Category: Poem Of The Day

Arizona Poem of the Day from AZPoetry.com

Chircahuas Sold A Barrel at the Gates by Logan Phillips | AZpoetry.com

“Chircahuas Sold A Barrel at the Gates” by Logan Phillips

Chircahuas Sold A Barrel at the Gates

Presidio of Tucson, May 1856

Late sun; sweat
pulled from the pores
by the giant sweat-eating sky.
Slowly drying up
there, spirits and steel.

Under suicide glide of sun, fifty nearly dead
drunk on periphery of presidio. Whiskey
in wounded wood, barrel from back
where whiskey is born, brought on
wagon train to the edge, to the adobe
fortress under changing flags.
Dark liquor & dark lips.

Leather is a type of skin.
Barrel tastes like gunmetal,
like the fingers near the lips.

Sun-hot, glass made with lead,
oil dancing on the outskirts of water

Whiskey, well-sat in sun, burning
the gut, held in its skeleton racks;
the barrel bound in its metal straps.

Camped there along the Santa Cruz,
the Chiricahuas are sold a barrel, sold

a slow powder keg,
a weapon to dull the stories.

Alcohol—a way of negotiating,
sign language of fist and grimace.

Alcohol held in the gut
as the horizon grows dim.

About the poet Logan Phillips

Logan Phillips’ poem “Chiricahuas Sold A Barrel at the Gates” vividly portrays a haunting historical moment on the harsh, sun-scorched frontier. Through rich, sensory imagery, Phillips captures the intersection of cultures, where whiskey becomes both a weapon and a bitter form of negotiation. The poem reflects on themes of colonialism, exploitation, and the human cost of survival under unrelenting desert skies.

To explore more about Logan Phillips, his bilingual work, and his contributions to poetry and performance art, visit his bio page on AZpoetry.com.

Explore More Featured Poems on AZpoetry.com

December Morning In The Desert by Alberto Rios
The morning is clouded and the birds are hunched,More cold than hungry, …
“The Laziest Man in the World” by Kalen Lander
Behold!The laziest man in the world Damn I'm a pearlCountless bedsores adorn …
“Tyin’ Knots in the Devils Tail” by Gail Gardner
Away up high in the Sierry Petes where the yeller Jack Pine …
“Recipe For Greatness” by Zane Grey
To bear up under loss; To fight the bitterness of defeat and …
December in the morning Alberto Rios artwork | AZpoetry.com

December Morning In The Desert by Alberto Rios

The morning is clouded and the birds are hunched,
More cold than hungry, more numb than loud,

This crisp, Arizona shore, where desert meets
The coming edge of the winter world.

It is a cold news in stark announcement,
The myriad stars making bright the black,

As if the sky itself had been snowed upon.
But the stars—all those stars,

Where does the sure noise of their hard work go?
These plugs sparking the motor of an otherwise quiet sky,

Their flickering work everywhere in a white vastness:
We should hear the stars as a great roar

Gathered from the moving of their billion parts, this great
Hot rod skid of the Milky Way across the asphalt night,

The assembled, moving glints and far-floating embers
Risen from the hearth-fires of so many other worlds.

Where does the noise of it all go
If not into the ears, then hearts of the birds all around us,

Their hearts beating so fast and their equally fast
Wings and high songs,

And the bees, too, with their lumbering hum,
And the wasps and moths, the bats, the dragonflies—

None of them sure if any of this is going to work,
This universe—we humans oblivious,

Drinking coffee, not quite awake, calm and moving
Into the slippers of our Monday mornings,

Shivering because, we think,
It’s a little cold out there.

About the poet Alberto Rios

In this evocative poem, Alberto Ríos captures the serene intersection of humanity and nature on a cold Arizona morning. The imagery of a crisp desert landscape juxtaposed with the celestial movements of stars and the industrious hum of birds and insects serves as a meditation on the quiet persistence of life. Ríos subtly reflects on the human tendency to overlook the vast, intricate workings of the universe as we carry on with mundane routines.

To learn more about Alberto Ríos, Arizona’s first Poet Laureate and a master of blending everyday moments with universal reflections, visit his bio page here and delve into the life and work of this celebrated poet.

The Laziest Man in the World poem Arizona poet Kalen Lander | AZpoetry.com

“The Laziest Man in the World” by Kalen Lander

Behold!
The laziest man in the world

Damn I’m a pearl
Countless bedsores adorn my soul
Check it, if you see my corpse walking round it’s a hoax
Cause in my head I’m at home

Tomes tell of my liquified bones
Don’t question it just keep an open mind
And know I’m holed up inside and it’s alright
It’s kinda like summer vacation
Well it’s more like mummification
It’s sorta like I’m Jason Statham
But instead of punching
I’m stuck in the basement
Yup

And I’ll I’m transporting are snacks to my mouth
All I look forward to is chilling out
All of my memories center around
How much I enjoy becoming one with the couch

Don’t tell me not to slouch these shoulders are heavy
Weight of the world? More like an early Wednesday
Wake up at 4 n then turn on the TV
Repeat indefinitely
Frozen pizza to me is a delicacy

Maybe people might say that I am my own worst enemy
I get all tuckered out from not exerting any energy
I prefer to be the middle link in human centipedes
I don’t want to be deciding when it’s time to shit n eat
Literally anything that isn’t sitting sickens me

I’ll pretend to be asleep when anybody intervenes
My mama wants to say I got a problem naw man
I’m taking after Grandma this rocker is awesome
And I ain’t getting up until you toss me off it
And then I’m probably gonna conk out on the carpet

Ooooo did I mention?
All this inactivity has given me heightened senses
I can smell a cheeto on the floor like it was incense
I can ignore the doorbell better than anybody ever
Got no competitors no natural predators

No feeling in my legs n no plans of leaving bed at all
N I would eat your disapproval if that shit was edible
I said it all before but I’m repetitive I’m
The Laziest man in the world

Music Video of “The Laziest Man in the World” performed by Snailmate

About the Poet Kalen Lander

Kalen Lander’s “The Laziest Man in the World” is a humorous and self-aware exploration of extreme idleness. With witty imagery and a tongue-in-cheek tone, the poem delves into the comforts of slouching, snacking, and avoiding the hustle of daily life. Lander’s ability to blend humor with sharp observation reflects his unique voice in the world of poetry and performance.

To learn more about Kalen Lander’s creative journey, his contributions to Arizona’s arts scene, and his evolution as a performer and poet, visit his full biography HERE.

Tyin a knot in the Devils Tail cowboy poet Gail Gardner | AZpoetry.com

“Tyin’ Knots in the Devils Tail” by Gail Gardner

Away up high in the Sierry Petes where the yeller Jack Pine grows tall
Ol’ Sandy Bob and Buster Jig had a rodeer camp last fall.

Oh, They’d taken their hosses and their runnin’ irons an’ maybe a dog or two
And ‘lowed they’d brand any long eared calves that come within their view.

And any old dogie that flapped long ears, An’ didn’t bush up by day,
Had his long ears whittled an’ his ol’ hide scorched in a most artistic way.

Now, one fine day ol’ Sandy Bob he throwed his seago down
“I’m sick of the smell of burnin’ hair and I low’s I’m a-goin’ to town.”

So they saddles up an’ hits ‘em a lope, ‘fer it weren’t no sight of a ride
And them was the days when a Buckeroo could ‘ile up his insides.

They starts her in at the Kaintucky Bar at the head of Whiskey Row
An’ they winds up down at the Depot House, some forty drinks below.

They then sets up and turns around and goes ‘er the other way
An’ to tell you the Gawd-forsaken truth, them boys got stewed that day!

As they was a-ridin’ back to camp a-packin’ a purty good load
Who should they meet but the Devil hisself just a prancing’ down the road!

Sez he, “You ornery cowboy skunks, you better hunt ‘yer holes!
Fer’ I’ve come up from Hell’s rim rock just to gather in your souls.”

Sez Sandy Bob, “Ol’ Devil be damned . . . we boys is kinda’ tight,
But you ain’t a-gonna’ gather no cowboy souls, without some kind o’ fight!”

So, Sandy Bob punched a hole in his rope, and he swang ‘er straight and true,
An he lapped it onto the Devil’s horns, an’ he taken his dallies too.

Now Buster Jig was a riata man, with his gut-line coiled up neat,
So he shaken her out an’ built him a loop, and he lassed the Devil’s hind feet.

They stretched him out and they tailed him down while the irons was a-gettin’ hot,
They cropped and swaller-forked his yeres, then they branded him up . . . a lot!

They pruned his horns with a de-hornin’ saw an’ they knotted his tail fer a joke,
Then they rid off and left him there, necket to a Black-Jack oak.

Well, if you’re ever up high in the Sierry Petes an’ you hear one Hell of a wail,
You’ll know it’s that Devil a-bellerin’ around about them knots in his tail.

About the Poet Gail Gardner

Gail Gardner’s “Sierry Petes” is a rollicking tale of cowboy antics and mischief, featuring two rowdy buckaroos who manage to outwit the Devil himself in classic Western style. Filled with humor, vivid imagery, and rugged charm, the poem showcases Gardner’s talent for capturing the wild and adventurous spirit of the Old West.

To learn more about Gail Gardner’s life, his impact on cowboy poetry, and his enduring legacy in Arizona’s literary tradition, visit his full biography HERE.

Art inspired by Recipe for Greatness poem by Zane Grey AZpoetry.com

“Recipe For Greatness” by Zane Grey

To bear up under loss;
To fight the bitterness of defeat
and the weakness of grief;
To be victor over anger;
To smile when tears are close;
To resist disease and evil
men and base instincts;
To hate hate and to love love;
To go on when it would seem good to die;
To look up with unquenchable faith
in something ever more about to be.
That is what any man can do,
and be great.

About the Poet Zane Grey

Zane Grey’s Recipe for Greatness is a stirring reflection on resilience, love, and unyielding faith in the face of life’s most challenging trials. With profound simplicity, Grey outlines the qualities that define true greatness—overcoming loss, embracing love, resisting hatred, and persevering when giving up feels easier. His words inspire readers to strive for a higher ideal, even in the darkest moments, reminding us of the strength that lies within.

Discover more about Zane Grey’s life, his influence on Western literature, and his connection to Arizona HERE. Click to learn about the legendary storyteller who infused his works with the spirit of the American West!

Discover more poetry inspired by Arizona HERE.

Goldfish poem by Beth May | AZpoetry.com

“Goldfish” by Beth May

grandma and I are caught in Loops hi
it’s B I’m good how are you I live in
Los Angeles and I love it traffic’s bad
but it gives me time to think my name
it’s Beth I live in LA and it’s great
traffic I hate it it’s Beth Grandma my
name is
Beth it is a myth that goldfish have a 3
second memory scientist there is
evidence that many fish including
goldfish have memories that last months
if not years one goldfish will call him
Howard just because learn to associate a
specific sound with food and perform
tricks when cued by the sound even after
a f month break no offense to scientists
but it blows my mind that they
know so much about goldfish and so
little about dementia grandma is losing
her memory becoming a paranoid pool
string of racism and worry I am worried
that she has always been this person she
just forgot that she shouldn’t be
grandma is losing her memory and I am
losing my patience I begun to treat
grandma like a goldfish like a
decoration best admired from across the
room not to be removed from her fragile
enclosure like drown on dry land Grandma
used to give the best hugs but now she
clings on for dear life she hates when
people say goodbye but does not realize
that she is the one leaving grandma and
I are both forgetting all the time she
is forgetting my face and I am
forgetting the person she used to be I
forgetting a grandma who is not a bitter
bigot a chore whose words do not disgust
me I’m remembering the fear that I will
be next that hate will bore its way into
me like it did grandma or worse that it
is already here grandma is forgetting
her life and I am forgetting how to love
what she has become we are mourning
Grandma while she is still awake talking
about her and uncertain Whispers as if
she is an unhelpful Prosper clue and the
puzzle that is her life and where we fit
in and where it ends as if it hasn’t
already ended Grandma shows me death
while we are both living reminds me that
I’ll be
forgotten so I memorize the poem and
call it Legacy I miss my old grandma but
call the new one family I forget if I am
losing grandma or losing my
Humanity I catch Grandma in Loops
introduce myself with the unkindness of
pretending I’m somebody I’m not but the
kindness of pretending I’m somebody
worth remembering they say wisdom comes
with age but I think there is a wisdom
in knowing it doesn’t that it can depart
us at any time like a name on the tip of
a tongue Grandma cannot remember my name
does not recognize that I’m caught in
the same Loop she
is hi it’s Beth I live in Los Angeles
and sometimes I feel so
alone the traffic’s awful but it reminds
me that we’re all going somewhere my
name it’s Howard the
Goldfish I’ll remind you in three
seconds that I love
you

Transcribed from the video “Goldfish” by Beth May

About the poet Beth May

Beth May’s poem Goldfish is a poignant exploration of the unraveling nature of memory, as she reflects on her grandmother’s battle with dementia. Through the lens of love, frustration, and the inevitable loops of forgetting, May juxtaposes the scientific precision of a goldfish’s memory with the emotional fragility of her grandmother’s fading identity. The poem mourns a loved one who is still alive but slipping away, while also wrestling with May’s own fears of forgetting, becoming, and the generational echoes of love and loss. It is a raw, unfiltered conversation about what it means to remember someone—and to let them go.

Beth May, a poet, writer, and performer raised in Phoenix, Arizona, brings her deeply personal experiences to life through her evocative and emotionally charged works. Now based in Los Angeles, she continues to explore themes of identity, mental health, and relationships through poetry, acting, and storytelling. You can read more about Beth’s work, including her poetry book The Immortal Soul Salvage Yard and her spoken word album Sunday Scaries, on her author page.

Read more poetry by writers inspired by Arizona HERE.

Hooked Claus by The Klute | AZpoetry.com

‘Hooked Claus’ by The Klute

For the longest time,
no one remembered how we were partners,
the Good Cop and Bad Cop of Yuletide,
a symphony of jingle bells and rattling chains
‘ere we drove out of sight.
How disturbed must they have been by the thought of me
looking over your shoulder and salivating
as you added children to the naughty list
for transgressions great and small.
You were the carrot,
oranges in the stocking,
presents under the tree,
half-eaten cookies as a reminder that you were there.
I was the stick,
birch branches in hand,
bathtub on my back,
my stew-pot bubbling in anticipation of fresh meat.
You were the red and green of holly and mistletoe,
I was the poison.

From the first,
I have been with them.
Born of the sands of Egpyt,
I was Abo Ragl Ma Slokha,
Man with the Burnt Leg,
bane of wicked tots.
Parents around the world would conjure me in story,
the Namahage,
le Croque-mitten,
Baba Yaga,
El Coco,
to keep their brats in line.
In their stories,
they always gave me horns,
yellow eyes,
a cloven hoof at the end of one leg,
a misshapen foot on the other,
my teeth sharp,
tongue so long it could reach them from under the bed
to taste their nightmares.
When I crossed the Alps, followed the Danube,
I found a new home under the Solstice moon.
As the fires of Yule cheer burned in the village squares,
I shouted my name so loud that every child would remember it,
whisper it to each other between shudders:
I
AM
THE
KRAMPUS!!!
When the willful boy or indolent girl came to a bad end
parents would remind the kinder:
Behave or the Krampus will come for you too.

When we first met, Santa Claus,
I thought you were there to kill me.
You came to my cave in regal glory.
Father Christmas! Jolly Old Saint Nick!
Your light washed away the darkness so I had no place to hide.
Trapped, I thought you were there to finally bring a gift
to those excluded as an annual tradition.
You cannot imagine my surprise when you extended your hand,
asked “won’t you ride my sleigh tonight?”.
You put me in chains as a precaution,
you still felt my wicked heart beat beneath my goatish chest,
but left me my bundle of sticks
because as you said: spare the rod, spoil the child.
Why does no one ever see the shadow behind your rosy cheeks?
Over the years, we brought so many children to goodness,
I rarely ate.
I did not mind,
I was able to drink in their fear like an elixir.

Then one foggy Christmas eve,
I noticed your sleigh was now driven by a broken buck with a freakish nose, your retinue filled out with polar bears drinking caramel-colored sugar water, the sack was filled with things never seen in your workshop before.
My eyes full of terrible wonder,
you leaned in,
smiled,
said one word: “Plastics“.
I did not like the sound of it.
As we flew over the city and marched down the streets,
your image was everywhere.
On billboards, in newspaper ads, on TV, in shopping malls.
I would have no part of this,
with sadness in your voice, you agreed: I would have no part of this.
You banished me back to the cave,
exiled into fading memory.

But I feel them pulling me back,
through of the Black Forest,
past the gingerbread house,
out of the fairy tales,
and into a cage.
They are corking my teeth,
dumping out my stew-pot,
reeling my tongue back in,
making me safe,
making me fun,
making me marketable.
It will not be long before I star in the limelight of cartoons,
baked into the shape of cookies,
imprisoned within  wrapping paper.
When I am a triumph marched down 5th Avenue on Thanksgiving,
I will know they have checked me off their list,
now as gelded as Donner and Blitzen.
I see you up there on your sleigh,
and for the first time since we first met, Santa Claus,
the Krampus is afraid.

About the Poet, The Klute

The Klute was arguably the most recognizable voice from Arizona during the poetry slam movement of the 1990’s – 2000’s. His early work is often humorous. Later in life, The Klute’s poetry took on a more serious tone, with the poet’s primary focus on increased awareness of ocean life. Today’s poem is a humorous poem, a parody of a serious poem by a slam poet from Utah, Jesse Parent. Learn more about The Klute HERE.

Discover more poetry inspired by Arizona HERE.

Thanksgiving Prayer poem by William S. Burroughs | AZpoetry.com

“Thanksgiving Prayer” by William S. Burroughs

thanksgiving day november 28th, 1986

thanks for the wild turkey and passenger pigeons
destined to be [  ] out through wholesome american guts
thanks for a comment to despoil and poison [Music]
thanks for indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger
thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin leaving the carcasses to rot
thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes
thanks for the american dream you vulgarize and falsify until the bear lies shine through
thanks for the kkk for [  ] killing long and feed in their notches
thanks for decent church going women with their mean ancient bitter evil faces
[Music]
thanks for killing queer for christ stickers
thanks for laboratory age
[Music]
thanks for prohibition and the war against drugs
[Music]
thanks for a country where nobody is allowed to mind his own business
thanks for a nation of things
yes thanks for all the memories all
right let’s see your arms
you always were a headache and you
always were a bore
thanks to the last and greatest betrayal
of the last and greatest
of human dreams
[Music]
you

Transcription from the video “Thanksgiving Prayer” by William S. Burroughs and Vimeo.

About the poet, William S. Burroughs

Arizona plays an unexpected yet significant role in preserving Burroughs’ legacy. The Hayden Library at Arizona State University in Tempe is home to a collection of Burroughs’ papers and manuscripts. Learn more about the William S. Burroughs Collection and his ties to Arizona HERE.

Read more poetry inspired by Arizona HERE.

They Don't Love You Like I Love You poem by Natalie Diaz AZpoetry.com

“They Don’t Love You Like I Love You” by Natalie Diaz

they don’t love you like i love you
my mother said this to me long before
beyonce lifted the lyrics from the yeah yeah yeahs
what my mother meant by don’t stray
was that she knew all about it the way
it feels to need someone to love you
someone not your kind someone white
someone some many who live because so
many of mine have not and further live
on top of those of ours who don’t
i’ll say say say i’ll say say say what
is the united states if not a clot of
clouds if not spilled milk or blood if
not the place we once were in the
millions
america is maps
maps are ghosts
white and layers of people and places i
see through
my mother
like your mother has always known best
knew that i’d been begging for them to
lay my face against their white labs to
be held in something more than the loud
light of their projectors as they
flicker themselves sepia or blue all
over my body
all this time i thought my mother said
wait as in give them a little more time
to know your worth
when really she said wait
meaning heft preparing me for the yoke
of myself the beast of my country’s
burdens which is less worse than my
country’s plow
yes when my mother said they don’t love
you like i love you she meant natalie
that doesn’t mean you aren’t good

Transcribed from the video “Natalie Diaz: They Don’t Love You Like I Love You” by Natalie Diaz and Mellon Foundation.

About the poet Natalie Diaz

With references to songs “Hold Up” by Beyonce and “Maps” by The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, this poem takes popular music references and invites us into the privacy of the poet’s family life to share their feelings and path to healing. Learn more about Natalie Diaz HERE.

Maps by The Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Hold Up by Beyonce

A House Called Tomorrow poem by Alberto Rios | AZpoetry.com

“A House Called Tomorrow” by Alberto Rios

a house called tomorrow you are not 15
or 12 or 17 you are a hundred wild
centuries and 15 bringing with you in
every breath and in every step everyone
who has come before you all the use that
you have been the mothers of your mother
the fathers of your father if someone in
your family tree was trouble a hundred
were not the bad do not win not finally
no matter how loud they are we simply
would not be here if that were so you
are made fundamentally from the good
with this knowledge you never march
alone you are the breaking news of the
century you are the good who has come
forward through it all even if so many
days feel otherwise but think when you
as a child learned to speak it’s not
that you didn’t know words it’s that
from the centuries you knew so many and
it’s hard to choose the words that will
be your own from those centuries we
human beings bring with us the simple
solutions and songs the river bridges
and star charts and song harmonies all
in service to a simple idea that we can
make a house called tomorrow what we
bring finally into the new day every day
is ourselves and that’s all we need to
start that’s everything we require to
keep going look back
only for as long as you must then go
forward into the history you will make
be good then better write books cure
disease make us proud
make yourself proud and those who came
before you when you hear thunder hear it
as their applause

Transcribed from the video “Alberto Ríos: Dear Poet 2019” by Poets.org and Alberto Rios.

About the poet Alberto Rios

Discover the brilliance of Alberto Ríos, Arizona’s inaugural Poet Laureate and a celebrated author whose works capture the beauty of the Southwest and the complexity of human connection. Explore more about his life and poetry on HERE.