hunker down on their hands and knees
   and sniff the problem
poke it with ungentle fingers
   rub it raw with steel wool
wad it up in a ball and cackle

   then pound it flat with little mallets
watch it rise like dough (uh oh)
   resume its original shape
screech, swing at it with hatchets
   spatter the walls with oozing fragments
stare horrified at the shattered bits
   reassembling themselves, jump up
attack the problem with icepicks
   gouge holes six inches deep
and seven inches across
   (chew the mangled matter
spit it out and belch) kick the thing
   into a corner, remove their belts
and beat it senseless, walk off
   with the answer in their pockets.

	-- Judith Saunders

Celebrate the first national Poem In Your Pocket Day!

The idea is simple: select a poem you love during National Poetry Month then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends on April 17.

SUBSCRIBE TO A POEM-A-DAY HERE.

Peonies by Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open —
pools of lace,
white and pink —
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities —
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?

from New And Selected Poems by Mary Oliver

(c) Mary Oliver