07-22-2012, 07:31 AM | #421 |
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Mary Oliver
Moon and Water
I wake and spend the last hours of darkness with no one but the moon. She listens to my complaints like the good companion she is and comforts me surely with her light. But she, like everyone, has her own life. So finally I understand that she has turned away, is no longer listening. She wants me to refold myself into my own life. And, bending close, as we all dream of doing, she rows with her white arms through the dark water which she adores. by Mary Oliver from her book "Evidence"
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07-22-2012, 08:45 AM | #422 |
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jagg, who wrote "death is nothing at all"?
great writing. |
07-22-2012, 10:08 AM | #423 |
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This is a pretty gut wrenching poem to me...The perspective is astounding...
Family Stories
by Dorianne Laux I had a boyfriend who told me stories about his family, how an argument once ended when his father seized a lit birthday cake in both hands and hurled it out a second-story window. That, I thought, was what a normal family was like: anger sent out across the sill, landing like a gift to decorate the sidewalk below. In mine it was fists and direct hits to the solar plexus, and nobody ever forgave anyone. But I believed the people in his stories really loved one another, even when they yelled and shoved their feet through cabinet doors, or held a chair like a bottle of cheap champagne, christening the wall, rungs exploding from their holes. I said it sounded harmless, the pomp and fury of the passionate. He said it was a curse being born Italian and Catholic and when he looked from that window what he saw was the moment rudely crushed. But all I could see was a gorgeous three-layer cake gliding like a battered ship down the sidewalk, the smoking candles broken, sunk deep in the icing, a few still burning. |
07-22-2012, 10:36 AM | #424 |
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Progress
by X. J. Kennedy Sundays we'd stroll to the railroad track, My white-collared father and I, Where he'd gaze after freight trains billowing past And deliver himself of a sigh— "If I still worked for the railroad, I'd retire with a pass. I could ride To any place in the country, And the country, they say, is wide." Yet for thirty years my father With fountain pen wielded power At the boiler factory in Dover, Keeping track of each man-hour: He would total up columns of numbers In a flash with astonishing skill And never a man's pay envelope Fell short of a dollar bill. He would hike to the bank every Thursday To fetch payroll cash in a sack, The insurance company insisting That a blue steel pistol he pack. How the neighbors would taunt and tease him— "Hey, Joe, would you pull your gun And shoot it out with that stickup man?"— "No, I'd throw him the money and run." He continued to add up numbers In his head till there came on the scene A formidable robot rival, The Burroughs adding machine. My father saw that his number Would be up soon. As he feared, Anybody could tug on a handle And an accurate total appeared. They broke the news to him gently, They professed their profound regret And presented him, not with a pension But a pen-and-pencil set. For a time he displayed it proudly Till the pencil had to be tossed, When it wouldn't quite twist as it used to And the cap of the pen got lost. For more than eight thousand mornings He had walked to his job past a sign Where the Women's Christian Temperance Union had posted a line Ill fitting the situation Of the obsolescently skilled: Life is no goblet to be drained But a measure to be filled. |
07-23-2012, 09:21 AM | #425 |
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Halleluiah
Everyone should be born into this world happy and loving everything. But in truth it rarely works that way. For myself, I have spent my life clamoring toward it. Halleluiah, anyway I'm not where I started! And have you too been trudging like that, sometimes almost forgetting how wondrous the world is and how miraculously kind some people can be? And have you too decided that probably nothing important is ever easy? Not, say, for the first sixty years. Halleluiah, I'm sixty now, and even a little more, and some days I feel I have wings. Mary Oliver Evidence |
07-26-2012, 11:58 PM | #426 |
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Count That Day Lost by George Eliot If you sit down at set of sun And count the acts that you have done, And, counting, find One self-denying deed, one word That eased the heart of him who heard, One glance most kind That fell like sunshine where it went — Then you may count that day well spent. But if, through all the livelong day, You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay — If, through it all You've nothing done that you can trace That brought the sunshine to one face — No act most small That helped some soul and nothing cost — Then count that day as worse than lost. |
07-28-2012, 09:42 AM | #427 |
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Let The Day Go by Grace Paley ..............who needs it I had another day in mind something like this one ..............sunny green the earth just right having suffered the assault of what is called torrential rain the pepper the basil sitting upright in their little boxes waiting I suppose for me also the cosmos the zinnias nearly blooming a year too late forget it let the day go the sweet green day let it take care of itself |
07-28-2012, 11:50 AM | #428 |
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Interesting...
Leeks
by Richard Spilman We planted the seeds in the spring And up they came innocuous as crabgrass. The tomatoes soon lorded over them, And even the jalapenos, sad lumps Hanging from their limbs like mittens From children playing in the snow. They stayed that way all summer, And before the frosts of November We pulled them up, declaring failure, And used them as scallions in salads. Winter white covered the clay soil, Like layers of dust in an unused room. Till spring bullied us into wakefulness: Thunder and lightning and the gray rain That heartens depressives with reasons For misery, then out of the sodden ground, Tiny blades twisting in the wound Of the old season. It was shocking: Nothing worse than discarded hopes Butting in when you have given up, Thrusting faith into comfortable loss, Demanding your heart again because This time they've made a proper start, This time they will rise in triumph. |
07-28-2012, 11:58 AM | #429 |
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Terra Incognita
by Andrea Witzke Slot I have scaled unknown ridges and cliffs, only to abseil downward, dropping inside the holes of caves where stalagmites pierced the floors of darkened rooms. I have found mines deep within the crevices of sleeping mountains, waded in underground springs of manatees, minerals, sand. I have upturned rocks, searched the roots of trees in acres of eclipsed valleys, hiked along shores, lakes, becks, running streams. Once I stopped for days at a single hillside, made a bed inside, woke to the sound of falcons and the distant morning dove, the sun glinting off pines that reached upwards with outstretched hands. But do not tell me that love makes us into fools. I know the shadows that pause within the folds of these hills, still miles from where I stand. I've heard the secrets farmers keep, irrigation and rotating crops, when to move in, when to start a fire. I've seen the red skies. I know the warning of dawn. I know too that frozen waters can flow, can once again flow, how fields will blaze anew, if touched by the sun. Blame me, but I will open the curtains. After all, I have lived here for a million years and am long past finding my way home. |
07-29-2012, 01:15 AM | #430 |
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Fireflies by Marilyn Kallet In the dry summer field at nightfall, fireflies rise like sparks. Imagine the presence of ghosts flickering, the ghosts of young friends, your father nearest in the distance. This time they carry no sorrow, no remorse, their presence is so light. Childhood comes to you, memories of your street in lamplight, holding those last moments before bed, capturing lightning-bugs, with a blossom of the hand letting them go. Lightness returns, an airy motion over the ground you remember from Ring Around the Rosie. If you stay, the fireflies become fireflies again, not part of your stories, as unaware of you as sleep, being beautiful and quiet all around you. |
07-29-2012, 01:22 AM | #431 |
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Dogs by Patty Paine It's said dogs don't think they're human; they believe us to be dogs. What odd dogs we must seem. So clean and clothed. What dog would want our upright concerns, the responsibility of thumbs, burden of metaphor? They lunge into every morning, whirl my feet, until I take them to the park, where they gazelle through fescue, scramble over fallen trees, dart after quarry, real, and imagined. Sometimes I feel like a child with holes in my pockets, every day losing some small stone of myself. But on mornings like this—the dark branches ice-limned and glistening, the good sting of cold on my face— I feel freed from the cage of my body, so light I might soar. |
07-30-2012, 06:49 AM | #432 |
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Love this...
I Could Take by Hayden Carruth I could take two leaves .........and give you one. Would that not be a kind of perfection? But I prefer one leaf .........torn to give you half .............showing (after these years, simply) love's complexity in an act, .........the tearing and ..............the unique edges — one leaf (one word) from the two imperfections that match. |
07-31-2012, 06:46 AM | #433 |
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Cool and cute...
Unification by Ramon Montaigne The Mississippi at its mouth Joins the Gulf of Mexico, The west wind mixes with the south, High pressure with the low. Nothing in nature stands apart, All things rendezvous— I'd like to mingle with you. Intermingled, intertwined, This is what I have in mind. I just feel a sudden urge To merge. The compound that is chlorophyll Formed as the light increases Makes every little flower thrill With photosynthesis. The morning glory mingles With the honeysuckle vine, Come wrap your little tendrils around mine. I've been lonely as a cloud, Drifting miserable and proud, Lonely as a limestone butte— Handsome, noble, destitute, But I need you, I confess Let's coalesce. |
08-02-2012, 11:52 PM | #434 |
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Interval by Jeffrey Harrison Sometimes, out of nowhere, it comes back, that night when, driving home from the city, having left the nearest streetlight miles behind us, we lost our way on the back country roads and found, when we slowed down to read a road sign, a field alive with the blinking of fireflies, and we got out and stood there in the darkness, amazed at their numbers, their scattered sparks igniting silently in a randomness that somehow added up to a marvel both earthly and celestial, the sky brought down to earth, and brought to life, a sublunar starscape whose shifting constellations were a small gift of unexpected astonishment, luminous signalings leading us away from thoughts of where we were going or coming from, the cares that often drive us relentlessly onward and blind us to such flickering intervals when moments are released from their rigid sequence and burn like airborne embers, floating free. |
08-06-2012, 08:16 PM | #435 |
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The Real Work by Wendell Berry It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work, and that when we no longer know which way to go we have come to our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings. |
08-06-2012, 08:17 PM | #436 |
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French Lesson by Rosemary Okun I wanted to know the language of my ancestors I wanted to know what they said when they made love and when they spoke to the neighbors I wanted to know how they spoke to their children and what my great-great-grandfather said when he stubbed his toe But ancestry is who your mother was and mine came from Brooklyn with a grandmother from Syracuse who said Glory be to God when someone dropped a cup and Bless me Father when she confessed My ancestors went by shanks mare and shouted give him the hook if they were displeased They ate apple pie and their potatoes were Idahos |
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08-06-2012, 08:21 PM | #437 |
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At the intersection: burnt August fields
by Jennifer Wallace At the intersection: burnt August fields and blistered streets. The city readies for summer's last fling. Vendors circle the band shell with curried goat and Red Stripe beer. The sound man "check, checks" his mics and Marley's wail unites with insect wings and chicken smoke and air. Where is Jamaica? Baltimore? Where? Tonight they reside on music's continent — behind the chain link, where holstered cops keep peace between the races who don't appear to need much help... they boogie bum to bum under the moon and all the colored lights and everyone singing One Love. |
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08-08-2012, 01:15 AM | #438 |
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In the Moment by Maxine Kumin Some days the pond wears a glaze of yellow pollen. Some days it is clean-swept. The trout leap up, feasting on insects. A modest size, it sits like a soup tureen in a surround of white pine where Rosie, 14 lbs., some sort of rescued terrier, part bat (the ears), part anteater (the nose), shyly paddles in the shallows for salamanders, frogs and little painted turtles. She logged ten years down south in a kennel, secured in a crate at night. Her heart murmur will carry her off, no one can say when. Meanwhile she is rapt in the moment, our hearts leap up observing. Dogs live in the moment, pursuing that brilliant dragonfly called pleasure. Only we, sunstruck in this azure day, must drag along the backpacks of our past, must peer into the bottom muck of what's to come, scanning the plot for words that say another year, or not. |
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08-09-2012, 08:29 AM | #439 |
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For The Fallen - Laurence Binyon
For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free. Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, There is music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted; They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night; As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain. I'd say this applies to all our brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles and friends in all the armed forces out there fighting for us.
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08-11-2012, 11:43 AM | #440 |
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True Love....
True Love
True love. Is it normal is it serious, is it practical? What does the world get from two people who exist in a world of their own? Placed on the same pedestal for no good reason, drawn randomly from millions but convinced it had to happen this way - in reward for what? For nothing. The light descends from nowhere. Why on these two and not on others? Doesn't this outrage justice? Yes it does. Doesn't it disrupt our painstakingly erected principles, and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts. Look at the happy couple. Couldn't they at least try to hide it, fake a little depression for their friends' sake? Listen to them laughing - its an insult. The language they use - deceptively clear. And their little celebrations, rituals, the elaborate mutual routines - it's obviously a plot behind the human race's back! It's hard even to guess how far things might go if people start to follow their example. What could religion and poetry count on? What would be remembered? What renounced? Who'd want to stay within bounds? True love. Is it really necessary? Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence, like a scandal in Life's highest circles. Perfectly good children are born without its help. It couldn't populate the planet in a million years, it comes along so rarely. Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there's no such thing. Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die. Wislawa Szymborska Katniss |
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