THANK YOU. Here's a poem:

"The Good-Morrow," John Donne

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I

Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?

But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?

Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?

’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.

If ever any beauty I did see,

Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,

Which watch not one another out of fear;

For love, all love of other sights controls,

And makes one little room an everywhere.

Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,

Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,

Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,

And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;

Where can we find two better hemispheres,

Without sharp north, without declining west?

Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;

If our two loves be one, or, thou and I

Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

THANK YOU. Here's a poem:

"Secret Ninja," Kiki Petrosino

You thought you saw me!

But you didn't.

I wear black turtlenecks.

Black panties.

Live in a tall cave!

You don't know where my cave is.

But I come out.

Every day!

To buy mustard & relish!

See what—

A man.

Walking away from me.

No good.

Smash him!

With a loud smash!

Smash his metal table and cards.

Good!

Down in my cave.

Put on my Seahawk gear!

Watch Parade of Homes.

Watch Ron Popeil put chicken & fishes

& burgers & pork & macaroni in the same

box. Hey! I can sell that

box! At school.

Where I smash the gym teacher in his head!

I don't wear my uniform.

I don't clean my locker.

I don't share my lunch with the athletes.

My lunch—mustard.

Straight from the packet.

No one sits next to me.

Keep working my skills.

Keep circling the word blood

in Macbeth.

Good.

It takes days.

It takes days.

THANK YOU. Here's a poem:

"First Fig," Edna St. Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends;
    It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
    It gives a lovely light!

Parties are more fun when they are various. Thank you for sponsoring a working person, artist, teacher, someone in precarity, or the beloved poor! Here's a poem:

"The Bean Eaters," Gwendolyn Brooks

They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.
Dinner is a casual affair.
Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood,
Tin flatware.

Two who are Mostly Good.
Two who have lived their day,
But keep on putting on their clothes
And putting things away.

And remembering . . .
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that
          is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths,
          tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.

My ticket was covered or comped. I'll be there! Hooray, here's a poem:

"Ode to My Socks," Pablo Neruda

Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as soft
as rabbits.
I slipped my feet
into them
as though into
two
cases
knitted
with threads of
twilight
and goatskin.
Violent socks,
my feet were
two fish made
of wool,
two long sharks
sea-blue, shot
through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons:
my feet
were honored
in this way
by
these
heavenly
socks.
They were
so handsome
for the first time
my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two decrepit
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that woven
fire,
of those glowing
socks.

Nevertheless
I resisted
the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere
as schoolboys
keep
fireflies,
as learned men
collect
sacred texts,
I resisted
the mad impulse
to put them
into a golden
cage
and each day give them
birdseed
and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers
in the jungle who hand
over the very rare
green deer
to the spit
and eat it
with remorse,
I stretched out
my feet
and pulled on
the magnificent
socks
and then my shoes.

The moral
of my ode is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool
in winter.