The Product

They say I’m an amalgam

Can trace both of them in my face 

I’m more of a 3D picture changing with the motions

But I am all their fire, all her sweetness, some of her tomboyness, all of his temper.

I am an ever-changing chemistry experiment between two elements


October- Robert Frost 

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

My Autumn Leaves-Bruce Weigl

Tonight I’m sharing a bit of autumn since yesterday was the first day of the season. I spent it catching up on some grading on my front porch. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, this was once my favorite season. This year, I’m committed to finding my joy in this time of the year. 

I watch the woods for deer as if I’m armed. 

I watch the woods for deer who never come. 

I know the hes and shes in autumn 

rendezvous in orchards stained with fallen 

apples’ scent. I drive my car this way to work 

so I may let the crows in corn believe 

it’s me their caws are meant to warn, 

and snakes who turn in warm and secret caves 

they know me too. They know the boy 

who lives inside me still won’t go away. 

The deer are ghosts who slip between the light 

through trees, so you may only hear the snap 

of branches in the thicket beyond hope. 

I watch the woods for deer, as if I’m armed.

Star- Robert Browning

There are some poets that people invariably know whether it is because those poets are favorites of teachers, their poems are easy to understand or interpret, or one simply loves poetry and aims to learn about as many writers as possible. No matter how one has come to know poetry, Victorian era poet and playwright Robert Browning can be considered one of those that is often included when poetry is taught.  One of my favorite factoids about Browning is that he declared himself a poet at an early age but is thought to have not written between the ages of thirteen to twenty. He was the husband of popular poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning  and his work influenced poetry greats T.S Elliot, Ezra Pound, and Robert Frost. Today I am sharing another of my Browning favorites.


night sky in Yosemite


All, that I know

Of a certain star

Is, it can throw

(Like the angled spar)

Now a dart of red,

Now a dart of blue;

Till my friends have said

They would fain see, too,

My star that dartles the red and the blue!

Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:

They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.

What matter to me if their star is a world?

Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.





Dunbar- Anne Spencer

I apologize for the sporadic posting lately. I will be sharing more about the cause later this week. Today’s post comes from a Harlem Renaissance era poet who I’m just getting around to reading. Anne Spencer had thirty poems published in her lifetime and although she lived her entire life in Virginia she was close to many of the prominent writers from The Harlem Renaissance including James Weldon Johnson, Langston Hughes, and W.E.B DuBois. She also lived to be 93, how amazing!
As always, enjoy!
Harlem Renaissance ballroom
Ah, how poets sing and die!
Make one song and Heaven takes it;
Have one heart and Beauty breaks it;
Chatterton, Shelley, Keats and I—
Ah, how poets sing and die!

What Kind of Times Are These- Adrienne Rich

It seems as if every week, there is some new bit of news. That shakes us and shapes us. It may be something scary or horrifying or a reminder of just how much we are intrinsically linked as people. In a world that is changing with every blink of the eye it is essential to remember we should feel compelled to resist anything anyone that tries to divide us. 

Please enjoy this piece of resistance literature by Adrienne Rich. 

There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows

near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted

who disappeared into those shadows.

I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don’t be fooled

this isn’t a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own ways of making people disappear.

I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light—

ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it’s necessary

to talk about trees.

Still I Rise-Maya Angelou

When ​I was younger, I once read that artists bear the pain of humanity. I probably scoffed thinking that was a bit heavy. However, this weekend my heart does bear that pain. And it is very heavy. In light of the events that have taken place in Charlottesville it only seemed apropos to share the work of Maya Angelou. 

I hope we the people, who are human enough to see humanity in all our fellow people, continue to rise. 

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.