Ruth Stone Short Poems

Famous Short Ruth Stone Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Ruth Stone. A collection of the all-time best Ruth Stone short poems

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In the Next Galaxy  

In the Next Galaxy 
Things will be different. 
No one will lose their sight, 
their hearing, their gallbladder. 
It will be all Catskills with brand 
new wrap-around verandas. 
The idea of Hitler will not have vibrated yet. 
While back here, 
they are still cleaning out 
pockets of wrinkled 
Nazis hiding in Argentina. 
But in the next galaxy, 
certain planets will have true 
blue skies and drinking water. 

So What  

For me the great truths are laced with hysteria.
How many Einsteins can we tolerate?
I leap into the uncertainty principle.
After so many smears, you want to wash it off with a laugh.
Ha ha, you say. So what if it's a meltdown?
Last lines to poems I will write immediately.

Good Advice  

Here is not exactly here
because it passed by there
two seconds ago;
where it will not come back.
Although you adjust to this- 
it's nothing, you say,
just the way it is.
How poor we are,
with all this running
through our fingers.
"Here," says the Devil,
"Eat. It's Paradise." 

Poems  

When you come back to me
it will be crow time
and flycatcher time,
with rising spirals of gnats
between the apple trees.
Every weed will be quadrupled,
coarse, welcoming
and spine-tipped.
The crows, their black flapping
bodies, their long calling
toward the mountain;
relatives, like mine,
ambivalent, eye-hooded;
hooting and tearing.
And you will take me in
to your fractal meaningless
babble; the quick of my mouth,
the madness of my tongue.

The Trade-off  

Words make the thoughts.
Severe tyrants, like the scrubbers
and guardians of your cells.
They herd your visions
down the ramp to nexus
waiting with sledge hammer
to knock what is the knowing
without knowing into knowledge.
Yes, the tight bag of grammar,
syntax, the clever sidestep
from babble, is a comfortable
prison. A mirror of the mirror.
And all that is uttered in its chains
is locked out from the secret.

Not Expecting An Answer  

This tedious letter to you,
what is one Life to another?
We walk around inside our bags,
sucking it in, spewing it out.
Then the insects, swarms heavier
than all the animals of the world.
Then the flycatchers on the clothesline,
like seiners leaning from Flemish boats
when the seas were roiled with herring.
This long letter in my mind,
calligraphy, feathery asparagus.