Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
on a gray bed of leaves
where a snowdrift lay
green feathers of delicate fern moss
flutter in the breeze
one fallen limb is frilled
with crowded parchment fungus
another with jelly ears
for a silent flock of robins
not seen since autumn
in their rhyming orange
a crab spider emerges
from under a leaf
to run in circles
beneath the accommodating sky
Up betimes, to my office, where all the morning. About noon Sir J. Robinson, Lord Mayor, desiring way through the garden from the Tower, called in at the office and there invited me (and Sir W. Pen, who happened to be in the way) to dinner, which we did; and there had a great Lent dinner of fish, little flesh. And thence he and I in his coach, against my will (for I am resolved to shun too great fellowship with him) to White Hall, but came too late, the Duke having been with our fellow officers before we came, for which I was sorry. Thence he and I to walk one turn in the Park, and so home by coach, and I to my office, where late, and so home to supper and bed.
There dined with us to-day Mr. Slingsby, of the Mint, who showed us all the new pieces both gold and silver (examples of them all), that are made for the King, by Blondeau’s way; and compared them with those made for Oliver. The pictures of the latter made by Symons, and of the King by one Rotyr, a German, I think, that dined with us also. He extolls those of Rotyr’s above the others; and, indeed, I think they are the better, because the sweeter of the two; but, upon my word, those of the Protector are more like in my mind, than the King’s, but both very well worth seeing. The crowns of Cromwell are now sold, it seems, for 25s. and 30s. apiece.
all the way through the garden
the tower
and the fish turn gold
for a mad king
I think in ink a sweeter
word worth seeing
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Monday 9 March 1662/63.
I never did get into the sourdough
starter trend, jars of fermenting
microbes named Herman, Sophia, or
Suzette passed down from family
to family to friends, and now
to anyone on Etsy who's curious.
They boast a long lineage: a thousand
years or more, back to when wheat
was gleaned from hillsides and plains
in the old world. Water and flour
mixed with bacteria from unknown
hands continue to bring their
backstory forward. Haven't we
also carried the spores of what came
before in our bones: history of old hurts,
litany of losses? Was there ever a time
when the body did not wear these kinds
of heirlooms, when it knew only
the simplicity of air and water before
the blunt alchemy of change? To leaven
means to rise, but the body can also choose
what bread to cultivate— feed what blooms
into nourishment instead of sour replication.
These days, it seems the sky has some difficulty
remembering light is for softening in the early
morning and at twilight, for ferrying birds
instead of bombs through its curtain.
Ships and schools and cities burn.
People crowd airports, clutching documents
and a few possessions they can't leave behind.
A child chews on the ear of a stuffed toy.
His mother can't stop crying. Meanwhile,
the Filipina tennis player wins another
match, smiling and poised through an opponent's
accusations— her fans were distractingly loud
in the stands with their joy. What is too much
joy? I want to say we work through the strain
of our own battles, but life goes on because
that's what it does. Meanwhile, we clink
glasses of iced mint tea in a Lebanese taverna
by the harbor, where tourists line up to see
the insides of a sloop-of-war from 1854. Fog-
draped, from a distance its masts look almost
shrouded in smoke. If only the madmen of the world
would stop behaving as though they could own it all.
If only we could find a way to continue, to give
our children their own futures not yet broken.
(Lord’s day). Being sent to by Sir J. Minnes to know whether I would go with him to White Hall to-day, I rose but could not get ready before he was gone, but however I walked thither and heard Dr. King, Bishop of Chichester, make a good and eloquent sermon upon these words, “They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy.”
Thence (the chappell in Lent being hung with black, and no anthem sung after sermon, as at other times), to my Lord Sandwich at Sir W. Wheeler’s. I found him out of order, thinking himself to be in a fit of an ague, but in the afternoon he was very cheery. I dined with Sir William, where a good but short dinner, not better than one of mine commonly of a Sunday.
After dinner up to my Lord, there being Mr. Rumball. My Lord, among other discourse, did tell us of his great difficultys passed in the business of the Sound, and of his receiving letters from the King there, but his sending them by Whetstone was a great folly; and the story how my Lord being at dinner with Sydney, one of his fellow plenipotentiarys and his mortal enemy, did see Whetstone, and put off his hat three times to him, but the fellow would not be known, which my Lord imputed to his coxcombly humour (of which he was full), and bid Sydney take notice of him too, when at the very time he had letters in his pocket from the King, as it proved afterwards. And Sydney afterwards did find it out at Copenhagen, the Dutch Commissioners telling him how my Lord Sandwich had hired one of their ships to carry back Whetstone to Lubeck, he being come from Flanders from the King. But I cannot but remember my Lord’s aequanimity in all these affairs with admiration.
Thence walked home, in my way meeting Mr. Moore, with whom I took a turn or two in the street among the drapers in Paul’s Churchyard, talking of business, and so home to bed.
forever go the words
they sow in tears
the chapel hung with black
and no anthem but the sound
of a great whetstone
from the war
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday 8 March 1662/63.
Up betimes, and to the office, where some of us sat all the morning. At noon Sir W. Pen began to talk with me like a counterfeit rogue very kindly about his house and getting bills signed for all our works, but he is a cheating fellow, and so I let him talk and answered nothing. So we parted.
I to dinner, and there met The. Turner, who is come on foot in a frolique to beg me to get a place at sea for John, their man, which is a rogue; but, however, it may be, the sea may do him good in reclaiming him, and therefore I will see what I can do. She dined with me; and after dinner I took coach, and carried her home; in our way, in Cheapside, lighting and giving her a dozen pair of white gloves as my Valentine. Thence to my Lord Sandwich, who is gone to Sir W. Wheeler’s for his more quiet being, where he slept well last night, and I took him very merry, playing at cards, and much company with him. So I left him, and Creed and I to Westminster Hall, and there walked a good while. He told me how for some words of my Lady Gerard’s against my Lady Castlemaine to the Queen, the King did the other day affront her in going out to dance with her at a ball, when she desired it as the ladies do, and is since forbid attending the Queen by the King; which is much talked of, my Lord her husband being a great favourite.
Thence by water home and to my office, wrote by the post and so home to bed.
morning like a counterfeit bill
but the sea is the sea
reclaiming in cheap
white gloves the sand
where last night we walked
the king and queen of water
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Saturday 7 March 1662/63.
Centuries ago, it was believed
that something could be made holy
by singeing it with fire, letting
its blood drip into a cup to offer
on an altar with prayers and song.
A blessing once meant a marking,
the hand touched to the wound
to gentle its turn toward grace.
Under the well which gives water,
tunnels deep in the earth snake
through thorny bramble and rock,
seeking the root of things. Without
having known what it’s like to fumble
through darkness, would the pearl-
light of morning feel less of an
astonishment? Bodies that bore
a hundred hurts, that carved of
themselves an offering. A warbler
balances on the tip of a branch,
its weight barely enough to break it.
Up betimes, and about eight o’clock by coach with four horses, with Sir J. Minnes and Sir W. Batten, to Woolwich, a pleasant day. There at the yard we consulted and ordered several matters, and thence to the rope yard and did the like, and so into Mr. Falconer’s, where we had some fish, which we brought with us, dressed; and there dined with us his new wife, which had been his mayde, but seems to be a genteel woman, well enough bred and discreet.
Thence after dinner back to Deptford, where we did as before, and so home, good discourse in our way, Sir J. Minnes being good company, though a simple man enough as to the business of his office, but we did discourse at large again about Sir W. Pen’s patent to be his assistant, and I perceive he is resolved never to let it pass.
To my office, and thence to Sir W. Batten’s, where Major Holmes was lately come from the Streights, but do tell me strange stories of the faults of Cooper his master, put in by me, which I do not believe, but am sorry to hear and must take some course to have him removed, though I believe that the Captain is proud, and the fellow is not supple enough to him. So to my office again to set down my Journall, and so home and to bed. This evening my boy Waynman’s brother was with me, and I did tell him again that I must part with the boy, for I will not keep him. He desires my keeping him a little longer till he can provide for him, which I am willing for a while to do.
This day it seems the House of Commons have been very high against the Papists, being incensed by the stir which they make for their having an Indulgence; which, without doubt, is a great folly in them to be so hot upon at this time, when they see how averse already the House have showed themselves from it.
This evening Mr. Povy was with me at my office, and tells me that my Lord Sandwich is this day so ill that he is much afeard of him, which puts me to great pain, not more for my own sake than for his poor family’s.
clock like a fishwife
we discourse at large
where I do not believe
am I supple enough in my art
to stir up a verse
from that soil
Erasure poem derived from The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Friday 6 March 1662/63.
From light to light, breath seeks a path
to brilliance unencumbered. What we endure
proves more than survival. To be spared—
really, what are the chances? No one’s anointed.
Tempered in leaves and ash, brine yields a coarse
and smoky salt. Time has worked this way too
on the planes of your face. From darkness
hammered on the anvils of the past, how
you remake the world each time determines
how you rise. Your first home's receded into
the archive, so you tend to think any venture
could be a homing. You choose to go out again
into the wide world, believing your life
is both the oldest and the newest song.
*
What you worked hard for, you know
you’ve earned. First author, clear byline.
Your name spelled correctly— how hard
could it be? It seems more than a lifetime,
this work of standing up for your due.
And yet you haven’t lost excitement for
things you still hope to do. Teach and write,
make books, read books, exchange ideas to find
elusive delight; discover how lives shaped
in heaviness and endurance might breathe.
Shed scales close as armor, feel the blade joy
can touch to your chest where it finds a place of
softness. Remember sweetness after years
of strain, how skies widen from light to light.
*