@tinyghosts - Tumblr Blog

kafk-a

aguard1ente

Lunch Poems / Frank O’Hara

—St Paul and all that

brightdeadthing

Come. And Be My Baby, Maya Angelou

nevershootamockingbird

[ Begin ID: A poem that reads "The highway is full of big cars going nowhere fast And folks is smoking anything that'll burn Some people wrap their lives around a cocktail glass And you sit wondering where you're going to turn. I got it. Come. And be my baby.

Some prophets say the world is gonna end tomorrow But others say we've got a week or two The paper is full of every kind of blooming horror And you sit wondering What you're gonna do. I got it. Come. And be my baby." / End ID ]

havingapoemwithyou

Hollywood Clockwise by Natalie Shapero

havingapoemwithyou

The City Limits by A. R. Ammons

echo-temporis

Evening Sun by Jane Kenyon

ihopeuwill

All the years of my life I thought I was searching for love I found, retrospectively, to be years where I was simply trying to recover what had been lost, to return to the first home, to get back the rapture of first love. I was not really ready to love or be loved in the present. I was still mourning-- clinging to the broken heart of girlhood, to broken connections.

from All About Love: New Visions, bell hooks

weltenwellen

Wildness Before Something Sublime Leila Chatti

flowerytale

Virginia Woolf, from The Waves

hazardsoflove-archive-deactivat

that wilfred owen poem about everyone kissing the crucifix but he kisses the hands of the boy whos holding it hits HARD not sure why but damn

hazardsoflove-archive-deactivat

found it....

apoemaday

Adult Grief

by Louise Glück

Because you were foolish enough to love one place, now you are homeless, an orphan in a succession of shelters. You did not prepare yourself sufficiently. Before your eyes, two people were becoming old; I could have told you two deaths were coming. There has never been a parent kept alive by a child's love.

Now, of course, it's too late -- you were trapped in the romance of fidelity. You kept going back, clinging to two people you hardly recognized after what they'd endured.

If once you could have saved yourself, now that time's past: you were obstinate, pathetically blind to change. Now you have nothing: for you, home is a cemetery. I've seen you press your face against the granite markers -- you are the lichen, trying to grow there. But you will not grow, you will not let yourself obliterate anything.