Those Winter Sundays (Robert Hayden)

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. 

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he'd call, 

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him, 

who had driven out the cold 

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know 

of love's austere and lonely offices? 

When Death Comes (Mary Oliver)

When death comes

like the hungry bear in Autumn

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut,

when death comes

like the measle-pox;

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,

tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth

When it is over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Why Are Your Poems So Dark (Linda Pastan)

Isn't the moon dark too

most of the time?

And doesn't the white page 

seem unfinished

without the dark stain

of alphabets?

When God demanded light

he didn't banish darkness. 

Instead he invented

ebony and crows

and that small mole

on your left cheekbone. 

Or did you mean to ask,

"Why are you sad so often?"

Ask the moon.

Ask what it has witnessed.

Night Herons (Mary Oliver)

Some herons
were fishing
in the robes
of the night

at a low hour
of the water's body,
and the fish, I suppose,
were full

of fish happiness
in those transparent inches
even as, over and over,
the beaks jacked down

and the narrow
bodies were lifted
with every
quick sally,

and that was the end of them
as far as we know_
though, what do we know 
except that death

is so everywhere and so entire-
pummeling and felling,
or sometimes,
like this, appearing

through such a thin door-
one stab, and you're through!
and what then?
Why, then it was almost morning,

and one by one 
the birds
opened their wings
and flew. 

no help for that (Charles Bukowski)

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

a space

and even during the 
best moments
and
the greatest
times

we will know it

we will know it
more than 
ever

there will be a place in the heart that

will never be filled
and

we will wait
and
wait

in that space.

I Own a House (Mary Oliver)

 I own a house, small but comfortable. In it is a bed, a desk, 

a kitchen, a closet, a telephone. And so forth - you know

how it is; things collect. 

Outside the summer clouds are drifting by, all of them

with vague and beautiful faces. And there are the pines

that bush out spicy and ambitious, although they do not

even know their names. And there is the mockingbird;

over and over he rises from his thorn-tree and dances - he

actually dances, in the air. And there are days I wish I

owned nothing, like the grass. 

The Gift (Mary Oliver)

 Be still, my soul, and steadfast.

Earth and heaven both are still watching

though time is draining from the clock

and your walk, that was confident and quick

has become slow.

So, be slow if you must, but let

the heart still play its true part.

Love still as once you loved, deeply

and without patience. Let God and the world

know you are grateful.

That gift has been given. 

Storage (Mary Oliver)

When I moved from one house to another

there were many things I had no room

for. What does one do? I rented a storage

space. And filled it. Years passed. 

Occasionally I went there and looked in,

but nothing happened, not a single

twinge of the heart. 

As I grew older the things I cared

about grew fewer, but were more 

important, So one day I undid the lock

and called the trash man. He took

everything. 

I felt like the little donkey when

his burden is finally lifted. Things!

Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful

fire! More room in your heart for love, 

for the trees! For the birds who own

nothing-the reason they can fly. 

The World I Live In (Mary Oliver)

 I have refused to live

locked in the orderly house of

     reason and proofs.

The world I live in and believe in

is wider than that. And anyway,

     what's wrong with Maybe?

You wouldn't believe what once or

twice I have seen. I'll just

     tell you this:

only if there are angels in your head will you

     ever possibly, see one. 

This Morning (Mary Oliver)

This morning the redbirds's eggs

have hatched and already the chicks

are chirping for food. They don't

know where it's coming from, they

just keep shouting, "More! More!"

As to anything else, they haven't

had a single thought. Their eyes

haven't yet opened, they know nothing

about the sky that's waiting. Or

 the thousands, the millions of trees.

They don't even know they have wings.

And just like that, like a simple 

neighborhood event, a miracle is 

taking place.

First Lesson (Philip Booth)

 Lie back daughter, let your head

be tipped back in the cup of my hand.

Gently, and I will hold you. Spread

your arms wide, lie out on the stream

and look high at the gulls. You will dive

and swim soon enough where this tidewater 

ebbs to the sea. Daughter, believe

me, when you tire on the long thrash 

to your island, lie up, and survive, 

As you float now, remember when fear

cramps your heart what I told you, 

lie gently and wide to the light-year

stars, lie back, and the sea will hold you.