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Ted Kooser - 2 poems
In the Corners of Fields
Something is calling to me
from the corners of fields,
where the leftover fence wire
suns its loose coils, and stones
thrown out of the furrow
sleep in warm litters;
where the gray faces
of old No Hunting signs
mutter into the wind,
and dry horse tanks
spout fountains of sunflowers;
where a moth
flutters in from the pasture,
harried by sparrows,
and alights on a post,
so sure of its life
that it peacefully opens its wings.
Carrie
"There's never an end to dust
and dusting," my aunt would say
as her rag, like a thunderhead,
scudded across the yellow oak
of her little house. There she lived
seventy years with a ball
of compulsion closed in her fist,
and an elbow that creaked and popped
like a branch in a storm. Now dust
is her hands and dust her heart.
There's never an end to it.
Ted Kooser is The Man. Checking my email.....
From Tim Kahl:
The SACRAMENTO POETRY CENTER
Presents
Lisa Dominguez Abraham and Dennis Hock
Monday, April 13, 2009
1719 25th Street
HQ for the Arts
Lisa Dominguez Abraham's work has appeared in a number of journals. She has more work appearing Tule Review, The Suisun Valley Review and Prairie Schooner, and a forthcoming issue of North American Review. Her chapbook Low Notes was released by Red Wings Press in Fall 2007.
Lisa Dominguez Abraham
Tell Me a Story
My son scans a pixel-bright galaxy
familiar as Star Wars, his plasma pistol
blasting aliens into pools of slime.
Like him I’m enthralled by the story,
a shiny world praised in legend
that he sees on X-Box and I see mirrored
after a rain. Tennis shoes in a puddle,
circles waver from my soles
as I stand on the reflections of clouds.
It’s that scent of opening,
the sidewalk with its scrim of mud,
edges blurred and passage possible
my eyelids citrus orange
when I close them to see myself
like everyone, the center of all stories
about the squeeze from one world to another.
My son could be Gilgamesh
backed by a soundtrack of electric guitars
and I could be the I in any poem
that leads to surprise through familiar passages—
subways and highways, dying parents
and all those rivers,
stories we each return to sighing
sing it, minstrel, again.
Dennis Hock, who teaches at Cosumnes River College, has been an English professor for over 30 years. He also works in hositals and retreat centers with grief therapy groups that use expressive writing as a healing process. He is editor and contributing author of Looking Outward, Looking Inward: A Social Ethics Reader. His first poetry collection is entitled The Secret Cup.
All Good Things - Jobe