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Poems for Father’s Day

Here’s a list of great poems for Father’s Day:

Digging” by Seamus Heaney

Winter Stars” by Larry Levis

Working Late” by Louis Simpson

My Dad’s Wallet” by Raymond Carver

My Papa’s Waltz” by Theodore Roethke

The Golden Shovel” by Terrance Hayes

Descent,” by Andrew Purcell

O My Pa-Pa” by Bob Hicok

This Hour and What Is Dead” by Li-Young Lee

The Lost Pilot” by James Tate

The Ghost of Weather” by Bruce Bond

Mrs. Hill” by B.H. Fairchild






Six New Poems at fluland

The editor at was kind enough to feature six of my poems here:



Poem for Mother’s Day “That Saturday Without a Car” by Stephen Dunn

For Mother’s Day, I thought I’d share one of my favorite Stephen Dunn poems.


That Saturday Without a Car

for Ellen Dunn (1910-1969)

Five miles to my mother’s house,
a distance I’d never run.
“I think she’s dead”
my brother said, and hung up

as if with death
language should be mercifully approximate,
should keep the fact
that would forever be fact

at bay. I understood,
and as I ran wondered what words
I might say, and to whom.
I saw myself opening the door—

my brother, both of us, embarrassed
by the sudden intimacy we’d feel.
We had expected it
but we’d expected it every year

for ten: her heart was the best
and worst of her—every kindness
fought its way through damage,
her breasts disappeared

as if the heart itself, for comfort,
had sucked them in.
And I was running better
than I ever had. How different it was

from driving, the way I’d gone
to other deaths—
my body fighting it all off, my heart,
this adequate heart, getting me there.

The Future Is Brilliant in the Way It Rations Suffering

This poem previously appeared in Blue Mesa Review back in 2012.  The link’s no longer active, so I’m re-posting the poem here to make it available.



To a sky as big as the day
we were orphaned, to the emptiness
in the capitol’s dome,
to immigrants building walls

that keep their families out.
To the denied insurance claim,
and how it guilts. To the oceans,
which seem to be forever

inviting us to spill and shatter.
To vandalized clocks and birthdays
spent counting candles.
To the grace of whip and tilt.

To the way the sky swallows us
into its quilt of planets and
spits us out each morning
with that confused look in our eyes.

To repetition, and what it’s done
to the meaning of fair & balanced.
To blue, and how it ought to be
the international color for surrender.

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