The above photographs were taken and submitted by New York City poet Joe Tessitore. We invite readers to pick one of the images (or both) and write a poem. Post your poem in the comments section below.
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She remembers the first time his hand closed around her fingers, the smooth skin of youth and a slight...
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Thank you for reading and commenting. I appreciate that.
Dear,
i guess it is not mentioned how to send the poem for you, i appreciate that you guide me on this matter.
look forward to hearing from you.
sincerely,
MONARCHS
~ after G. M. Hopkins
The first one floated
onto my pointed finger,
flexing its orange and black
wings, relaxing to linger,
as if I were a strange
butterfly bush in shape
for it to rest on in its range
of flight, to let me gape.
And then another came,
followed by a dozen more
alighting, as if my odd frame
flamed warmly from each pore,
until my head bore a crown
of moving color, on each arm
front and back, up and down,
they landed, showing no alarm.
But then the still air shocked
with cold, and we all froze
in place, our limbs were locked
and we assumed a pose
of sleep, and never to awake,
a million lost and silent things
nothing would inspire to make
us rise with ah, bright wings.