If needing help makes
me weak,
then think of my skin
as an eggshell
because I’m fragile
and need a little glue sometimes
to stay together.
Think of my eyes as melting
ice cubes begging for
ice cold air to breeze into
them.
Think of my hands as
ash falling into the wind searching
for the body it was once
put into a molding kit for.
If needing help makes
me weak,
then I am nothing more than
weak and that is more than
okay.
Nothing
but a sport of
torment
is
loving.
wisdom and blood combating,
blood hath the victory.
I pray
for
love and
one breath
Before God.
the republic of the bees: sail that little caravel ship— splinters in the hands of every...
sail that little caravel ship—
splinters in the hands of every father,
every father’s father who toiled
who travailed at the
behest of men claiming
to be gods so that you,
dear child, might escape
their wrath—so sail sea-blown
to that horizon, a rust-riddled russet
and walk in the way…
2 weeks ago - 
39
39 the brave ones walk anyway: i. There are no small deaths. Just the ones that make all the noise...
i.
There are no small deaths.
Just the ones that make
all the noise and
the ones that don’t.ii.
I watched a girl on my street
fall into the lake behind my house
when the ice broke its promise
and gave her body up to the water.
She dissolved beneath its cackle.
I could not muffle a…
2 weeks ago - 32
32 
—Charles Simic, Poetry, August 1990
Take an evening walk with your mom this Mother’s Day. Better yet, Record-a-Poem for her!
Retrospect in its final form: framed with a commemorative plaque showing its publication date.
Throughout National Poetry Month, we’ll be featuring a letter/postcard of advice from 30 Poets. Today’s is from Dobby Gibson.
Observations of the Natural Pt. 2
Observations of the Natural
Ruminations of a single gentleman
