Distribution Automatique

Tuesday, April 15

Julia, Jonathan Mayhew's 7 year old daughter, is the newest, and youngest, blogger. I like her poems! I've been trying to find some poems that Julia might like, and I thought that since her father likes Joseph Ceravolo, maybe she would like him too.

In The Grass

Here in the grass
where the flowers
walk softer than birds
to their nest
in the clouds
Where the rain
falls toward the sky,
the small breath
of the insect
is like a breeze
before rain


Snow fall like April;
the icicles stick. Like April
the birds float.
It is white foam.

Like April when the first tree blossoms
and you do not know it.

The Metal

O beautiful pale seagull who
stands near the trucks and
tractors and when they
start, looks around
surprised and turns (into whose wings open
from him) and change

Why do we invade
as the peas are ripe as the beans
are yellow would you forgive
me and get up
no sooner than the lake no
sooner than

The Metal

Fish, what is it like?
so let me play.
How can I
push the breeze
into the murmur of fathers?
Small and white love to flowers
not being told your
crooked bite receives me, too tame

O fish, Am I
the bumblebee in the sun's cause?


Sunday night I buy a soda
Someone's hand opens I hold it
It begins to rain
Avenue A is near the river


The rain falls
down down and jumps
jumps in my eye
as everyone I know is sleeping

by the heaviest drops.


Oak, oak! like like
it then
cold some wild paddle
so sky then;
flea you say
"geese geese" the boy
June of winter
of again
Oak sky


We are going the park.
There are swings.
There are rocks a sand bed.
The flowers rest
the bed. The flowers
rise. We are fatigued
but invade them.
There is a smell.
It invades us.
It hides us.
Notice! there are flowers along
the bed, tiny flower clusters.
But we cannot move our legs.
We cannot move our eyes.