Sunday, April 6, 2014

Goodbye.


Or rather I should say

A bientôt.








Sunday, March 30, 2014

April's Promises




are for mortals.





The timid bud


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arrests a restless mind


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and 


feathered hopes wing away







taking us with them. 



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For
Flesh and blood


do the miracles of April


unfold.



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From 

paper and pen

does the heart's beat

rise.  





  
And it's all for

the people I care about

to whom I wish

April's Promises.



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This post is dedicated to 

everyone

overcoming cancer.
(I am fine, my dear friends. This is just a poem dedicated to others)



To R. F.

Tasting

a sudden landing
of oregano on the tongue
brings a dead uncle back
to a family picnic.  Bulbous boysenberries

between the teeth squirt a sweet punch
of childhood Sundays, and playful
plosives release an airflow of thought
on the tongue blade.  The mouth

Is a feast.

But the words

I have breast cancer

are hard to swallow.  Fricatives
strike like primal impulses
on a battlefield
of teeth on flesh. Vowels

piston five syllables, mashing
a bland unbelief that you spit out
when you say them. Fear
puddles in the soft-mouthed life

of morning when you wake
and I say them
with you,

Tasting.



anita rivera©
winter 2014







Sunday, March 16, 2014

There's Nothing New


Under the Sun


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except 

when a seasoned woman

pays mind to the light years 

above



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and 

 is young again



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when a fragile spirit

listens to wisdom



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and is empowered by

understanding

 

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or

simply when

the gossip of bluebirds

spreads across 

the vernal sky.


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There's nothing new under the sun 


except 

when you are born again 

everyday

to

Pay attention.


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Be astonished.


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And

tell about it.
 

via
(dank, mijn lieve zuster)









Last quote by the poet Mary Oliver.