Wait

By Galway Kinnell 1927-2014

Wait, for now.

Distrust everything if you have to.

But trust the hours. Haven’t they

carried you everywhere, up to now?

Personal events will become interesting again.

Hair will become interesting.

Pain will become interesting.

Buds that open out of season will become interesting.

Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;

their memories are what give them

the need for other hands. The desolation

of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness

carved out of such tiny beings as we are

asks to be filled; the need

for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.

Don’t go too early.

You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.

But no one is tired enough.

Only wait a little and listen:

music of hair,

music of pain,

music of looms weaving our loves again.

Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,

most of all to hear your whole existence,

rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

My Song

Joseph Seaman Cotter Sr.

Wait

By Galway Kinnell 1927-2014

Wait, for now.

Distrust everything if you have to.

But trust the hours. Haven’t they

carried you everywhere, up to now?

Personal events will become interesting again.

Hair will become interesting.

Pain will become interesting.

Buds that open out of season will become interesting.

Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;

their memories are what give them

the need for other hands. The desolation

of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness

carved out of such tiny beings as we are

asks to be filled; the need

for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.

Don’t go too early.

You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.

But no one is tired enough.

Only wait a little and listen:

music of hair,

music of pain,

music of looms weaving our loves again.

Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,

most of all to hear your whole existence,

rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Prayer

Langston Hughes

I ask you this: 

Which way to go? 

I ask you this: 

Which sin to bear? 

Which crown to put 

Upon my hair? 

I do not know, 

Lord God, 

I do not know.

Ocean

M. J. Fraser

A glow shimmers in the star specked sky

Upon a mountain, rising high

We gaze out to the distant sea

A place of rising waves, a place to be free

To drift and sail to journey ahead

By moon and stars and magic lead

Up and down on gentle waves

Passed rising cliffs and hidden caves

A journey onwards far and wide

On open oceans nowhere to hide

And so the journey forwards through

To lands uncharted, somewhere new    

A United Wave

A United Wave:

Strive to be,

the best you can,

through this healing journey,our hearts will mend.

Finding love,

for ourselves,

helps us to rise,

and break the spells.

Binding us,

to forever doubt,

living in fear,

accepting without.

May our pain,

be washed away,

like a cleansing rain,

enchanting the day.

Together we stand,

a united wave,

hearts unbound,

humanity to save.

The path ahead,

so vast, so bright,

lit by our love,a guiding light.Through every trial,joy and strife,we’ve built a bond,as radiant as life.Carry it forward,into the new,planting seeds,and dreams for you.Beloved community,my family, my friends,our journey of hope,will never end.***Poetry written by Nicholas S. Seigelaka UnityPoetry & RadioCave.Song by Riffusionhttps://www.riffusion.com/riff/5e5a4183-950a-45e0-b710-895f519d95d5.#UnityPoetry#Poem #Poetry #Writer #Author #Song #Songs #Riffusion #PicOfTheDay #ImageOfTheDay #ForYou #I #Love #Community #ArtHeals #MusicHeals #PoetryHeals #Music #Audio #Creativity

After

Youna Kwak

I never feel so alive as when I am      writing and have no right     

answer for what this means     

for the lives of others, how

to live in the after which after all means the now of our living

together when together means death for allthose forbidden from

entering the home so

methodically built until afterthey are dead. Only after will locked doors swing amply open to admit the murdered into rooms of vastcrushed comfort, whose inhabitants eat and sleepon furnishings carvedwith corpses, steppingwith hospitable sorrowaround the bodies of thedead, speaking dirgesinto the phantomdarkness. What happensin the quiet grave where the living make themselvesat home, where noisily they intend to thrive, wherethe poem itself concedes to suffering so it might persistin blazing against it.

Copyright © 2025 by Youna Kwak. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 5, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets

Funk (#49 song)

Lily Painter

An eye from the Creator,

a fire, bright, setting slowly

over the cusp of the “new world,”

kissing the Old World, 

softly to sleep, it is the kissing that is soft,not the sleeping.

Under the light of that unwanted dawn there is

a warrior still left standing, wewar-journey them           to the battle and back,                     to the battle and back,                                to the battle and back,radiance, felt through thewater that flows blue but runs red,around and aroundthat quickly setting sun,

around and arounda circle, there aresongs for the way our warriorsused to honorably drift awayWe used to die in battlebut today they ring out— “whatchu tryna tell me?”while we slosh a bottle around,we laugh about how we are singingSongs from the wrong eagles,our war journey is through the hillswith the windows downIn a red ford withthe tribal tag tornand a car battery in the front seatWe are nurtured,

Remembered,by the birds who flyaround and aroundwhile we hit our handson the hoods of clunkersand when it stops being sacred,We laugh,We funk #49,here we live,here we are live.We laugh,my warrior, we aren’tthe warriors, of anythinglike that, anymore.Copyright © 2025 by Lily Painter. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 6, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets

A Thistle Will Do

Omar Berrada

Believe me a thistle will do

away with your hungerfor lush branchesand tacky color

Not the abstracted greens

of surrender oh daughter

of our family follow the flower

that evades capture fades

into pixel pricks the prying

eyes of unmanned hunters

I wished himthroughout my life

Oh daughter focuslearn the work songof smaller creaturesthis forest of branches 

     is your inheritancecan you name                

 every twigwill you touch                      

 every leafwith bare handslet your hair danceas you blend into shrub     

and rockdry is the landthat holds you

Can you hear the familiar pitchof olive harvest the old tuneof older farmers gathered

for processions yet to comea voice of closenessto the earthThe hand that claps is the handthat kneads is the hand that dancesrepeated gestures on and off the tonguered aprons golden braceletswe are quick to breakinto song

Half an egg in a pool of oilthe sun faces up our doughwill be moist the horizon hesitateswon’t admit to rough angles withthe color purple to slanted sunsetsbeyond forbidden shores did youcapture the thistle twiceI wished himfrom the branch of a tree

The song breaks

A landscape returns

Copyright © 2025 by Omar Berrada. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on February 7, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets