Best Poems - Seize The Day

“… So, seize the day! hold holiday!
Be unwearied, unceasingly, alive,
you and your own true love;
Let not your heart be troubled during your sojourn on earth,
but seize the day as it passes! . . .”

“If you are on the Gloomy Line,
Get a transfer.
If you’re inclined to fret and pine,
Get a transfer.
Get off the track of doubt and gloom,
Get on the Sunshine Track—there’s room—
Get a transfer.

If you’re on the Worry Train,
Get a transfer.
You must not stay there and complain,
Get a transfer.
The Cheerful Cars are passing through,
And there’s lots of room for you—
Get a transfer.

If you’re on the Grouchy Track,
Get a transfer
Just take a Happy Special back,
Get a transfer.
Jump on the train and pull the rope,
That lands you at the station Hope—
Get a transfer.”

“Too often, the only escape is sleep.”
           —Charles Bukowski

“She loves to daydream on
the roof, using her purse
as a pillow. Not wanting 
to go back downstairs and
face the starving customers
leaving their 50 cent tips
and barking about the watered
down drinks. There are no
spirits up here, just LA sunlight
glowing, the sounds of cars racing
by, sounding like they’re speed
boats heading to Malibu. Unlike
most Angelenos, she loves 
the sound of the 101 freeway,
closing her eyes, envisioning
the happiest place on 
earth, not Disneyland, instead
she can feel the exhaust waves, 
concrete salty air, and with one
blink it’s like she can reach
out the rolled down window,
towering inside her largest 
sandcastle, honking laughter, 
cruise control smiles, top down
sunbathing highway humidity
soundtrack of traffic jams
splashing windshield wiper
grins, her mind cruises roadside
idling on her most private beach.”

“these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don’t fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!”

“Maybe it was the fast-moving clouds
or the spring flowers quivering among the dead leaves,
but I knew this was one day I was born to seize—

not just another card in the deck of a year,
but March 19th itself,
looking as clear and fresh as the ten of diamonds.

Living life to the fullest is the only way,
I thought as I sat by a tall window
and tapped my pencil on the dome of a glass paperweight.  

To drain the cup of life to the dregs
was a piece of irresistible advice,
I averred as I checked someone’s dates

in the Dictionary of National Biography
and later, as I scribbled a few words
on the back of a picture postcard.  

Crashing through the iron gates of life
is what it is all about,
I decided as I lay down on the carpet,

locked my hands behind my head,
and considered how unique this day was
and how different I was from the men

of hari-kari for whom it is disgraceful
to end up lying on your back.
Better, they think, to be found facedown

in a blood-soaked shirt
than to be discovered with lifeless eyes
fixed on the elegant teak ceiling above you,

and now I can almost hear the silence
of the temple bells and the lighter silence
of the birds hiding in the darkness of a hedge.”

“Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso—

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins—
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.”

“Is bliss, then, such abyss
I must not put my foot amiss
For fear I spoil my shoe?

I’d rather suit my foot
Than save my boot,
For yet to buy another pair
Is possible
At any fair.

But bliss is sold just once;
The patent lost 
None buy it any more.”

“Goin mah own road
Goin mah own road
Goin to wuhk foh mahse’f.

Ah need some clo’s
Ah need some shoes
Ah need a loaf of bread
Ah need a roof ovah mah head.

Ah hired me out for a pair of shoes
Ah hired me out for a coat and suit
Make me a roof ovah mah head
Ah worked hard to make my bread.

Ah wukked mah time and ovahtime
Ah wukked mah time and too much time
When ah quit wuk
Ah hadn’t a dime.

Goin mah own road
Goin mah own road
Goin to wuk foh mahse’f.

Ah tol’ the boss you go to hell
Ah kicked his ass, you go to hell
Me an mah kind don need you
Me an mah kind kin wuk foh ourselves. 

Ah tol’ the boss ‘Ah take what’s mine’
You hired mah labor, Ah made what’s mine
Me and my kind don need you
Ah’m goin to wuk for mahse’f.

Ah’ll make mah clothes
Ah’ll make mah shoes
Ah’ll make a loaf of bread,
Make me a roof ovah mah head.  

Walkin mah own road
Walking mah own road
Goin to wuk foh mahse’f.  

Ah wukked mah time an overtime
Ah wukked mah time an too much time.
When Ah quit wuk Ah hadn’t a dime. 

Aint gonna let them two time me no mo
Ah was small time, but Ah’m gonna be 
big time now.

Goin mah own road
Goin mah own road
Goin to wuk for mahse’f.

Ah tol’ the boss, Ah been a goddamn fool
Ah tol’ the boss, Ah been a goddamn fool
Let him drive me like a mule.

Ah’m goinna hand that harness up on a shelf
Ah’m gonna hand that harness up on a shelf
Ah’m goinn wuk foh mahse’f.

Goin mah own road
Goin mah own road
Goin to work foh mahse’f.”

(Written for, and read at, President Joe Biden’s Inauguration, January 20, 2021)

“When day comes we ask ourselves
Where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry,
A sea we must wade.
We braced the belly of the beast;
We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace.
And the norms and notions of what just is
Isn’t always justice.
And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it.
Somehow we do it;
Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed
A nation that isn’t broken but simply unfinished.
We, the successors of a country and a time
Where a skinny Black girl descended from slaves
and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president,
only to find herself reciting for one.
And yes we are far from polished, far from pristine,
But that doesn’t mean we aren’t striving to form a union that is perfect.
We are striving to forge a union with purpose,
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and
   conditions of man.
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us,
But what stands before us.
We close the divide, because we know, to put our future first,
We must first put our differences aside.
We lay down our arms
So we can reach out our arms to one another.
We seek harm to none and harmony for all.
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
That even as we grieved, we grew,
That even as we hurt, we hoped,
That even as we tired, we tried,
That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious—
Not because we will never again know defeat
But because we will never again sow division.
Scripture tells us to envision
That everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree,
And no one shall make them afraid.
If we’re to live up to our own time,
Then victory won’t lie in the blade but in all the bridges we’ve made.
That is the promised glade,
The hill we climb if only we dare it.
Because being American is more than a pride we inherit,
It’s the past we step into and how we repair it.
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation rather than share it,
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.
And this effort very nearly succeeded,
But while democracy can be periodically delayed
It can never be permanently defeated.
In this truth, in this faith we trust,
For while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us.
This is the era of just redemption.
We feared at its inception.
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour,
But within it we found the power
To author a new chapter,
To offer hope and laughter,
To ourselves sow.  While once we asked:
How could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?
Now we assert: How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was,
But move to what shall be,
A country that is bruised but whole,
Benevolent but bold,
Fierce and free.
We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation
Because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance
   of the next generation.
Our blunders become their burdens
But one thing is certain:
If we merge mercy with might and might with right,
Then love becomes our legacy
And change our children’s birthright.
So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left,
With every breath of my bronze-pounded chest,
We will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.
We will rise from the golden hills of the West.
We will rise from the windswept Northeast where our
   forefathers first realized revolution.
We will rise from the lakeland cities of the Midwestern states.
We will rise from the sunbaked South.
We will rebuild, reconcile and recover
In every known nook of our nation,
In every corner called our country,
Our people, diverse and beautiful,
Will emerge battered and beautiful.
When day comes we step out of the shade,
Aflame and unafraid.
The new dawn blooms as we free it.
For there is always light if only we’re brave enough to see it,
If only we’re brave enough to be it.”

“Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow:
Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft
To give my Love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,–
Notes from the lark I’ll borrow:
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing!
To give my Love good-morrow!
To give my Love good-morrow
Notes from them both I’ll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast!
Sing, birds, in every furrow!
And from each hill, let music shrill
Give my fair Love good-morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good-morrow!
to give my Love good-morrow
Sing, birds, in every furrow!”

“Don’t be too eager to ask
          What the gods have in mind for us.
What will become of you,
          What will become of me,
What you can read in the cards,
          Or spell out on the Ouija board,
It’s better not to know,
          Either Jupiter says
This coming winter is not
          After all going to be
The last winter you have,
          Or else Jupiter says
This winter that’s coming soon,
          Eating away the cliffs
Along the Tyrrhenian Sea,
          Is going to be the final
Winter of all.  Be mindful.
          Take good care of your vineyard.
The time we have is short.
          Cut short your hopes for longer.
Now as I say these words,
          Time has already fled.
Backwards away—
          Leuconoë—
                   Hold on to the day.”

“Be like the bird, who
Halting in his flight
On limb too slight
Feels it give way beneath him,
Yet sings
knowing he hath wings.”

“Against the day of sorrow
Lay by some trifling thing
A smile, a kiss, a flower
For sweet remembering.

Then when the day is darkest
Without one rift of blue
Take out your little trifle
And dream your dream anew.”

“I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes. “

“O winds of March, draw up the document
And you, O small clenched buds upon the bough
And scarlet crocuses whose fires accent
A lingering patch of snow, bear witness now
To these my eager words and signature:
I am enamored, senses, heart and mind,
Of Life! And though a compromise is sure
To hide in all her gifts, I find here kind
And lavish past belief—one day of spring
Pours jubilance enough to brim a soul
And with its subtle golden ministering
Can take an ailing heart and make it whole—
Bear witness that I love life as one should
Who knows her ways are wonderfully good!”

“The trick is, to live your days
as if each one may be your last
(for they go fast, and young men lose their lives
in strange and unimaginable ways)
but at the same time, plan long range
(for they go slow; if you survive
the shattered windshield and the bursting shell
you will arrive
at our approximation here below
of heaven or hell).

To be specific, between the peony and the rose
plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes;
beauty is nectar
and nectar, in a desert, saves—
but the stomach craves stronger sustenance
than the honied vine.

Therefore, marry a pretty girl
after seeing her mother;
Speak truth to one man,
work with another;
and always serve bread with your wine.

But, son,
always serve wine.”

“Be yourself: show your flyblown eyes
to the world, give no cause for concern,
wash the paunchy body whose means you
live within, suffer the illnesses
that are your prerogative alone—

the prognosis refers to nobody but you;
you it is who gets up every morning
in your skin, you who chews your dinner
with your mercury-filled teeth, gaining
garlic breath or weight, you dreading,

you hoping, you regretting, you interloping.
The earth has squeezed you in, found you space;
any loss of face you feel is solely yours—
you with the same old daily moods, debts,
intuitions, food fads, pet hates, Achilles’ heels.

You carry on as best you can the task of being,
whole-time, you; you in wake and you in dream,
at all hours, weekly, monthly, yearly, life,
full of yourself as a tallow candle is of fat,
wallowing in self-denial, self-esteem.”

“Whether we like it or not,
We have only three choices:
Yesterday, today and tomorrow.

And not even three
Because as the philosopher says
Yesterday is yesterday
It belongs to us only in memory:
From the rose already plucked
No more petals can be drawn.

The cards to play
Are only two:
The present and the future.

And there aren’t even two
Because it’s a known fact
The present doesn’t exist
Except as it edges past
And is consumed…,
like youth.

In the end
We are only left with tomorrow.
I raise my glass
To the day that never arrives.

But that is all
we have at our disposal.”

“Begin by dipping your brush into clear light.
Then syncopate a sky of Dufy-blue
With tilted spars of sloops revolved by white
Gulls in a feathered fugue of wings. Outdo

Seurat: fleck schooner flanks with sun and set
A tremolo of turquoise quivering in
The tessellated wave. Now nimbly let
A tinsel pizzicato on fish fin

Be plucked from caves of dappled amber where
A mermaid odalisque lolls at her ease
With orange scallops tangled in wet hair,
Fresh from the mellow palette of Matisse:

Suspend this day, so singularly designed,
Like a rare Calder mobile in your mind.”

“Just keep on aliving, and keep on agiving,
     And keep on trying to smile.
Keep on asinging, and keep on aclinging
     To a promise of the afterwhile.
For the sun comes up, and the sun goes down,
     And the morning follows night.
There’s a place to rest, like a mother’s breast,
     And a time when all comes right.

So keep on believing, and hiding all your grieving,
     And keep on trying to cheer.
Keep on apraying, and keep on asaying
     The things we love to hear.
For the tide comes in, and the tide goes out,
     And the dark will all turn light.
There’s a rest from the load, and an end to the road,
     And a place where all comes right.”

On observing an excellent piece of painting, much faded.

     “Come, and attend, my charming maid;
See how the gayest colours fade;
As beauteous paintings lose their dye,
Age sinks the lustre of your eye.

     Then seize the minutes as they pass;
Behold! how swift runs down the glass;
The hasty sands that measure time,
Point you to pleasures more sublime;
And bid you shun the flow’ry path,
That cheats the millions into death.

     Snatch every moment time shall give,
And uniformly virtuous live;
Let no vain cares retard thy soul,
But strive to reach the happy goal;
When pale, when unrelenting Death,
Shall say, resign life’s vital breath! . . .”