Street Poets Inc. Blog

She’s been there my whole life,
Bringing culture and comfort to this oversized family.
She’s a hummingbird,
Small and fragile on the outside,
But strong and witty on the inside.
She makes my grandpa smile,
And everything she touches turns to gold
When she’s sad the world seems to cry,
But her joy make the sun rise
She advertises and pushes memories of ancestors
into the world,
She might not be part of my blood,
But she’s part of my heart in this oversized family.

-Catalina Raquel Adragna

we would love you to stay in touch with us and continue sharing your poetry via email so we can share your words and thoughts with the rest of the world and our community.

Check out our new blog at www.streetpoetsinc.blogspot.com

soon we will be sharing podcasts featuring the voices of our young poets and storytellers…

and we are always on facebook at www.facebook.com/streetpoetsinc

dear POETS:

we are switching our blog to blogger, you can check out the new blog at www.streetpoetsinc.blogspot.com - Please stay in touch with us, and continue to share your poetry/songs/photos/thoughts/quotes, etc with us via email (streetpoetinc@gmail.com) or on our new blog.

www.facebook.com/streetpoetsinc

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried with its still fingers
at the very foundations-
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save.

-Mary Oliver

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of. It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off. For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. 
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss - we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless.
I am living. I remember you.

-Marie Howe 

If dreams

Orbs of energy

And signs of the time

Are a form of words

Spirit definitely speaks to me

I can’t close my eyes

Without seeing me fly

Or being levitated

By some sort of mysterious vibe

An enemy from a past life

Became a reflection in my eye

But when I chose to deliver him to death

I slammed right into a bus

That just appeared from the blind

If all of us are not dead

And just dreaming to be alive

Why can’t we see the supreme truth

Society disguises in the form of lies

I took a hike with the ancestors

Climbed the horizon of true beauty

Here on planet earth

A natural heaven that moved

And truly wooed me

The mists of Avalon

A secret garden perhaps

To harvest the magic we all carry

Beneath the curse

Where our souls are buried

If dreams

Orbs of energy

And signs of the time

Are a form of words

Spirit Definitely speaks

But why o’ why is it

Speaking to me

-taylor c. maxie jr-

Where it says snow
read teeth-marks of a virgin
Where it says knife read
you passed through my bones
like a police-whistle
Where it says table read horse
Where it says horse read my migrant’s bundle
Apples are to remain apples
Each time a hat appears
think of Isaac Newton
reading the Old Testament
Remove all periods
They are scars made by words
I couldn’t bring myself to say
Put a finger over each sunrise
it will blind you otherwise
That damn ant is still stirring
Will there be time left to list
all errors to replace
all hands guns owls plates
all cigars ponds woods and reach
that beer-bottle my greatest mistake
the word I allowed to be written
when I should have shouted 
her name