Once, long ago, I heard an old man say,
“Two pounds of sorrow is the price you pay
For every pound of bliss.”
But I was young and such a reckoning
Seemed far too steep; now, in a later spring,
I’d gladly offer far, far more than this.
—Alice Mackenzie Swaim, “Now, in a Later Spring,” Crickets Are Crying Autumn, 1960
guilt, grief, regret
cut deeper than
the dimensions
of the soul itself
—Anonymous, The Queries Magazine, 1890
squeeze tight — dollars drip,
lay off loyalty — tears drop,
squeeze tighter — cents bleed
America —
toxic profit
center of
the world
apocalyptic theory
giant alien pops earth like
minty fresh extinction
as inevitable as
aging and taxes —
death is no longer
the surety it was
i hurt every day remembering
that i wasn’t there for you
the hardest day of suffering
— i left you painfully alone
when you needed me most
so damn close, but not there
which is the farthest away —
i was a fool, oblivious numbskull
a frozen hearted ragdoll zombie
i am sorry.
when the things you want
to stay the same forever
do nothing but change —
and the things you’re ready
to be done with forever
keep relentlessly hanging on.
lizard of leisure
idler in sun — bird shadow
how quickly he moves
Strange wares are handled on the wharves of sleep:
Shadows of shadows pass, and many a light
Flashes a signal fire across the night;
Barges depart whose voiceless steersmen keep
Their way without a star upon the deep;
And from lost ships, homing with ghostly crews,
Come cries of incommunicable news,
While cargoes pile the piers, a moon-white
Budgets of dream-dust, merchandise of song,
Wreckage of hope and packs of ancient wrong,
Nepenthes gathered from a secret strand,
Fardels of heartache, burdens of old sins,
Luggage sent down from dim ancestral inns,
And bales of fantasy from No-Man’s Land.
—Edwin Markham, “The Wharf of Dreams,” The Man with the Hoe and Other Poems, 1899
If I had a big balloon
Round as any Harvest Moon
And a bully kicked it, say,
With his foot, and ran away.
All the world would comfort me,
Saying softly, “What a shame!”
Well, it wasn’t stamped or kicked,
My balloon was only pricked
With a very little pin
Touched to it, not driven in.
No one came to comfort me
Though ’twas broken, just the same.
—Janet Barton,
trapped in a bottle
thrown out to sea
trapped in a bottle
my wishes are three
trapped in a bottle
that’s drunken me
trapped in a bottle
emotions stormy
trapped in a bottle
flashing brightly
trapped in a bottle
this vessel empty