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Guest worker
My papers find me
in my own house.
I show my papers
like an old bound foot.
Poems on the topic: belonging
Poems on the topic “belonging” on Poets.by.
* * *
poetry festival
someone says the lake
isn’t a lake
in wild–
flower beds now
only the cosmos
200 years
after Keats’ ode
autumn persists
churchyard labyrinth
zeroing in
on the X
where the dead
are said to sleep
my autumn face
skyline
Allusive haiku
whose woods these are
a barred owl asks
nothing of me
Project
Gray, ugly, already starting
to crumble. What the project’s
planners had meant it to say
was: The future is here.
What the residents heard:
You do not belong.
Fortunately, it was possible
to pry the windows open.
On any given night,
you could stand on the street
& watch the litter sail out:
Happy Meal bags, cigarette butts
leaving trails of sparks,
yesterday’s paper.
This year-round autumn
blanketed the courtyard,
Canis
That stray dog
You know
That one folks take
enough liking to
it never goes feral
On occasion tossed a scrap
Here and there water left
in bowls to lap as that dog tramps
in and about the domestic yet
without any urge to join
That dog belongs
by not belonging
That dog is not ours
We are that dog’s
ToDaY
Today I feel
Abandoned
Hurt
Ugly
Ashamed
Useless
Like I dont matter
Like I dont belong or have belonged
Invisible
I Remembered
There never was a mood of mine,
Gay or heart-broken, luminous or dull,
But you could ease me of its fever
And give it back to me more beautiful.
In many another soul I broke the bread,
And drank the wine and played the happy guest,
But I was lonely, I remembered you;
The heart belongs to him who knew it best.
Lydia Humphrey
Back and forth, back and forth, to and from the church,
With my Bible under my arm
’Till I was gray and old;
Unwedded, alone in the world,
Finding brothers and sisters in the congregation,
And children in the church.
I know they laughed and thought me queer.
I knew of the eagle souls that flew high in the sunlight,
Above the spire of the church, and laughed at the church,
Disdaining me, not seeing me.
But if the high air was sweet to them, sweet was the church to me.
It was the vision, vision, vision of the poets
Democratized!
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