By Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
Oh Jonothan, that Jonothan,
Yes we knew him well.
Just go ‘round,
They’ll tell you he was swell.
Jon—he had these hands, you see,
These hands, and eyes, and ears.
Actually, all of Jonothan
Was envied by his peers.
“Hey—give me a hand!”
They’d say, and off would pop his right.
“Yes, yes! I need one too!”
They cried, and the left was off in flight.
Continue reading Jonothan’s Hands
Tomorrow Submission Sunday is coming back from hiatus! If you have original work or suggestions for the posts on the blog please email:
Don’t forget to include the title and author of the work and/or include a link to your website or blog.
Hope you’re all enjoying your weekend!
By Kenyatta Jean-Paul García
Inflated to width of a ribbon
a miniature earthquake
sneaks through sleep
without a patron saint
As the icon of insomnia
over the gloves
Backwards is a falsity
there is no reversal
Shallow is the silk
to create ties
wrapped around the neck
getting ready for work.
Write Well Daily will be open for submissions beginning tomorrow– Sunday March 3, 2013.
Guidelines for submissions are as follows:
-Submissions can be poetry or short prose
– Submissions should be emailed to firstname.lastname@example.org
– Make sure to indicate the author
– Chosen submissions will be posted throughout the week.
Any questions? Send us an email at email@example.com !
Can’t wait to see what you have written!
By Emily Dickinson
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then ’tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.