By Li-Young Lee
Sad is the man who is asked for a story and can’t come up with one. His five-year-old son waits in his...
Explore Poems: Growing Old
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- By Catherine BarnettIt should be easy, I tell my son, to dispose of the possessions kept in these rooms. I’ve left some ...
- By John TickhillIn springtime, chief of all seasons, in May when new joys rise and flourish, the sun is lord and messenger...
- By Kara van de GraafHow many hours have I wasted trying to turn this into that, a rabbit and a hat, a woman whose body can...
- By A. Van JordanLately, my friends ask me, out of love, have I written about my mother, who suffers under the storm ...
- By Jennifer PradoHer skin never wrinkled And I used to wonder why Her skin never wrinkled As every year passed by Look...
- By Susan BrowneI swim my laps today, slowly, slowly, reaching my arms out & over, my fleshly oars, the water silken...
- By Kevin YoungThe heart, it hoards— how I know this— The small, strangled shining room Keats lost his life in—and...
- By Leslie Contreras SchwartzA body must remind itself to keep living, continually, throughout the day. Even at night while sleeping...
- By T. S. EliotI Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon You have the scene arrange itself — as it will seem...
- By T. S. EliotHere I am, an old man in a dry month, Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain. I was neither at the...
- By Margaret Steele AndersonThis is your cup—the cup assigned to you From the beginning. Nay, my child, I know How much of that ...
- By Gloria Gervitzin the migrations of red carnations where songs burst from long-beaked birds and apples rot before the...
- By Joanna FuhrmanTry to fold your memories as if you were handling your mother’s underwear or as if the memories were...
- By Kerrin McCaddenDear train wreck, dear terrible engines, dear spilled freight, dear unbelievable mess, all these years...
- By Lorna Dee CervantesHe was a good boy making his way through the Santa Barbara pines, sighting the blast of fluff as he ...
- By Bob HicokI met my butt in a Pittsburgh hotel room. My face still looks like my face but not my butt, my hair ...
- By Bert Meyers1 A suburb of coffee cups; napkins, those crumpled hills; silverware, freeways spotted with grease, ...
- By Gabrielle CalvocoressiBled all day. Stopped bleeding. Bled some more. Went to the doctor who reached inside the woman body...
- By Stevie EdwardsWhen my mother was young, she feared she was such a good Christian girl God might grow his new son inside...