Shamelessly Sublime Saturday Poem
Written on 10:09 AM by Unknown
There is nothing to write about today but blue expanse
and the orange marigolds at my feet
and the new grass. What else could there be? What
can one do when the transcendent happens?
You just have to surrender. That’s what Baudelaire,
Prévert and O’Hara, too, understood
in their cosmopolitan way. I know
this is not what you want to hear,
but there’s no use denying the world.
and the orange marigolds at my feet
and the new grass. What else could there be? What
can one do when the transcendent happens?
You just have to surrender. That’s what Baudelaire,
Prévert and O’Hara, too, understood
in their cosmopolitan way. I know
this is not what you want to hear,
but there’s no use denying the world.
And we may not end up happy, but for now
just try to see the four shades of maroon
in the Japanese maple, the ninebark,
my old Corolla and the brick stoop. Even
the clutter of hoses, brooms, umbrellas and disheveled matches
make their own duende.
just try to see the four shades of maroon
in the Japanese maple, the ninebark,
my old Corolla and the brick stoop. Even
the clutter of hoses, brooms, umbrellas and disheveled matches
make their own duende.
The sun and the earth, full of light,
rake out the sins of summer
and let the raisin air
penetrate driveways
and the hides of dogs and houses.
And miraculous glass, letting gold pour through windows
into your bed.
rake out the sins of summer
and let the raisin air
penetrate driveways
and the hides of dogs and houses.
And miraculous glass, letting gold pour through windows
into your bed.
All the poets are right.
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