Caged Bird

By Maya Angelou

A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Football for Dummies

By Marge Piercy

Among my husbands and lovers
I had never before lived
with a sports fan. Hockey
he does not follow, but base-
ball, basketball, football, all
in their seasons consume him.
I had to share something,

baseball is too slow.  Basket-
ball goes on months
and months, interminably,
a herd of skinny giants
running back and forth myst-
erious as a flock of swallows
wheeling together at twilight.

But football: Ir's only sixteen
Sundays and maybe playoffs.
That seemed reasonable.  I
bought a book. Now every
Sunday in season I stare
avidly while huge millionaires
collide like rival rhinoceros.

When we watch the Super
Bowl with groups of men
and I explained a nickel
back they gaze at me
with esoteric lust. I
look only at the screen.
Football, it is mine. 

The Poetry Richard Milhous Nixon

Compiled by Jack S. Margolis

THE POSITION

The position is
To withhold
Information
And to cover up
This is
Totally true.
You could say
This is
Totally untrue.

TOGETHER

We are all
In it
Together.
We take
A few shots
And
It will be over.
Don’t worry.
I wouldn’t
Want to be
On the other side
Right now.

IN THE END

In the end
We are going
To be bled
To death.
And in the end,
It is all going
To come out anyway.
Then you get the worst
Of both worlds.

The chapbook was originally published in 1974 from direct exercpts from the Watergate tapes.  It was partially republished by the Paris Review in 2015.  

Ode To The Things I'll Get To Tomorrow

By Kwame Alexander

Here's to my treadmill,
incomplete without the sound of slapping feet.

Eating healthy, getting abs
But chips and chocolate up for grabs

Oh, banana pudding from the deli
How did you get inside my belly?

I was a vegetarian
All the way to 10 AM

My goals quickly turned to apathy
At least I eat happily

People acting all highfalutin
'Cause they said they've sworn off gluten

Why do my resolutions fail?
Why can't I just eat that kale?

What makes me want to poke my fork
Into that plate of spiced pulled pork.

Why do I shun vegan potpourri,
After I resolve to go fat free.

I think I shall, come next new year,
Vow no more pizza, no more beer.

Then perhaps I might instead,
Choose green tea and pita bread.

To the pounds I vow each year to lose,
Each time a few more from which to choose.

To stop feeding my Krispy Kreme addiction.
To watch less news. Read more fiction.

To the running shoes gathering dust by the back door.
To the unfinished dissertation I habitually ignore.

To all the papers I did not grade,
To all the beds I never made. 

Though I promised to timely fold,
Laundry in the dryer lays there cold.

I resolve to not procrastinate.
I'll start tomorrow. Is that too late?

Junk mail towers, a teetering stack.
The will to sort it I clearly lack.

New resume, that's what I want!
Alas, can't find the perfect font.

O! Sweet tenor ukulele, last year's Holiday treasure
You filled my heart with Sunshine songs, in spite of ill wind weather

A year gone by, on wistful sigh, no lessons and no learning
A lifetime worth of unsung Soul, such longing and such yearning

Every year I vow to change the world before I die.
Every year the world changes and I didn't even try

Every year, since giving birth I vow, "no longer will I curse."
But dammit, I'm a parent!

From all the speeding I do that is not legal,
To the sister-in-law I still love to needle

I resolved to be ever so nice and kind
On January 2nd I changed my mind.

Promised myself I would write this couplet.
Sorry to say, it just isn't done yet.

Sure, my 2020 goals are going just fine —
I'd get'em all done....if I could just find the time.

The long walks I promised to my dog.
The men at bars I would not snog.

Long morning runs in lifting fog.
Calorie counting in this food log.

Candidates for office I should uplift
With walks and calls and poll place shifts

Grocery shopping with more thrift
The long lost friends, your misplaced gifts

Bills, please pay yourself on time!
To all of you I send these rhymes.

Worry not, I have a notion:
I can fix this with a potion

Gather the coals, the cauldron set
Add in three fresh drops of sweat

A chicken egg not yet hatched
Prescription pills finally fetched

Sprig of flowers not yet bloomed
More home cooking fills the room

And lastly here, the secret seed
That dead goldfish I didn't feed

I free you from your frozen disposition
The uncleaned refrigerator in my kitchen

And one day soon I'll drink this stout
After I take my sweet dog out.


A "community poem" first published by NPR.

Right

 By Marjorie Maddox

of rites of passage,

even celebration unlocking—

behind the already unlocked doors—

such triggers of rage, l’chaim switch-

knifed into Mourner’s Kaddish

accompanied by guns. What

traditions unearthed by this

embattled world? What

ancient rites revived

for the newly dead?

Marjorie Maddox is the winner of America Magazine’s 2019 Foley Poetry Prize and Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lock Haven University, Marjorie Maddox has published 11 collections of poetry—including Transubstantiation (Yellowglen Prize);  None of the Above (Illumination Book Award Medalist); and Perpendicular As I (Sandstone Book Award). She is also the author of the short story collection What She Was Saying, four children’s books, and she is an editor of Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania  and Presence.  Her website is www.marjoriemaddox.com. 

Suicide Poem

By Michelle Tea

all of my friends have such complete control
over their lives. they can kill themselves
any time they want to. right now
laurie can jump out my open window
or she can get up and go to the bathroom.
erich can swallow cleanser. peter
can hang himself. another can take her
new gun and tilt it into her mouth's
wet hollow. the many with their sharp
things can just keep going. they could
tear a vein and they'd know exactly
what they were doing, having taught
themselves they body as sure and any surgeon.
if they want it they can have it.
they know it and they keep themselves
alive, all by themselves.
it seems so huge. it seems impossible.
it seems like more of them would be gone.
all things considered i think i will
just stay quiet and let them wear
their dysfunctions like feather boas.

Scars

By Tina Isom-Carey

I’ve come too far for you not to respect
my scars. 

Pages left unturned happiness passed up
because lessons never learned.

I go back to the same mistakes repeatedly,
conceitedly thinking I will succeed.

You see, 

I come come a bloodline of
Warriors 
Peacekeepers
Leaders 
Healers 

I will never give up on humanity no matter
what it throws at me, I wear my scars
with pride, it reminds me of what I have
Endured
Withstood
Resisted
Survived

to see them is what keeps me alive.

 Tina Isom-Carey is a personal chef and a long-time writer and love of poetry. She spent her childhood in Knoxville, Tennessee, and went to high school in San Diego, California. She became a permanent resident of Virginia Beach, Virginia in the early 90’s.

"PITY THE NATION"

(After Khalil Gibran)
By Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Pity the nation whose people are sheep
And whose shepherds mislead them
Pity the nation whose leaders are liars
Whose sages are silenced
And whose bigots haunt the airwaves
Pity the nation that raises not its voice
Except to praise conquerers
And acclaim the bully as hero
And aims to rule the world
By force and by torture
Pity the nation that knows
No other language but its own
And no other culture but its own
Pity the nation whose breath is money
And sleeps the sleep of the too well fed
Pity the nation oh pity the people
who allow their rights to erode
and their freedoms to be washed away
My country, tears of thee
Sweet land of liberty!

Ars Poetica

By Jose Olivarez

Migration is derived from the word “migrate,” which is a verb defined by Merriam-Webster as “to move from one country, place, or locality to another.” Plot twist: migration never ends. My parents moved from Jalisco, México to Chicago in 1987. They were dislocated from México by capitalism, and they arrived in Chicago just in time to be dislocated by capitalism. Question: is migration possible if there is no “other” land to arrive in. My work: to imagine. My family started migrating in 1987 and they never stopped. I was born mid-migration. I’ve made my home in that motion. Let me try again: I tried to become American, but America is toxic. I tried to become Mexican, but México is toxic. My work: to do more than reproduce the toxic stories I inherited and learned. In other words: just because it is art doesn’t mean it is inherently nonviolent. My work: to write poems that make my people feel safe, seen, or otherwise loved. My work: to make my enemies feel afraid, angry, or otherwise ignored. My people: my people. My enemies: capitalism. Susan Sontag: “victims are interested in the representation of their own 
sufferings.” Remix: survivors are interested in the representation of their own survival. My work: survival. Question: Why poems? Answer:

The Thing Is

to love life, to love it even

when you have no stomach for it

and everything you’ve held dear

crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,

your throat filled with the silt of it.

When grief sits with you, its tropical heat

thickening the air, heavy as water

more fit for gills than lungs;

when grief weights you down like your own flesh

only more of it, an obesity of grief,

you think, How can a body withstand this?

Then you hold life like a face

between your palms, a plain face,

no charming smile, no violet eyes,

and you say, yes, I will take you

I will love you, again.

By Ellen Bass

The Game Between the Jews and the Indians is Tied Going Into the Bottom of the Ninth Inning

By Sherman Alexie

So, now, when you touch me
my skin, will you think
of Sand Creek, Wounded Knee?
And what will you remember

when your skin is next to mine
Auschwitz, Buchenwald?
No, we will only think of the past
as one second before

where we are now, the future
just one second ahead
but every once in a while
we can remind each other

that we are both survivors and children
and grandchildren of survivors.

If One More Person Asks Me "Are you still writing"

I want to snarl
“do you still breathe?”
Or have you decided
you are tired of
doing it, have found
other less boring
ways to spend your
time. Do I still
write? as if it was
something I chose
like ordering
cappuccino  instead
of café au lait.
Do you still feed
your cat or dog? Do
you still bathe?
And what about that
baby you’ve got
inside that carriage,
is it wearing the
same diaper it wore
its first day?

By Lyn Lifshin

Hospital Writing Workshop

By Rafael Campo

Arriving late, my clinic having run
past 6 again, I realize I don’t
have cancer, don’t have HIV, like them,
these students who are patients, who I lead
in writing exercises, reading poems.
For them, this isn’t academic, it’s
reality: I ask that they describe
an object right in front of them, to make
it come alive, and one writes about death,
her death, as if by just imagining
the softness of its skin, its panting rush
into her lap, that she might tame it; one
observes instead the love he lost, he’s there,
beside him in his gown and wheelchair,
together finally again. I take
a good, long breath; we’re quiet as newborns.
The little conference room grows warm, and right
before my eyes, I see that what I thought
unspeakable was more than this, was hope.

Happiness

By Jane Kenyon

There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.

It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

Wildflowers

By Dolly Parton

The hills were alive with wildflowers
And I was as wild, even wilder than they
For at least I could run, they just died in the sun
And I refused to just wither in place
Just a wild mountain rose, needing freedom to grow
So I ran fearing not where I'd go
When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers don't care where they grow
And the flowers I knew in the fields where I grew
Were content to be lost in the crowd
They were common and close, I had no room for growth
I wanted so much to branch out
I uprooted myself from home ground and left
Took my dreams and I took to the road
When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers don't care where they grow
I grew up fast and wild and I never felt right
In a garden so different from me
I just never belonged, I just longed to be gone
So the garden, one day, set me free
Hitched a ride with the wind and since he was my friend
I just let him decide where we'd go
When a flower grows wild, it can always survive
Wildflowers don't care where they grow

my miracle now

By Anita Jeffries 

or i swear i’m gonna burn this motherfucker down.

doctor don’t think i’ll do it. he say real

girls like boys. you sure you real?  he say he use

science, but i know he a witch. he say

hormone pills take first-borns, second-borns,

every spark after. if that ain’t Rumpelstiltskin

type shit, if that ain’t twisted white magic

type shit then call me barren. call me

fish. call myself easier to find

in mirrors. sperm banks can save kids

for a price. they sterilized black girls once. still do.

get caught dreaming. i’m broke. pills ain’t cheap.

i walk outside to breathe. men call me tranny.

i necromance my dead and buried name.

___

i unbirth my bright and pulsing name.

i unopen. a boy armors my

receding skin. pass like my yellow great uncle

down south. bite down. the family tradition

pools on our tongues. inheritance. sheep

in wolf’s clothing. find a predator’s corpse.

wear its skin. sharpen our herbivore teeth. howl.

hope the cis don’t find us. hope the whites

don’t find us. hope power don’t smell

the undeniable prey in our blood. at least

women won’t shield their children from the sight

of me. at least men won’t chase till no home

is mine. at least packs of boys won’t tooth, claw, prove

they’re strong, i’m unwanted, we are not kin.

___

they’re strong. we’re unwanted. we could be kin

if they didn’t do you like Dead Black Trans Girl

Number— a therapist told me it’s “not healthy”

to keep count. light protection candles.

flames lick my fingers raw. wax builds

on altars. the girls’ good, yellow light goes

missing by morning. prayer is a scam.

the funny men make tranny jokes the day

she dies. somebody made a hashtag.

where’s my black girl magic now? if sorcery be

make me dark spell, necromance sisters

from dead-named graves, magic a murder of girls

ungone, crown me lich matron, undying,

make me real and mother to some good thing.

___

imagine me, real and mother of some

good one: my reflection, simply mine.

the boys still ain’t shit but now i get less

death threats around my block. the gender reveal

party happens after my kid lets me know

what their gender is. the party is lit.

like candles on an altar. i burn

my fingers lighting my child’s favorite cake.

i ask, what is your wish?  they say i wish

you stayed unreal, chose me. flames melt my child,

my body, and everything i love to nightmare.

dream home, and all its light will be

missing by morning. smoke’s surrounding. i’m

swallowed whole, grasping for my almost-child.

___

swallow the hormone pills whole. almost-child

is gasping, desperate for first breath. i told dad

i’m queer. he said he really wanted

grandchildren. once, i really wanted

a father. this isn’t healthy. i keep count

anyway. a murder of girls caws

at my altar. i keep on raising my dead

name so i don’t join them. magic myself

smoke, bleach: my good yellow undone. men still

call me tranny. we could’ve been kin.

we twisted up in white magic then undone.

great uncle wore wolves’ clothes the day he died.

i might too. i need our miracle now

or i swear i’m gonna burn.

A Portable Paradise

By Roger Robinson 

And if I speak of Paradise,
then I’m speaking of my grandmother
who told me to carry it always
on my person, concealed, so
no one else would know but me.
That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.
And if life puts you under pressure,
trace its ridges in your pocket,
smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,
hum its anthem under your breath.
And if your stresses are sustained and daily,
get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,
hostel or hovel – find a lamp
and empty your paradise onto a desk:
your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.
Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope
of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.

Hallelujah

By Leonard Cohen

I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Your faith was strong, but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Baby I've been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the Marble Arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

There was a time you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
I remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Maybe there's a God above, all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
And it's not a cry you can hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Remember

By Joy Harjo

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her
in a bar once in Iowa City.
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother's, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe. I heard her singing Kiowa war
dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central once.
Remember that you are all people and that all people are you.
Remember that you are this universe and that this universe is you.
Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember that language comes from this.
Remember the dance that language is, that life is.
Remember.

My Prayer for Fasting

By Julie Silver


Do not wish me an easy fast.
Let my fast be difficult
Let me remember the hungry people of the world who have no choice, no voice.
Let me understand that starvation and emptiness exist even when there is plenty of food on the table.
And if my fast causes me pain, let me sit with the pain.
If my head throbs, let me handle it.
If my stomach grumbles, let me welcome the sound as I welcome the shofar blast.
Let my fast be the call.
Let my life on earth be the response.