You are a ukulele beyond my microphone
You are a Yukon beyond my Micronesia
You are a union beyond my meiosis
You are a unicycle beyond my migration
You are a universe beyond my mitochondria
You are a Eucharist beyond my Miles Davis
You are a euphony beyond my myocardiogram
You are a unicorn beyond my Minotaur
You are a eureka beyond my maitai
You are a Yuletide beyond my minesweeper
You are a euphemism beyond my myna bird
You are a unit beyond my mileage
You are a Yugoslavia beyond my mind’s eye
You are a yoo-hoo beyond my minor key
You are a Euripides beyond my mime troupe
You are a Utah beyond my microcosm
You are a Uranus beyond my Miami
You are a youth beyond my mylar
You are a euphoria beyond my myalgia
You are a Ukranian beyond my Maimonides
You are a Euclid beyond my miter box
You are a Univac beyond my minus sign
You are a Eurydice beyond my maestro
You are a eugenics beyond my Mayan
You are a U-boat beyond my mind control
You are a euthanasia beyond my miasma
You are a urethra beyond my Mysore
You are a Euterpe beyond my Mighty Sparrow
You are a ubiquity beyond my minority
You are a eunuch beyond my migraine
You are a Eurodollar beyond my miserliness
You are a urinal beyond my Midol
You are a uselessness beyond my myopia
Category: Poetry
Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Atlas by UA Fanthorpe
There is a kind of love called maintenance
Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it;
Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget
The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;
Which answers letters; which knows the way
The money goes; which deals with dentists
And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,
And postcards to the lonely; which upholds
The permanently rickety elaborate
Structures of living, which is Atlas.
And maintenance is the sensible side of love,
Which knows what time and weather are doing
To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;
Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers
My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps
My suspect edifice upright in air,
As Atlas did the sky.
Horses at Midnight Without a Moon by Jack Gilbert
Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through
the dirty streets. It is no surprise
that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun.
What Make a Man by Geffrey Davis
what kind of wound make a man
set his favorite rooster loose
on a dying hen what make the man
snap the neck of that twice-broken bird
before his child’s eyes what make him see
the bad idea after the fact—what open him
like a storm what make a man refuse
to ask forgiveness what make him offer
the sudden softness of his voice instead
what get the man loaded what make him choose
to carry the small brightness of his child’s body
through the cold sleeping city —no—
what make a man decide to drift the roads anyway
so his child stay warm in the front seat
what make him park the car two blocks away—
what arms filled and humming you are my sun-
shine each dark step of the way home
Bear Witness by Tiana Clark
after Carrie Mae Weems’s Roaming series
Before I knew
how to fill my onyx body
with slick measures,
dip every curve
in my skin with dark sway,
I needed a picture.
Before me stood
a long black dress I called Woman—
you stand opaque
with your back to me,
a statue of witness,
the door of Yes—
I can Return
to the monument
of your silhouette
to find my longest muscle.
We both stare down
the ocean to stillness.
O, Carrie—
what are you trying
to tell me here?
I’ve been standing by water
my whole damn life
trying to get saved.
Use Your Words by Blas Falconer
You said bad men waited inside
your mouth, which meant a fire
was catching. We drove toward
a cloud of smoke that rose above
the city. In the mirror, I saw
the wide belt strapped across
your chest, and on the radio,
men stormed the gates
in another country. I do
love you, you said, looking out.
The window held the sun
flatly. I held my breath. The brush
had not been cleared in weeks,
and the mountain prepared to burn.
My Father as Cartographer by Natasha Trethewey
In dim light now, his eyes
straining to survey
the territory: here is the country
of Loss, its colony Grief;
the great continent Desire
and its borderland Regret;
vast, unfathomable water,
an archipelago—the tiny islands
of Joy, untethered, set adrift.
At the bottom of the map
his legend and cartouche,
the measures of distance, key
to the symbols marking each
known land. What’s missing
is the traveler’s warning
at the margins: a dragon—
its serpentine signature—monstrous
as a two-faced daughter.
Cloudburst by Mayda Del Valle
You were too cloudburst
Not hurried or rushed just
not able to stay
Here in the corner of my home
Here on this bend of bone
this sliver of now,
I sometimes speak to you
as if there wasn’t a corpse
of scripture left unsaid between us
Still when we laugh
people watch and wonder
what holy hell of a hurricane
passed between us.
What are the consequences of silence by Mayda Del Valle
(after Bahnu Kapil)
Vocal chords that turn to dust
A voice cut
into glittering vowels
Books left to rot.
Poems left to swirl on someone else’s tongue.
You don’t get it?
You don’t get it?
do you?
Your backward speech
smart ass passive tongue.
Say it to my face
and say what you mean.
Compassion Camp 