Poemunity — your poem community

LXVI. Upon the Disobedient Child. Children become, while little, our delights, When they grow bigger, they begin to fright's. Their sinful Nature prompts them to rebel, And to delight in Paths that lead to Hell. Their Parents Love, and Care, they overlook, As if Relation had them quite forsook. They take the Counsels of the Wanton's rather, Then the most grave Instructions of a Father. They reckon Parents ought to do for them, Tho they the Fifth Commandement contemn. They snap, and snarl, if Parents them controul, Tho but in things, most hurtful to the Soul. They reckon they are Masters, and that we, Who Parents are, should to them Subject be! If Parents fain would have a hand in chusing, The Children have a heart will in refusing. They'l by wrong doings, under Parents, gather And say, it is no Sin to rob a Father, They'l jostle Parents out of place and Pow'r, They'l make themselves the Head, and them devour. How many Children, by becoming Head, Have brought their Parents to a peice of Bread! Thus they who at the first were Parents Joy, Turn that to Bitterness, themselves destroy. But Wretched Child, how canst thou thus requite Thy Aged Parents, for that great delight They took in thee, when thou, as helpless lay In their Indulgent Bosoms day by day? Thy Mother, long before she brought thee forth, Took care thou should'st want, neither Food, nor Cloth. Thy Father glad was at his very heart, Had he, to thee, a Portion to impart. Comfort they promised themselves in thee, But thou, it seems, to them a Grief wil't be. How oft! How willingly brake they their Sleep, If thou, their Bantling, didst but whinch or weep. Their Love to thee was such, they could have giv'n, That thou might'st live, almost, their part of Heav'n. But now, behold, how they rewarded are! For their Indulgent Love, and tender Care, All is forgot, this Love he doth despise, They brought this Bird up to pick out their Eyes.

To see both blended in one flood, The mothers’ milk, the children’s blood, Makes me doubt if heaven will gather Roses hence, or lilies rather.

I have lost, and lately, these Many dainty mistresses: Stately Julia, prime of all; Sappho next, a principal; Smooth Anthea, for a skin White, and heaven-like crystalline; Sweet Electra, and the choice Myrrha, for the lute, and voice; Next, Corinna, for her wit, And the graceful use of it; With Perilla; all are gone; Only Herrick's left alone For to number sorrow by Their departures hence, and die.

LXXII. Upon Time and Eternity. Eternity is like unto a Ring. Time, like to Measure, doth it self extend; Measure commences, is a finite thing. The Ring has no beginning, middle, end.

i look into the noise          mouth paper thin my tongue a scatter of forgotten belongings extinguishes the heat of home *once, my mother plagued a painting       swept oceanic throughout the dreams of a brown man in lower manhattan         three years later           she sun rose in california        swan dove into an oblique woman there are days i forget my name my name  i forget my claim    this kind of fire       that strikes black bodies into fever spliff        clean        cleaner, still   ain’t no mountain of needles or glass        pipes large enough to tow away my body       today, my mouth is a tomb      of the things people forget      such a power my maw, this spill wonder, this rapture of psalm      ain’t no way             I let the sun                      set us afire        again

A Curious Knot God made in Paradise, And drew it out inamled neatly Fresh. It was the True-Love Knot, more sweet than spice And set with all the flowres of Graces dress. Its Weddens Knot, that ne're can be unti'de. No Alexanders Sword can it divide. The slips here planted, gay and glorious grow: Unless an Hellish breath do sindge their Plumes. Here Primrose, Cowslips, Roses, Lilies blow With Violets and Pinkes that voide perfumes. Whose beautious leaves ore laid with Hony Dew. And Chanting birds Cherp out sweet Musick true. When in this Knot I planted was, my Stock Soon knotted, and a manly flower out brake. And after it my branch again did knot Brought out another Flowre its sweet breath’d mate. One knot gave one tother the tothers place. Whence Checkling smiles fought in each others face. But oh! a glorious hand from glory came Guarded with Angells, soon did Crop this flowere Which almost tore the root up of the same At that unlookt for, Dolesome, darksome houre. In Pray're to Christ perfum'de it did ascend, And Angells bright did it to heaven tend. But pausing on't, this sweet perfum'd my thought, Christ would in Glory have a Flowre, Choice, Prime, And having Choice, chose this my branch forth brought. Lord, take't. I thanke thee, thou takst ought of mine, It is my pledg in glory, part of mee Is now in it, Lord, glorifi'de with thee. But praying ore my branch, my branch did sprout And bore another manly flower, and gay And after that another, sweet brake out, The which the former hand soon got away. But oh! the tortures, Vomit, screechings, groans, And six weeks fever would pierce hearts like stones. Griefe o're doth flow: and nature fault would finde Were not thy Will, my Spell, Charm, Joy, and Gem: That as I said, I say, take, Lord, they're thine. I piecemeale pass to Glory bright in them. In joy, may I sweet Flowers for Glory breed, Whether thou getst them green, or lets them seed.

Roads around mountains cause we can’t drive through That’s Poetry to Me.

Even though it’s May & the ice cream truck parked outside my apartment is somehow certain, I have a hard time believing winter is somehow, all of a sudden, over —the worst one of my life, the woman at the bank tells me. Though I’d like to be, it’s impossible to be prepared for everything. Even the mundane hum of my phone catches me off guard today. Every voice that says my name is a voice I don’t think I could possibly leave (it’s unfair to not ask for the things you need) even though I think about it often, even though leaving is a train headed somewhere I’d probably hate. Crossing Lyndale to meet a friend for coffee I have to maneuver around a hearse that pulled too far into the crosswalk. It’s empty. Perhaps spring is here. Perhaps it will all be worth it. Even though I knew even then it was worth it, staying, I mean. Even now, there is someone, somehow, waiting for me.

for Walt Whitman Besides the obvious technological and architectural advances, only one thing has really changed between our generations: We now live in an America where blacks are not only allowed the right to vote but can become the Redeemer President of the United States Otherwise, we still live in an America where the audacity to openly enjoy the pleasures of sex and being respected for wisdom are contradictions without reconciliation We still live in an America where the economy collapses while the masses are consumed with preventing the rights of anyone with a fancy for anything out of the ordinary We still live in an America where rotting leaves, tufts of straw, and debris are found in more homes than poetry books We still live in an America where Christ and Dracula provide both excitement and fear for restless lives longing for a simple touch We still live in an America where the impact of urbanization reaches out to the common person more than the obscene nature of poetry We still live in an America where writing about prostitution is considered trashy and profane We still live in an America where poets have to work while publishing to survive financial difficulty unless they are fashioned like Shakespeare We still live in an America where, unless you belong to a church, you are a religious skeptic believing in nothing We still live in an America where overt sexuality, siding with the barnburners, and authoring disreputable books limit poets to a vagabond lifestyle We still live in an America where breaking tradition and the boundaries of poetic form are considered the trademarks of a pretentious ass We still live in an America where everything from thieves to dwarfs to fog to beetles deserve validity We still live in an America where books cannot prevent war and the sick and wounded need healing We still live in an America where not everyone can appreciate the beauty of immigration, crowded streets, brutal differences, urban affection We still live in an America where the same sun that once invigorated your passion continues to provide us with the beauty of life worth fighting for We still live in an America where America still lives in us

1 Adrift in the middle of my years, I sit in a corner and drink. I eavesdrop a tableful of girls romancing their cell phones, workshopping love’s abstract particulars, while football plays on the big screen; I listen like a thief in case the women know the score. But I never could tell. At fulltime I walk home like a motherless child. 2 Witness is a solitary game. There isn’t a thing I have left to say but back in my room I ring like a singing bowl, empty and unable to stop. You’re in nine kinds of pain, my friend; you know the twenty-seven strains of despair. And your lovely hair has fallen. The moon at my window is a rusted shot, caught in its corrupt trajectory down. 3 The world was always someone else’s oyster, a metaphor I never could prise open. All I’m good for tonight is to let the night pass, while beyond me the world peters and my friend fights beautifully like a trout on god’s line. The usual idiots are still in power. But they’ll keep.