Tagged: poetry

Changping Xiāngcūn


On a long, solo, morning ride

Glides by a tired, dusty countryside

Slouched in languid angles of repose.

Over sagging homes and crumbling walls

Float magpie feet and strident magpie calls

From top to top of poplar trees.

And in the fields and orchards work goes on

Beginning, as it likely always has, at dawn

On stomachs of bread and soy.


A Poem Written in Six Minutes

The St. George

I think a lot of home,

And a lot about the past,

I contemplate what I’ll do,

What things that I know now

will last.

My mind runs miles

Around sodden, weary tracks.

What ifs, what mays, forgotten smiles

And even if I could go back,

What of that?

I have nothing to regret, other than the fact

That time and thought play tricks upon us all.

(I can’t help that, but regret it just the same)

I think a lot of home, and past

And know of course that what is gone is gone,

But keep thinking anyway.





What Snow Was


A dryer full of clothes and boots (yes boots)

Was snow,

And so were days on hills, miles walked.

And living room floors, carpeted in sleeping bags

Opening at dawn

To run up hills again, at 8.

Snow was joy, communal breakfast,

3 legged dogs.

What I remember most of snow

Is mom and pop, and a tireless refrain:

Of course everyone can stay again,

Enjoying just as much as us.

Letter to a Random Address

Postcard, McDonalds, mail, Devin Howard

I found a random address in LA, which happened to be a McDonalds location, and wrote them a letter – the text of WH Auden’s To Their Lonely Betters , 1950 (a poem I’ve actually posted on here before).

“As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade
To all the noises that my garden made,
It seemed to me only proper that words
Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.
A robin with no Christian name ran through
The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,
And rustling flowers for some third party waited
To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.

Not one of them was capable of lying,
There was not one which knew that it was dying
Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
Assumed responsibility for time.

Let them leave language to their lonely betters
Who count some days and long for certain letters;
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:
Words are for those with promises to keep.

Hope everyone has a great day today, cheers.


Hands: More Poetry Bullshit Because I’m An Overly Nostalgic Twenty Seven Year Old Who Should Just Deal With It.

Poem, Devin Howard, Devin, Howard

You carried me in one night, to a West Virginian house

Under an electric nighttime sky

Bent over to protect me from the rain

How big those hands must have been to hold me.

Then later, those same hands lay cracked

Upon the table, with bleeding, peeling skin,

Due to cardboard, shoveled (by hand of course)

For 5 days a week – for health and dental.

Those hands have rubbed my head, and fixed my walls.

They’ve fixed my car, my bank accounts,

They’ve driven under squalls.

A weathered, calloused, pair of working palms

Has rowed and paddled Jay and I, and Mom,

On countless trips,

In Maine, or southern swamps.

But even clever, rugged hands get old, and cause in sons

Bright sparks of memory

Of half hitch knots, and innumerable mountain runs.


Amateur Poetry

wind is lovely,
with all its personalities.
But mostly it sounds like a whistling neighbor,
thinking about something
remembering something
or just singing
Down empty lanes
And happy, long forgotten

April, a Poem

poetry, wind, oceans, devin howard

Listen to a mournful sea

At afternoon in April

Listen to its lonely swells

Washing over maple

Watch it roll upon a lea

While sowing cotton snow

Watch it dapple green and gold

Upon the ground below

What I Love

poetry, nature, birds

A bird, because it's stone cold chillin'. And because it was a result in a google image search for "what i love". Oh, and also because without a thumbnail people are far less likely to click through on shared content.

What I love is honesty

And travel ready Appalachian girls

What I love are Toyota Camry running lights

And long nights on docks, or with Master Chief.

I love laughing about vacations gone awry

Crazy taxi drivers, coastal muck, trying not to die.

I love 1st and 1st, with all its boundless creativity

Along with hummingbirds, grey roof tents, and reverie.

What I love are ping pong games and dead end streets

Where a bunch of troublemakers made their home.

I love storms and rain and soccer games

Rapala lures, rhododendron blooms

Hikes and frozen pizza, billiards, beer, basic lights

And things and stuff and places at times

But people first of all.


In the shadows of tall buildings
Of fallen angels on the ceilings
Oily feathers in bronze and concrete
Faded colors, pieces left incomplete
The line moves slowly past the electric fence
Across the borders between continents

In the cathedrals of New York and Rome
There is a feeling that you should just go home
And spend a lifetime finding out just where that is

In the shadows of tall buildings
The architecture is slowly peeling
Marble statues and glass dividers
Someone is watching all of the outsiders
The line moves slowly through the numbered gate
Past the mosaic of the head of state

In the cathedrals of New York and Rome
There is a feeling that you should just go home
And spend a lifetime finding out just where that is

In the shadows of tall buildings
Of open arches endlessly kneeling
Sonic landscapes echoing vistas
Someone is listening from a safe distance
The line moves slowly into a fading light
A final moment in the dead of night

In the cathedrals of New York and Rome
There is a feeling that you should just go home
And spend a lifetime finding out just where that is

– Jump, Little Children

A Poem About Bureaucracy

One more picture sir, not there, or there, but here

On page 13, and don’t forget about your name

Not a chance it would get through the system

Without an appellation to lay claim.

I realize that line 19.1.1 is quite identical to 9,

And box A2 and line 3C,

But, hurry, you’re almost out of time.

For at 5, no more, no less

This office will shut down, and out you’ll have to go at once

Unto the swarming town,

For 3 whole days shall you be forced to wait, as

Everybody knows, the weekend is a time of rest,

As is most of Monday, thats just how it goes.