Into warm evenings on a shadowy road
The children ventured, and once more they knew
Remarkable hours, when points of darkness glowed
With fresh surprise as myriad fireflies drew
Each to imagine stars, but stars at hand …
— Thomas Carper
It nuzzles oblivion, confuses
itself with mud. A creature
of familiar taste …
— Claudia Emerson
No cat I remember
dislikes December
inside.
— Marilyn Singer
One face looks out from all his canvases,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
— Christina Rossetti
Don’t be polite.
Bite in.
Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that
may run down your chin.
— Eve Merriam
Over the river and through the wood,
To have first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring,
“Ting-a-ling-ding!”
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!
— Lydia Maria Child
Just the passion of painters
and poets trying to catch
who they think we might be.
— Heid E. Erdrich
PS:
This poem is written in response to Amedeo Modigliani’s portrait Roma Woman with Baby.
— by Charles Wright
青山交叠如画
我的目光泼墨而过，完成一轴山水
— 乃生 《行者》
Hills and mountains fold as in a painting
My gaze, pouring over like ink, completes a scroll of landscape
— by Nai Sheng
The apples are thumping, winter is coming.
The lips of the pumpkin soon will be humming.
By the caw of the crow on the first of the year,
Something will die, something appear.
— from Maurice Kilwein Guevara “A Rhyme for Halloween”
We are the kindly ones
And we feed them
Their annual meal, a handful
Of sugar the shape of corn,
Apples, a rope of black candy.
……
The apples are full of knives.
We will never return.
— from John N. Morris “Halloween”
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