"Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." ~Thomas Gray
"Poetry unites." ~Anon
"Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it." ~Emily Dickinson
Written by Therese Broderick
She lives in Albany, New York, USA
Her site: Small Returns
Originally posted on Every Photo Tells A Story
for the image prompt shown here
Operation Smile
Child, because I sent my pledge
to some torn patch of the globe--
Cambodia, Morocco, Honduras--
you can now smile for the first time
at your mother's deep brown eyes,
or chew the banana she peels for you,
or learn how to say another word, tongue
meeting the new roof of your mouth.
The word for "love" or "tasty" or
"more." More hugs, more bananas.
And when you are no longer a child,
when you are healed enough to
recite your village's oldest words,
smile when you come to that story's
tragic ending. Mend whatever you can
of our clefted world. Smile often
for the sake of disconsolate poets.
Posted with consent from the writer.
Featuring: Poetry, Therese Broderick
Written by Therese Broderick
She lives in Albany, New York, USA
Her site: Ekphrasis (poetry on art)
Originally posted on Every Photo Tells A Story
for the image prompt shown here
Grandfather with Grandson
They skip a generation--clan
features like green-blue eyes
and how they see the day ahead--
dark and narrow, or wide and bright--
and a long tilted jaw preferring
few words, and their slow sauntering
way of speaking. Neither can hear
how like the other he sounds
as they walk down the path
to the school. And their hands--
the same hold on love.
Posted with consent of the writer.
Featuring: Poetry, Therese Broderick
Written by Therese Broderick
She lives in Albany, New York, USA
Her site: Ekphrasis (poetry on art)
(First published online in The 2River View
(11.4, Summer 2007),and reprinted here with
permission of the author.)
These Seven Years
In some past self we hardened
Around the deepest stone
Within us which we must now
These seven years
Bring to surface with blade
Or trowel. Raised, felt, it will
Settle atop the ground, guardian
Of our flowers, fending away
The wind and rain. Like mounds
In a rock garden, evident
And intentional, what we raise
Becomes then what we step upon,
Where we balance for another age
Before releasing our next stony thing:
That quick beetle, pebbled,
Hiding beneath.
Posted with consent of the writer.
Featuring: Poetry, Therese Broderick
Note: All written material is copyrighted by the individual writer and/or blog author, and may not be used without written consent. Copyright © Breathing Poetry 2009. All Rights Reserved.
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~"May love and laughter light your days!"
Breathing Poetry: A Collection of Words and Emotions
