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Mushrooms

m1   m2   m3   m4   m5   m6   m7   m8

                                

MUSHROOMS

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.

–Sylvia Plath 

P 1

 

P 2

The Beehive

The Beehive

(title by Little Pie, 6 years old)

Thistledown Fairies

 

F3

F1

F2

 

“Tink was not all bad:  or rather, she was all bad just now, but, on the other hand, sometimes she was all good.  Fairies have to be one thing or the other because being so small they unfortunately have room for one feeling only at a time. ” — J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

5

5a for C (Texture)

 

5b for G (Color)

Texture for Chessman

Color for George.

;-)

LP’s Favorites

Favorites

 

And they light up, too, all those sequins. . . .

So much for gender-neutrality!

:-)

Pink Peony in White

Pink Peony in White

 

Peonies

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open —
pools of lace,
white and pink —
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities —
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?

                                     Mary Oliver

                           (from New and Selected Poems)

 

That I might fly away

F1

 

WINGS

by

Susan Stewart

If you could have wings would you want them?

           I don’t know.

I mean, if you could use them to fly, would you want them?

           Yes, if I could fly.

But they would be really big.

           How big?

They might brush against your knees as you walked, or be bigger than some doorways.
And what if you couldn’t even take them off?

          I still would want them.

If you couldn’t take them off, even if you were going somewhere, or going to bed, or eating at a table, or you wanted to pick someone up, you could never take them off?

          Yes, I would. I would still want them.

Because you could fly?

          Yes, because of the flying.

And if they were heavy, and even if no one else had them, and even if your children and their children didn’t have them?

          Yes, I think so.

But you would still have arms and hands and legs, and you could still speak, but you had wings, too. You would want the wings, too?

          Yes, I would want the wings, too.

And when you were walking around, people would stare at you, and they wouldn’t necessarily understand that you could fly?

          I understand. I understand that they wouldn’t understand.

Or if people thought they meant something, something they didn’t really mean?

          I would know what the wings were for.

And if you had them, forever—the forever, I mean, that is your life, you would still want them?

         Yes, I would want them. I would take them, so long as I could fly.

that I might fly away

         that I might fly away where the ships

                    that I might fly away where the ships of pine wood pass between the dark cliffs

                                                                                    *

                       

The American Poetry ReviewVol. 28 No. 4

Source:  http://www.aprweb.org/poem/wings

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