#gregory orr

Sculptor - William Wetmore : Angel of Grief

We let death take him

Without a word of protest.

None of us spoke up—

Afraid to make a ruckus,

Afraid death might notice us.

We didn't dance or weep

Or scream our grief.

We let the beloved go

Without a song or poem,

And that diminished us.

Gabrielle Richardson

When the world

For a single moment

Focuses on you,

You become the beloved.

Glowing. Almost unable

To contain your glee.

Precarious bliss,

It was for this, for this …

By Gregory Orr

How lucky we are

That you can’t sell

A poem, that it has

No value. Might

As well

Give it away.

That poem you love,

That saved your life,

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Would I have withdrawn?

Would I have held back?

Would I have hidden

From the beloved,

Even for an hour

Or a minute,

If I had known

Our time

Would be so brief?

Only a single day?

Only a lifetime?

Only a world?

And now, it's taken away.

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Hold off, rain.

Of course, my garden

Craves water.

But the peonies

Are in full blossom.

If you fall now,

Their petals will

All be scattered.

Wait a day.

Let them feel

The pure joy

Of opening.

Fall tomorrow,

Then you can show them

Love Is also a shattering.