Sunday #Poetry: Blame Her Not

“Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.” ~Joseph Roux “Blame Her Not” John W. May CAN I cast blame for what she eats, Or that she strolls where sunlight sleeps; Or blame her that her skin is pale, Whose lips are glist’ning red as ale? Am I to cast accusing stares And judge her not…

Sunday #Poetry: Wraith

“Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.” ~Joseph Roux “Wraith” Edna St. Vincent Millay “THIN Rain, whom are you haunting, That you haunt my door?” -Surely it is not I she’s wanting; Someone living here before- “Nobody’s in the house but me: You may come in if you like and see.” Thin as thread, with…

Sunday #Poetry: Ghost in the Land of Skeletons

“Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.” ~Joseph Roux “Ghost in the Land of Skeletons” Christopher Kennedy If not for flesh’s pretty paint, we’re just a bunch of skeletons, working hard to deny the fact of bones. Teeth remind me that we die. That’s why I never smile, except when looking at a picture of…

Sunday #Poetry: Three Witches, from Macbeth

“Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.” ~Joseph Roux Three Witches – Macbeth ~ William Shakespeare A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron boiling. Thunder.                 Enter the three Witches. 1 WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.        2 WITCH. Thrice and once, the…

Sunday #Poetry: The Witch

“Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.” ~Joseph Roux “The Witch” Mary Elizabeth Coleridge I have walked a great while over the snow, And I am not tall nor strong. My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set, And the way was hard and long. I have wandered over the fruitful earth, But I…

Sunday #Poetry: Smoke

“Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.” ~Joseph Roux “Smoke” ~ Erica Jong Smoke, it is all smoke in the throat of eternity. For centuries, the air was full of witches Whistling up chimneys on their spiky brooms cackling or singing more sweetly than Circe, as they flew over rooftops blessing & cursing their kind….

Sunday #Poetry: Witch Wife

“Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.” ~Joseph Roux “Witch-Wife” Edna St. Vincent Millay SHE is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me!…