by Pam Burr Smith

You walk with your sister,
On a warm blowy beach
sliding sand and bare feet.
Your sister, so much like you,
and so different.
A better walker, for sure.
She could stride forever, while you,
grateful along teeming shore,
stop to admire close sea birds
and marvel at low, muscular waves.
You are even inspired by delicate rivulets
and lowly, glistening seaweed.
You spout words, ask her to see with you.

Hey! Look at this!

She’s kind at first,
stops to share the viewing.
After a while, she can’t hear you
anymore. The waves pound. She’s
too far ahead. She’s counting steps.
Or maybe she’s just tired of looking
at everything. Her goal, a rocky bluff,
is still a mile down the beach.
So you start to talk to your own feet
those faithful dancers, and to the air,
its salty soft breath inspires you
with wonder too strong to pass by,
wonder too strong to be silent.

by Gerry Murphy

One
after Richard Tillinghast

The full moon afloat
in the southern sky.
Its stony Buddha face,
worn away by time
and the boots of astronauts.

Two
in the style of Lorca

Like a child
who has been playing
all day long in the forest,
then appears at your door
asking for her supper:
the moon.

Three

After the rain,
that renewed devotion
to unrequited love:
the eaves for the swallow,
the cat for her own reflection,
the gleaming scythe
for the pale new moon.

Euripides
after Seferis

He grew old
between the theatre and the tavern.
He tried to bamboozle the Gods
with that old sleight–of–hand magic,
he failed.
He was a sour man at heart
with very few friends.
When his time came,
he was torn to pieces
by wild dogs.

Morning
after Pasternak

At first light
tumbrel after tumbrel
rumbles across the cobblestones.
The day gets out of bed,
dresses as an executioner
and hurries to the guillotine.

by Ronald Koertge

You vow not to steal or if you do it’s
for a really good cause.

Also you won’t brag about it or use it
to be the life of the party.

Still, you can’t help showing up places at
the most electrifying, life–saving moments.

The grateful mayor takes you to dinner.
Gives you his private phone number.

Russian scientists capture you, strap you
to a gurney. The probes fall away.

Your laughter is so hideous and mocking
they vow to embrace democracy.

You’re loved for yourself, though,
not because you’re marvelous.

On your honeymoon, you turn yourself
on and off like a light.

Your new wife smiles ruefully. “Stop being
silly now and come to bed.”

By Ronald Koertge

He goes back to his hometown after two tours. Nobody calls him
a baby killer. Mostly, “Hey, man. Where you been?”

He takes advantage of the G.I. Bill, imagines Uncle Sam reaching
into his red, white, and blue pants for tuition.

He signs up for Folklore 480. He makes the counselor smile when
he asks if he needs to take the other four hundred and
seventy–nine classes first.

College is harder than high school. The people are smarter and
serious. Now and then some of them go out after class for beer in
the patio of Lighthouse Pizza.

They can smoke there under the fairy lights and plastic grapes.
The place closes at ten. They’re the last to leave, milling around
in the parking lot sharing a joint.

He writes a paper about the war: “My Home Is In the Dark
Forest.” The teacher praises it. Classmates start asking him for
help.

He goes to their houses like a country doctor. He likes seeing how
they live. Meeting their husbands or parents.

Compared to what he’s been through, college is like following a
trail of bread crumbs leading to a gingerbread palace.