BLUE
Login
CG
Coleman Glenn
@colemanglenn.bsky.social
Husband, dad, college chaplain, occasional writer of occasional poems.
76 followers101 following60 posts
OverviewPostsReplies
CGcolemanglenn.bsky.social

Here it is - my first poetry collection! A LITTLE LIGHT contains light verse, dark verse, sacred verse, secular verse, song parodies, sentiment, and dad jokes. Read it, review it, share it! a.co/d/geZuczA

0
CGcolemanglenn.bsky.social

“Coach Pitch,” a new poem. (If you don’t know, coach-pitch baseball or softball is just what it sounds like - most positions are the same as in regular ball, but pitches are tossed by one of the at-bat team’s coaches.)

**COACH PITCH** The pitcher/coach repeats the common lie: “Just one more swing. OK, *one* more, last one.” It’s only fair — these girls should get to try until they’ve hit; they’re out here to have fun. Besides, “one more” means one unerring pitch, one ball precisely placed to catch a bat, one toss with aim and timing to bewitch a no-look swing to drive a softball flat. Above his own refrain, above the cries of players spelling out their practiced cheer, above his on-deck daughter’s drawn-out sighs, the coach, persistent, also seems to hear a whispering from bleachers out of view: *If this kid whiffs, her heartache is on you.* ~ *Coleman Glenn*
0
CGcolemanglenn.bsky.social

A poem.

STATE OF THE UNION Our revolution wasn’t one whose ends required a guillotine. Our civil war was waged between states set before the war was done. Our breaks and sutures have been clean, at least as imaged on a chart; there may be something in the heart whose tendency remains unseen.
0
CGcolemanglenn.bsky.social

Writing two sonnets felt like cheating, so: Tortured rhymes. Tortured meter. Tortured syntax. All 31 song titles crammed into 14 lines. Here is The Tortured Poets Department: The Anthology: A Tortured Sonnet. #poetry#poems#sonnet#sonnets#taylorswift#tsttpd

0
CGcolemanglenn.bsky.social

Two sonnets, both alike in dignity, containing all the song titles from Taylor Swift’s new album (as did all the best of Shakespeare’s sonnets). (The first was written before the release, the second after.) #sonnet#poetry#tsttpd#taylorswift#torturedpoets

0
CGcolemanglenn.bsky.social

Poem for Good Friday.

ECCE HOMO Behold the Man whose head is crowned With thorny branches twisted round By hands that bear the stain of sin. The multitudes are pressing in And cries of “crucify!” resound. Like seed sprung up in thorny ground The loud “hosannas” have been drowned. Through all the frenzy and the din, Behold the Man. Behold Him now condemned and bound. Behold Him. Hear the hammers pound. Behold, as well, the soldier’s grin. Behold a mirror. Look within And face whatever there is found. Behold the Man.
0
CGcolemanglenn.bsky.social

Out tramping past the cherry tree I met a lanky lad Who spoke four simple words to me That left my spirit sad. The elfin fellow’s words were not Intended to do wrong, But oh, I know ’tis not my lot To prosper, nor live long! Happy birthday A.E. Housman, Robert Frost, and Leonard Nimoy!

0
CGcolemanglenn.bsky.social

Sonnet for Palm Sunday

PALM SUNDAY As all the wedding guests are well aware, the bride and bridegroom's burning hearts will cool. No couple can escape the time-worn rule: the budding branch, come winter, must grow bare. A cynic mocks the thought that love might spare these two from turning cowardly or cruel; a witness (whom the former calls a fool) thinks frost might yet give way to warmer air. The shouting crowd who celebrate their King grasp little of what lauding Him will mean; arrayed in ignorance, the children bring abundant fronds to lay a path of green. Within a week, the crowd will turn away. And yet — let loud hosannas sound today. *Coleman Glenn*
0
CGcolemanglenn.bsky.social

Today's poem: "Twilight: After Haying" by Jane Kenyon. #poetry

he Best Poems of Jane Kenyon Jane Kenyon Twilight: After Haying Yes, long shadows go out from the bales; and yes, the soul must part from the body: what else could it do? The men sprawl near the baler, too tired to leave the field. They talk and smoke, and the tips of their cigarettes blaze like small roses in the night air. (It arrived and settled among them before they were aware.) The moon comes to count the bales, and the dispossessed-- Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will --sings from the dusty stubble. These things happen. . .the soul's bliss and suffering are bound together like the grasses. . . The last, sweet exhalations of timothy and vetch go out with the song of the bird; the ravaged field grows wet with dew.
0
CGcolemanglenn.bsky.social

I'm back! Today's poem: "North Sea Off Carnoustie" by Anne Stevenson. #poetry

Poems 1955-2005 1 Anne Stevenson North Sea off Carnoustie You know it by the northern look of the shore, by salt-worried faces, an absence of trees, an abundance of lighthouses. It’s a serious ocean. Along marram-scarred, sandbitten margins wired roofs straggle out to where a cold little holiday fair has floated in and pitched itself safely near the prairie of a golf course. Coloured lights have sunk deep into the solid wind, but all they’ve caught is a pair of lovers and three silly boys. Everyone else has a dog. Or a room to get to.
The smells are of fish and of sewage and cut grass. Oystercatchers, doubtful of habitation, clamour weep , weep , weep, as they fuss over scummy black rocks the tide leaves for them. The sea is as near as we come to another world. But there in your stony and windswept garden a blackbird is confirming the grip of the land. You, you, he murmurs, dark purple in his voice. And now in far quarters of the horizon lighthouses are awake, sending messages – invitations to the landlocked, warnings to the experienced, but to anyone returning from the planet ocean, candles in the windows of a safe earth.
0
CG
Coleman Glenn
@colemanglenn.bsky.social
Husband, dad, college chaplain, occasional writer of occasional poems.
76 followers101 following60 posts
HomePopularExplore