Benjamin Gorman's Shared Poems

I'd forgotten about summer, somehow,
like a comfortable and familiar shirt
carelessly returned to the wrong dresser drawer
after the wash,
found again—the smile of reunion.

Now, on the warmest night yet this year,
late May, after a lumbering spring and too little sun,
standing on the porch
to take in some air before sleep—
the night luxuriant with silence—

That twinge of familiarity.
Ah, yes,
I remember it now—
the heat, the light, exuberant growth,
a flood of awakening memory;
how had this been lost?

Spill light from the porch lamp
strains to reveal burst dandelion heads below,
waiting for a breeze;
and though I feel none,
the newly blooming redosier dogwood by the foot of the stairs
wriggles silently, expectant.

Clearly, she'd forgotten too.

O for the month of harlequin leaves!
Crisp the air and the limpid light!
Time apprehends our memories’ thieves
Offering back what was lost to the night.
Bring on the harvest, the stories and beer!
Everyone gather for feasting and cheer!
Revel in plenty at close of the year!

The honkers are preparing already
Trying out flight patterns
Flying desultory sorties
Peppering the sky in not-so-neat arrangements

They're just warming up, after all
The real work is yet to come
There's more prep yet
More fattening to do
More of the work that comes
Before the work

Another arrowhead flies by,
One flank longer than the other;
Asymmetry is nature's pedigree.
This one's very quiet,
Hardly a sound as they silhouette the western sky.
Are they enjoying the sunset?
Like us, do they drop the petty squabbles
To enjoy a moment of wonder?

Still straight her arm, though weakened now with age,
Her stoic gaze impassively to sea,
The Exiles’ Mother, grateful to breathe free,
Still greets, ignoring petty despots’ rage.
For still the huddled masses teem far shores
And beacon-bearing duty she will keep
As mothers must, a charge as firm as deep:
To beckon in the dark and hold the doors.
Still resolute, her back rebukes the land
Where sons of immigrants forget the routes
So lately traveled by their fathers’ boots,
And clamor now that she should drop her hand.
She’s silent yet, but fierce, and will not yield;
A firm resolve remains her strongest shield.

In re: "The New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus

a terza rima

Our senses one by one we strive to glut
As though excess alone could make us feel.
So gorge we greedily to pad our gut

Or drink as if some awful wound to heal.
Then, envious of other sense, the eyes
Demand their due and stare, with fervent zeal

At flick’ring screens, both large and small in size
To binge-watch all our precious TV shows—
Meanwhile a little something in us dies.

So every act shall harvest what it sows.