We welcome you with open arms,
Ten fine fingers, your rosy face
Mewling for milk, nightly alarms,
Curling toes to navigate with grace
your world, yet unknown, to traverse
Without my hands to guide your way
The lessons learned in prose and verse
Must be your surest compass, day
And night, the vessel of your choice
Reaching that land of milk and honey
Where hunger is not known, your voice
Free to sing your songs, a sunny
End to your days my constant prayer,
Life, love, and happiness without care
13 May 2009
08 May 2009
Mo Bhron (My Grief)
oh love (the rain is falling)
will you look on me when
I lie long upon your grave
eyes blinded by salt water,
tracing the letters of your name,
over and again until the
letters rhyme with the beat of
my heart echoing back, a
sad refrain, oh love, my
lost one, my soul will fly
across the sea to meet yours,
to comingle in the mist
at once together and apart,
watching waves crash upon the rocks
while seabirds wheel and cry
will you look on me when
I lie long upon your grave
eyes blinded by salt water,
tracing the letters of your name,
over and again until the
letters rhyme with the beat of
my heart echoing back, a
sad refrain, oh love, my
lost one, my soul will fly
across the sea to meet yours,
to comingle in the mist
at once together and apart,
watching waves crash upon the rocks
while seabirds wheel and cry
07 May 2009
The Great Unanthologized
the great unanthologized
still scribble their way across the
internet, the html
crawling, relentless, across the
page.....
and in spring, Just
spring the trees
bloom equally, the
dogwood, cherry blossoms.
forsythia, too,
delighting the eye
as he checks his
mailbox for the common
slips daubed with
black ink, so polite
he has papered his walls
with them, they wink
back at him as he
diapers the child
he, too, can
mimic short vowels
still scribble their way across the
internet, the html
crawling, relentless, across the
page.....
and in spring, Just
spring the trees
bloom equally, the
dogwood, cherry blossoms.
forsythia, too,
delighting the eye
as he checks his
mailbox for the common
slips daubed with
black ink, so polite
he has papered his walls
with them, they wink
back at him as he
diapers the child
he, too, can
mimic short vowels
06 May 2009
NewPages.com
McCarra/Poetry has been included in NewPages.com's directory of "Blogs by Poets and Writers."
Check it out at:
http://www.newpages.com/
Check it out at:
http://www.newpages.com/
17 April 2009
Hyacinths Crowning
the hyacinths are crowning
through the blackloam soil,
just past Eastertide and
the trees blooming into pink clouds
(the crocus, too, and the daffodils and tulip
bulbs bursting through black)
on Birch Street. And still, you
refuse to come to me, the
days double and again
double as the
moon looks down upon her
twin, wreathed, not with
fog, but with the shining
script of what is yet to come
ah, April, you cruellest of months,
making me wait to see your face
swaddled round with
the first linen cloths,
scanning the sky, star-pocked,
for some sign
as the Bronx River flows
swiftly past, overgorged after
the rains, under the arched stone
bridges, past the hospital
carrying the branch broken
from the tree to the ocean-
mother of us all
as I burn, burn daylight
and I wait, and will wait,
to look upon your face
through the blackloam soil,
just past Eastertide and
the trees blooming into pink clouds
(the crocus, too, and the daffodils and tulip
bulbs bursting through black)
on Birch Street. And still, you
refuse to come to me, the
days double and again
double as the
moon looks down upon her
twin, wreathed, not with
fog, but with the shining
script of what is yet to come
ah, April, you cruellest of months,
making me wait to see your face
swaddled round with
the first linen cloths,
scanning the sky, star-pocked,
for some sign
as the Bronx River flows
swiftly past, overgorged after
the rains, under the arched stone
bridges, past the hospital
carrying the branch broken
from the tree to the ocean-
mother of us all
as I burn, burn daylight
and I wait, and will wait,
to look upon your face
23 December 2008
10 October 2008
For Godot -- Research in Poetry
MaryAnn was included (who knows why) in For Godot's recent experiment in computer-generated poetry, "Issue 1."
Apparently this project has raised many hackles.
To see this project, go to:
http://www.forgodot.com/
Apparently this project has raised many hackles.
To see this project, go to:
http://www.forgodot.com/
08 July 2008
Poems published in The Mount Vernon Inquirer......
MaryAnn has had four poems published in the July 2008 issue of our local monthly paper, The Mount Vernon Inquirer.
They are: Cricket Song, Collateral Damage, Digging for Worms, and Laundry List. All appeared previously on this blog.
They are: Cricket Song, Collateral Damage, Digging for Worms, and Laundry List. All appeared previously on this blog.
28 June 2008
Owl
the carriage sits in the hallway,
squat, stolid reminder in wooly navy
blue and polished chrome, the
tea draws and
she quickly counts the lump sugar by
twos into the bowl:
still here--after so many mornings
disgorged from the hellish
center of the earth, pushing always
against the press of human flesh
still here, still here, still here--
still speaking, tongue
(guarded by American teeth, wire-
molded, polished) yet unsevered
still here--after so many nights
when stars pocked the skies and
the old owl cried, who, who, who?
Who indeed? She still has no answer.
squat, stolid reminder in wooly navy
blue and polished chrome, the
tea draws and
she quickly counts the lump sugar by
twos into the bowl:
still here--after so many mornings
disgorged from the hellish
center of the earth, pushing always
against the press of human flesh
still here, still here, still here--
still speaking, tongue
(guarded by American teeth, wire-
molded, polished) yet unsevered
still here--after so many nights
when stars pocked the skies and
the old owl cried, who, who, who?
Who indeed? She still has no answer.
Atlantic and Pacific Tea Company
down the cool aisles, basket
tightly held in hand, harbingers of summer
closely shelved: the liquid soap to
blow rainbow orbs, the thick sticks
of chalk, the bright rubber balls,
a pile of planets, small moons,
many-hued, one for Dick, one
for Jane, and one for mother too--
these summer days are long--
our young must be amused....
waltzing down the cool aisles,
glancing past the butcher, sipping
back those words that come
entirely too quickly,
or else be told "be quiet mommy"
cash flies through the air at the
Western Union desk, through the
wires, we are surrounded by
such ordinary magic but
we tap our feet in our haste
for the baked asphalt of the playground,
the shade of leaves above benches designed for discomfort, the
water swilled from icy bottles, the
feats yet to be performed and applauded.....
tightly held in hand, harbingers of summer
closely shelved: the liquid soap to
blow rainbow orbs, the thick sticks
of chalk, the bright rubber balls,
a pile of planets, small moons,
many-hued, one for Dick, one
for Jane, and one for mother too--
these summer days are long--
our young must be amused....
waltzing down the cool aisles,
glancing past the butcher, sipping
back those words that come
entirely too quickly,
or else be told "be quiet mommy"
cash flies through the air at the
Western Union desk, through the
wires, we are surrounded by
such ordinary magic but
we tap our feet in our haste
for the baked asphalt of the playground,
the shade of leaves above benches designed for discomfort, the
water swilled from icy bottles, the
feats yet to be performed and applauded.....
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