Ellie@Home by Nicole Kapise-Perkins

Well, not really, because poetry is life, and as long as there is life there is poetry. Thank you for reading along during 2020's National Poetry Month. I'll close the month with these words by Ada Limon: Enough of osseous and chickadee and sunflower and snowshoes, maple and seeds, samara and shoot, enough chiaroscuro, enough of thus and prophecy and the stoic farmer and faith and our father and tis of thee, enough of bosom and bud, skin and god not forgetting and star bodies and frozen birds, enough of the will to go on and not go on or how a certain light does a certain thing, enough of the kneeling and the rising and the looking inward and the looking up, enough of the gun, the drama, and the acquaintance’s suicide, the long-lost letter on the dresser, enough of the longing and the ego and the obliteration of ego, enough of the mother and the child and the father and the child and enough of the pointing to the world, weary and desperate, enough of the bruta

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond E. E. Cummings - 1894-1962 somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,

     I am a newsletter junkie. I proudly admit it! I should probably scale back because I don't get the chance to read all of them daily, but then I DO spend my Sunday mornings enjoying a mug of tea and getting caught up, so that's okay, right? So, here is the list of newsletters I receive in my inbox daily or weekly. (This really does have a poetry connection, I swear) Check some of these out. They are both informative and entertaining, and cover such topics as art, literature, self-care, politics, civil rights, current events, and general human interest. Laura Olin Newsletter: https://www.lauraolin.com/newsletter/ Ann Friedman Weekly: https://www.annfriedman.com/weekly Brain Pickings by Maria Popova: https://www.brainpickings.org/ Call Your Girlfriend (a great podcast; their newsletter is called The Bleed): https://www.callyourgirlfriend.com/ Girls' Night In: https://girlsnightinclub.com/ The Snoozeletter: https://www.thesnoozeletter.com/ The Lily (from The

I have a fragment of loveliness for you, written by Terry Tempest Williams, from her book When Women Were Birds . I have not read this volume yet, but it is on my list. “Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The ... birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.” ~Terry Tempest Williams ―  When Women Were Birds: Fifty-four Variations on Voice     

Tell the Bees by Sarah Lindsay Tell the bees. They require news of the house; they must know, lest they sicken from the gap between their ignorance and our grief. Speak in a whisper. Tie a black swatch to a stick and attach the stick to their hive. From the fortress of casseroles and desserts built in the kitchen these past few weeks as though hunger were the enemy, remove a slice of cake and lay it where they can slowly draw it in, making a mournful sound. And tell the fly that has knocked on the window all day. Tell the redbird that rammed the glass from outside and stands too dazed to go. Tell the grass, though it's already guessed, and the ground clenched in furrows; tell the water you spill on the ground, then all the water will know. And the last shrunken pearl of snow in its hiding place. Tell the blighted elms, and the young oaks we plant instead. The water bug, while it scribbles a hundred lines that dissolve behind it.

Introduction to Poetry By Billy Collins     I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide   or press an ear against its hive.   I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out,   or walk inside the poem’s room and feel the walls for a light switch.   I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author’s name on the shore.   But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it.   They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means.   Billy Collins, “Introduction to Poetry” from The Apple that Astonished Paris. Copyright � 1988, 1996 by Billy Collins. Reprinted

   During this time of uncertainty and fear, I am reminded that happiness and moments of joy are equally important as the precautions we are taking to prevent illness. Yes, we are worried about our loved ones, wondering when this virus will finally be controlled and we can go back to hugging our friends and visiting our out-of-state children. I work in a health-care facility. Every day I am witness to the strength of character of a hard-working team of environmental service staff and CNAs. Every day I go home to a bouncy, wiggly, oh-so-happy little boy who is enjoying his extended vacation from school but longs to go out and play at the park. He isn't letting this shutdown dampen his spirits too much, though. Corny jokes, complicated Lego structures, impromptu dance parties, and sweet hugs abound. My little boy is reminding me that joy is to be found everywhere, if I only take the time to look. Poem of Joys by Walt Whitman 1 O TO make the most jubilant poem! Even to set

The gracious and talented Rebecca Buchanan, editor -in-chief of Eternal Haunted Summer ( https://eternalhauntedsummer.com/ ) interviewed me for EvOke e-zine ( https://medium.com/ev0ke ) Follow the link and check it out! https://medium.com/ev0ke/interview-nicole-kapise-perkins-958f7ace1d0b?fbclid=IwAR0cio-TPiMn70DIDVc_hZISkYD0a3byvX9svi4BC2Mku-9tKKvme-CguVc&_branch_match_id=779680303622574465

     Today is my birthday, 43 years young! I have decided to treat myself (and you) to a collection of poems by my all-time favorite author, the incomparable Louisa. (Really, it's just an excuse to read all the Alcott I want today, but that doesn't matter, does it?) Fairy Song - Poem by Louisa May Alcott The moonlight fades from flower and rose And the stars dim one by one; The tale is told, the song is sung, And the Fairy feast is done. The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers, And sings to them, soft and low. The early birds erelong will wake: 'T is time for the Elves to go. O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass, Unseen by mortal eye, And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float Through the quiet moonlit sky;-- For the stars' soft eyes alone may see, And the flowers alone may know, The feasts we hold, the tales we tell; So't is time for the Elves to go. From bird, and blossom, and bee, We learn the lessons they teach; And seek, b

Home [“Often I had gone this way before”] By Edward Thomas Often I had gone this way before: But now it seemed I never could be And never had been anywhere else; 'Twas home; one nationality We had, I and the birds that sang, One memory.   They welcomed me. I had come back That eve somehow from somewhere far: The April mist, the chill, the calm, Meant the same thing familiar And pleasant to us, and strange too, Yet with no bar.   The thrush on the oaktop in the lane Sang his last song, or last but one; And as he ended, on the elm Another had but just begun His last; they knew no more than I The day was done.   Then past his dark white cottage front A labourer went along, his tread Slow, half with weariness, half with ease; And, through the silence, from his shed The sound of sawing rounded all That silence said. My Home by Ella Wheeler Wilco