They call me
the show stopper
the dime dropper
the spin-move-to-the-left
reverse jam poppa.
The high flier
on the high wire.
The intense rim-rattlin’
noise
amplifier.

The net-shaker
back board breaker
creator
of the funky dunk
hip-shaker.
The Man
Sir Slam
The Legend
I be.

That’s just
a few of the names
they call me.

Charles R. Smith. Photograph. www.cpsd.us. Web.

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

William Carlos Williams. Photograph. www.boppin.com. Web.

All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.

William Carlos Williams. Photograph. www.boppin.com. Web.

Funky Snowman loves to dance
You’d think he wouldn’t
have much chance
without two legs
or even pants.

Does that stop
Funky Snowman?

No!!

Turn up the music
with the disco beat,
when you’re in the groove,
you don’t need feet.
Crowds come out
and fill the street.

Kick it,
Funky Snowman!!

When all of a sudden the city air filled with snow,
the distinguishable flakes
blowing sideways,
looked like krill
fleeing the maw of an advancing whale.

At least they looked that way to me
from the taxi window,
and since I happened to be sitting
that fading Sunday afternoon
in the very center of the universe,
who was in a better position
to say what looked like what,
which thing resembled some other?

Yes, it was a run of white plankton
borne down the Avenue of the Americas
in the stream of the wind,
phosphorescent against the weighty buildings.

Which made the taxi itself,
yellow and slow-moving,
a kind of undersea creature,
I thought as I wiped the fog from the glass,

and me one of its protruding eyes,
an eye on a stem
swiveling this way and that
monitoring one side of its world,
observing tons of water
tons of people
colored signs and lights
and now a wildly blowing race of snow.

Billy Collins

Billy Collins. Photograph. mediacatalogue.blogspot.com. Web.

majestic, majic
infinite
my little girl is
sun
on the carpet-
out the door
picking a flower, ha!
an old man,
battle-wrecked,
emerges from his
chair
and she looks at me
but only sees
love,
ha!, and I become
quick with the world
and love right back
just like I was meant
to do.

Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski. Photograph. stongandfree.ca. Web.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of Me.

Emily Dickinson. Photograph. www.abm-enterprises.net/emily_dickinson.htm. Web.

(I)

Steering my little boat towards a misty islet,

I watch the sun descend while my sorrows grow:

In the vast night the sky hangs lower than the treetops,

But in the blue lake the moon is coming close.

[translated by William Carlos Williams]

(II)

Night on the Great River

We anchor the boat alongside a hazy island.

As the sun sets I am overwhelmed with nostalgia.

The plain stretches away without limit.

The sky is just above the tree tops.

The river flows quietly by.

The moon comes down amongst men.

[translated by Kenneth Rexroth]

(III)

Mooring on Chien-te River

The boat rocks at anchor by the misty island

Sunset, my loneliness comes again.

In these vast wilds the sky arches down to the trees.

In the clear river water, the moon draws near.

[translated by Gary Snyder]

gl-189liriver. Photograph. www.eoinbutler.com/page/4/. Web.

by Li Po

I saw the moonlight before my couch,

And wondered if it were not frost on the ground.

I raised my head and looked out on the bright moon;

I bowed my head and thought of my far-off home.

Li Po. Photograph. davidhinton.net. Web.

Spring is past, and Summer’s past,
Autumn’s come, and going;
Weather seems as though at last
We might get some snowing.
Spring was good, and Summer better,
But the best of all is waiting,-
Madame Winter-don’t forget her.-
O
You
Skating!

Spring we welcomed when we met,
Summer was a blessing;
Autumn points to school, but yet
Let’s be acquiescing.
Spring had many precious pleasures;
Winter’s on a different rating;
She has greater, richer treasures,-
O
You
Skating!

Gleam of ice, and glint of steel,
Jolly, snappy weather;
Glide on ice and joy of zeal,
All, alone, together.
Fickle Spring! Who can imprint her?-
Faithless while she’s captivating;
Here’s to trusty Madame Winter.-
O
You
Skating!

ee cummings

E. e. cummings. Photograph. Artsjournal.com. Web.