The Poetry Playground

Up on the Roof

You wonder why it is they write of it, sing of it,
till suddenly you’re there, nearest you can get
to flying for jumping and you’re alone, at last,
the air bright. Remembering this, I go 
with my too-light jacket up to the sixth floor,
out onto the roof and I freeze under the stars
till he comes with my too-heavy jacket, heavier
and heavier, as he tries to muffle my foolishness.
A blanket on a fire (he says) and it’s true
I am left black, bruised a little, smouldering.

You can sit with a book up there and reel in
life with someone else’s bait. You can let your eyes
skim the river, bridges, banks, a seagull’s parabola.
At night you can watch the sky, those strange galaxies
like so many cracks in the ceiling spilling secrets
from the flat above. You can breathe. You can dream.

But he turns to me, as you’d coax a child
in the back of a stuffy car: we could play I-Spy?
I look at the black and blue above and the only 
letter I find is ‘S’. I cannot name
the dust of starlight, the pinheaded planets,
but I can join the dots to make a farming tool,
the belt of a god: all any of us needs is work,
mystery, a little time alone up on the roof.

~ Maura Dooley

What Grandma Taught Her

She hates to be
somewhere without 
something to do.
They are off petting
the animals that don’t 
have a real home.
When she gets like this
her hands and feet fidget 
her mind wanders as far
as it can in all directions
and keeps looking back.
Give her a pen and paper
so she can quiet her mind
like her grandmother 
would do during
church service.
She would write her name 
over and over.
Grandma taught her this
when she was eight years old
right after her mother died.

~ Melissa A. Stephenson

Summer Dusk

You’ve been the love of my life,
Light lingering in the sky
At the close of a long day
Over the roofs of some city
Like New York or Rome,
As streets empty in the heat,
And shadows lengthen
And darken every room,
Occupied or still vacant,
Where some turn on the lamp
And others step to a window
To savor this fleeting moment
When everything stops
As if stunned by its own beauty.

~ Charles Simic

Shadow

Some people feel lost inside their days.
Always waiting for worse to happen.
They make bets with destiny.
My funniest uncle gave up cursing bad words
inside his head. He says he succeeded
one whole hour. He tried to subscribe to
the universe made by people. He slept outside
by himself on top of the hill.

When Facebook says I have “followers” –
I hope they know I need their help.
Subscribe to plants, animals, stars,
music, the baby who can’t walk yet but
stands up holding on to the sides of things,
tables, chairs, and takes a few clumsy steps,
then sits down hard. This is how we live.

~ Naomi Shihab Nye