Crows

by Mary Oliver

It is January, and there are crows like black flowers on the snow. While I watch, they rise and float toward the frozen pond, they have seen some streak of death on the dark ice. They gather around it and consume everything, the strings and the red music of that nameless body. Then they shout, one hungry, blunt voice echoing another. It begins to rain. Later, it becomes February, and even later, spring returns, a chorus of thousands. They bow, and begin their important music. I recognize the oriole. I recognize the thrush, and the mockingbird. I recognize the business of summer, which is to forge ahead, delicately. So I dip my fingers among the green stems, delicately. I lounge at the edge of the leafing pond, delicately. I scarcely remember the crust of the snow. I scarcely remember the icy dawns and the sun like a lamp without a fuse. I don’t remember the fury of loneliness. I never felt the wind’s drift. I never heard of the struggle between anything and nothing. I never saw the flapping, blood-gulping crows.

Old friend

I am so glad you are back

That you weren't gone for too long.

But I know it hurts.

The decision you made was hard, and I feel as though I don’t deserve it.

I don’t deserve to be the reason you chose to be happy.

The reason you chose to leave her.

It feels nice, I suppose.

Like coming home.

Like wrapping myself in an old quilt.

But it also feels like exactly what it is.

Coming back to an old friend.

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poetry poem original poem written by me short poem my poems happy but sad

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boxoflives

1 year ago

Art is not my friend right now

I am filled with so much jealousy for other’s art, I am unable to enjoy my own.

Art is not my friend right now.

I can’t come up with anything new. I miss the days where this wasn’t a chore. We aren’t friends right now because I want my art to be something it is not.

Art is not my friend right now. I can’t make my hands create what is in my head.

Art is not my friend right now.

But all I want is for our friendship to return. It may be selfish, I want her to bring me joy. She might be the only one that can. I want to bring her to life, so we can walk hand in hand amongst creation.

Art will be my friend again soon.

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art writing poetry poem original poem art block my writing written by me verse slayed poems By me

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boxoflives

1 year ago

Viktor Zaretsky - Tatyana (ca. 1980s)

450 notes View Post

boxoflives

4 months ago

how am i going to get by how am i going to pay for so and so what am i going to do on my spare time so i can enjoy myself will i enjoy my life is it worth it to be alive is it worth it to go to work everyday

7K notes View Post

boxoflives

1 year ago

first base is putting your cigarettes out on each other second base is psychosexual obsession third base is murder-suicide

41K notes View Post

boxoflives

1 year ago

“stop traumadumping to your friends tell this to your therapist” my god they paywalled human connection

169K notes View Post

boxoflives

1 year ago

not enough e. e. cummings appreciation on this website. reblog if youre a true cummer