting of Kennedy first John then Bobby , the polio of his only child bus fare and leg braces , the birth of two grandchildren flowers bought each time. Colleen Michaels' poems have been made into installations on shower curtains, bar coasters, and the stairs to Crane Beach in Ipswich, Massachusetts.

She directs the Writing Studio at Montserrat College of Art in Beverly, Massachusetts, where she hosts The Improbable Places Poetry Tour bringing poetry to unlikely places like tattoo parlors, laundromats, and swimming pools. Yes, in the swimming pool. Nothing is where I left it.

Even the store itself, which sold its last hammer and nail to the contractor who tore it down, putting this substandard duplex in its place, is missing. Somewhere else, the murderer is murdering somebody else, but everything is the same. My old Jewish neighborhood is filled with blacks, and the African-American neighborhoods are busy with Asians, and the Mexicans are everywhere but here, in this dark bistro, in the Soviet era city of Pskov, six hours south of Saint Petersburg. There is a Dead Negro on the bar menu. The dead Jews, my father among them, rise up in protest like the benevolent protectors they once were.

They are looking for the picket line which is no longer where they left it. And the leftists have moved to the right, and God is looking for God everywhere. Not my hammer and sickle, not my Star of David, not my well-thumbed book of poems. My wife and children are nowhere to be found.

His sister is missing and his mother is not where he left her. Michelson is the owner of R. You could let your eyesight cling a long time to the s portrait of their engaged, beaming faces, temples nuzzled for the studio photographer, his Navy collar and her pearl earrings, their dreamland smiles, and you will definitely back up back to it after checking out the thing about this white most beautiful girl in the world who is only nine years old, but probably not the celebrity next link over who went from hot to heavy in kind of the same bikini at least according to the photograph.

You could sink into the image of them in their narrow beds pushed together, dying five hours apart at home, holding hands till the husband went, releasing the clasp of his wife with dementia, and wonder what she knew in that moment. And this is a sad thing to you as is the whole idea of a three-year-old boy, frozen to death locked outside in a diaper. I mean, there are some people you will just never understand. And it turns out the Pimp My Ride cars were just totally faked-up after all. You let it all slide right by you, like how terrific Keira Knightley looked at the Oscars pregnant.

Two caskets at the funeral home. And do sweethearts have our song any more like when he was in the service? Miller Originally published in Meat for Tea. I can see where I began, the shore of a dream lake where I put in every morning. Books kneel on shelves, chairs have parted with their ghosts. The door is open to the rest of the house, the otherworld of day. I tell you, I saw the reeds slide by.

I heard the ducks on wings nearly graze my shoulder as they rowed the invisible air. Amy Miller was raised in northern California and western Massachusetts. She works for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and blogs at writers-island. Miller says, "I spent my teenage years in Westfield, Massachusetts — , and still have friends there and return for high school reunions. New England shaped my writing, and the region still figures into it all the time. I truly have tried to live alliteratively.

Every line has a life of its own. Every life has a line of its own. Robb Wiggins, a line-giver for sure, my crush in seventh grade. There used to be prose poems I loved, but I, like Wrigley, have no impulse now to write one. Nor to spend another evening sharing shrimp bites, faded photos, looks. Sound drives the poem,. Cusa, in the lower grades, used to sport a wave of jet-black hair.

In poetry nothing is used up, or ever gone. The list is read: But here we stand to tell what we have done these 50 years. Except Marie who has a cane. There are no cliques, no snubs, no lies. There are no rules. We ate them all. Nancy Bailey Miller has published four books of poems: Her poetry has been published in many journals including Rattapallax , Blue Unicorn , and the online journal Poetry Porch: When she is not dancing with her writing muse, Nancy plays first violin in Reading Symphony and string quartets whenever possible.

He light a cigarette, a spark sets scales off in the sea.

Sun in the Night: The Poems of Art Poems & Assemblage // Sample Chapter

His lines cast into the dark. As if by ceremony he could shirk his sleepless night, or convince me his lines cast out into the dark. He has authored three books of poetry: From a young age, boys play soldiers.

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Little army plastic figures, fight one another as the boys make sound effects. The war takes to the backyard and the boys pretend to fight with each other, rolling in the grass, playing dead. Little did they know, a few years later, this would be a reality. The noises they pretended to make, would be more terrifying, and watching buddies die, would change their lives forever. The boys wear a real uniform and a hat that goes with it or a helmet.

The color blends in with the earth. One must protect that. They are guarded, ready to shoot for what they believe in or not. Fighting for a freedom, they never had. They could have died, if caught playing soldiers. Each night the riderless horse appears, saddle strapped to his back, stirrups flying, froth in his mouth, lips pressed against his teeth.

No way to catch him, grab the reins, as he careens into the yard but I know it is my job. And I need to dodge his kick, bring him back to the barn. I have no skills, no gift, no way with a horse. Where is the hot walker, horse expert to cool him down, curry him, walk him in the ring? I try to coax the chestnut, my palm up, empty. He snorts and paws the ground. I wish I knew what to say to calm him down. I put down my whip, pull on one boot. He must be fed, but what? Nothing picked from the garden, nothing that can be named.


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Her work has also appeared in several anthologies, including Merrimack: An Anthology and Raising Lilly Ledbetter: Women Poets Occupy the Workspace. She has taught creative writing and composition and worked as a librarian. Where the boats come in. Where the boats go out. At the pile of rocks that swallows the sun at the end of the day. In front of the hot-dog stand.

At the door to the pub. But today is today, everywhere I look. And I look everywhere. She teaches poetry at Emerson College and at Grub Street and lives with her husband in Newton, where they raised their three children. You can find out more about her writing at www. It may not be good history, but I have to imagine the paintings were done by a woman. A woman who knew what she wanted and wanted to misbehave for the ages. Originally from South Jersey, she lives in Massachusetts with her husband.

You can find her online at elizabethmooreauthor. Today the hope comes again unbidden— On these high rocks what could be more divine Than to see an eagle soar near heaven. Then would she know, then would she have her sign. As she hikes, the sky is crisp and cloud-clear. Though in all that she sees no eagles fly, Still, on the breeze a common crow glides near. His wings glisten blue-black, then a loud cry, She stands watch, feels an echo in the bone.

Her heart opens a path to a root knowing. This common crow in his own way has shown What she grasped once but lost in the going. To equally embrace eagle and crow, This is the true sign, this much she must know. Originally published in upstreet A memoir piece, "Finding Charles," appears in Persimmon Tree. Several of her poems are found in Women's Voices of the 21st Century Her chapbook, Time's Tyranny , was published in the fall of She, her husband, and their black lab, Sly, divide their time between Greenwich, Connecticut and the Berkshires in Massachusetts.

It will stay with me as words begin to form around it and I am compelled to write it down. Lately I am inspired more often than not by images in nature, all around me, mostly in the Berkshire hills where I spend much of time. Place a box of tissues between you. Do not turn on the TV. Do not shatter the silence around you. Listen to your father sigh. Listen to your father sob.

Hand your father a tissue whenever necessary. Ask him if he wants some food. Ask him if he wants some water. Ask him if he wants to take a walk. Do not press him when he says no to everything. Remember the one thing he wants is impossible to give him. Let more time pass. It belongs to him. Do not tell your father what the hospice nurse told you: When the sun sets, gather the darkened room around your shoulders like a cloak.

Used by permission of the author. From she served as the poet laureate of Northampton, Massachusetts. Summers at the zoo in Baltimore the elephants are given watermelons. Pleasure goes rippling through their tough hides. The melons are so cool and green, they love them. They wrap their trunks around them, raise them up and smash them on the hard-packed earth. There is a saying: So these elephants have got it in them now to build a Taj Mahal. All for love they store up reservoirs of dawns. Illustrious projects stem from their delight.

The elephants grow big with what's alive in their great hearts, that hard, bright seed—the sun! Alabama November, the ginkgo tree fans a few of its yellow leaves over the still green zoysia and we rake the sweet gum balls and oak leaves onto the bright blue tarp under the bright blue sky in air we still could not call crisp, being Yankees accustomed to cold that leaves our breath settling on our lashes. Jesus is done working overtime. And if you have a fish emblem on your car, you should damn well drive politely. She teaches at Westfield State University, in Westfield, MA, and lives there with her husband and two wild and crazy dogs.


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She lives in Cambridge with her husband and son. I want to follow them down the trails they take through the woods,. I want to go where they go, down to the stream where maples have laid out a bed of crimson leaves. His chapbook, "Driving Lessons" was put out by Pudding House in He is a graduate of Columbia University's School of the Arts in poetry, and from time to time leads poetry writing workshops on Martha's Vineyard.

Farmer's Market and Jam Session at Noon Sharp baby onions at the farmer's market — booths hosting bins of strawberries. A friend appears, she can play a hot djembe at noon. We sit under a tent. The slow beat rises like a raven. With my flute pressed to my lips, I summon a chant.

Someone murmurs that we soothe - soaring chants over noon's parking lots. Mango is the King of Fruit for my father The T. The Very Darkness The hallway light, I point out somewhat truculently, superfluously, is out. They Fell Without Color No call for the orange, the yellow, the red A meal without savor, a soup without bread A cake without candles, an unnoticed birth Bare lonely shelves in the pantry of earth A soul without chocolate, or feeling or care A sigh in the moonlight, but no one is there They fell without music, with yawning, with gaps Left holes in the city, woke babies from naps They fell with a silence that nobody heard They set off no crackle, exploded no bird They fell like a heartache, a mystical thing They shriveled like saints, like prayers you can't sing They fell in the morning, were gone by the eve No eye marked their turning, by nightfall they leave They drop like the hour, the loss of the sun They drop like the rainstorm, dark to our sight They wrinkle and brown and crumble and fall And scuttle in gutters, a brown boneless ball And leave us alone through a long starless night To ponder a year with the season undone.

Paper Route Ogallala, Nebraska. Published in The Atlanta Review. My mom wakes me in the middle of the night. They are laughing for a brief second of nervous excitement. Need The way numbers shift, dates, data: Snowblind Sunday morning, snow. I sit in a white-lit room, looking through white lace curtains at the white-draped houses and cars and trees of Tonawanda Street. What is the language for this white light, cold state, this steady fall of winter: I condemn Israel for bombing Gaza, while on the Boston streets where I live young men are shooting each other and I close my eyes, hope not to be in the line of fire or ricochet.

Somme Armor From teapot tanks, gun-barreled short and stout, No steam, no Earl Grey came, but fire poured out. Hadley Graveyard, Heat Wave Heat turns air to water, earth to sea, graves to portholes of ships without sails becalmed beneath grass and granite. The dead sail away past bicycle pumps and basketball nets, stubs of mountain, dried-up streams, rivulets of sweat, mailboxes, numbers, dates and names, headstones baking like bread. The Rain remembers the water in us, falls silver under streetlamps on the other side of the street. His umbrella blooms like a black flower. On a lit porch his wife waits for their child to come home.

There are rivers inside us all, blue branches flowing toward the heart and the rain falls and goes on falling streaming across the night as it carries us back to the wide, dark sea. Originally published in The Lindenwood Review. Looking Up In the beginning, there was a long pause. Write a customer review. There's a problem loading this menu right now. Learn more about Amazon Prime. Get fast, free shipping with Amazon Prime. Get to Know Us. English Choose a language for shopping. Explore the Home Gift Guide. Amazon Music Stream millions of songs.

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