We want the dew

>>>>++<<<<

F e l i n e   F i n e

Sweetness the Tuxedo Cat

Columbia, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

The World -- feels Dusty

When We stop to Die --

We want the Dew -- then --

Honors -- taste dry --

Flags -- vex a Dying face --

But the least Fan

Stirred by a friend's Hand --

Cools -- like the Rain --

Mine be the Ministry

When thy Thirst comes --

And Hybla Balms --

Dews of Thessaly, to fetch --

> Emily Dickinson <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Caturday

The great balanced day

>>>>++<<<<

L e a v e   M e   A l o n e

Crown Hill Cemetery

Indianapolis, Indiana

>>>>++<<<<

I had come to the house, in a cave of trees,
Facing a sheer sky.
Everything moved, -- a bell hung ready to strike,
Sun and reflection wheeled by.

When the bare eyes were before me
And the hissing hair,
Held up at a window, seen through a door.
The stiff bald eyes, the serpents on the forehead
Formed in the air.

This is a dead scene forever now.
Nothing will ever stir.
The end will never brighten it more than this,
Nor the rain blur.

The water will always fall, and will not fall,
And the tipped bell make no sound.
The grass will always be growing for hay
Deep on the ground.

And I shall stand here like a shadow
Under the great balanced day,
My eyes on the yellow dust, that was lifting in the wind,
And does not drift away.

> Louise Bogan <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Friday

The sorrows of your changing face

>>>>++<<<<

T h a t   D e v o t i o n   E m o t i o n

Oakwood Cemtery

Raleigh, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

> W.B. Yeats <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Thursday

Never hurry through the world

>>>>++<<<<

H o p e   S p r i n g s   E t e r n a l

Fountain of the Great Lakes :: Art Institute of Chicago

Chicago, Illinois

>>>>++<<<<

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

> Mary Oliver <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Wednesday

Taking them as a sign

>>>>++<<<<

F r e s h e s t   F r e s h e t s

SunTrust Park

Atlanta, Georgia

>>>>++<<<<

Lo, even as I passed beside the booth
Of roses, and beheld them brightly twine
To damask heights, taking them as a sign
Of my own self still unconcerned with truth;
Even as I held up in hands uncouth
And drained with joy the golden-bodied wine,
Deeming it half-unworthy, half divine,
From out the sweet-rimmed goblet of my youth.

Even in that pure hour I heard the tone
Of grievous music stir in memory,
Telling me of the time already flown
From my first youth. It sounded like the rise
Of distant echo from dead melody,
Soft as a song heard far in Paradise.

> Wallace Stevens <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Tuesday

A faint notion

>>>>++<<<<

R e d   W h i t e   a n d   B l u e

Fenway Park

Boston, Massachusetts

>>>>++<<<<

We were sitting there, and
I made a joke about how
it doesn’t dovetail: time,
one minute running out
faster than the one in front
it catches up to.
That way, I said,
there can be no waste.
Waste is virtually eliminated.

To come back for a few hours to
the present subject, a painting,
looking like it was seen,
half turning around, slightly apprehensive,
but it has to pay attention
to what’s up ahead: a vision.
Therefore poetry dissolves in
brilliant moisture and reads us
to us.
A faint notion. Too many words,
but precious.

> John Ashbery <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday

Angels descend with songs again

>>>>++<<<<

C o l o r   G u a r d

Magnolia Cemetery

Augusta, Georgia

>>>>++<<<<

Jesus shall reign where'er the sun

Does its successive journeys run

His kingdom stretch from shore to shore

Till moons shall wax and wane no more.

To Him shall endless prayer be made

And praises throng to crown His head

His name like sweet perfume shall rise

With every morning sacrifice.

People and realms of every tongue

Dwell on His love with sweetest song

And infant voices shall proclaim

Their early blessings on His name.

Blessings abound where'er He reigns

The prisoners leap to lose their chains

The weary find eternal rest

And all who suffer want are blest.

Let every creature rise and bring

The highest honors to our King

Angels descend with songs again

And earth repeat the loud amen.

> Isaac Watts <

>>>>++<<<<

The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul:

the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple.

The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart:

the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes.

The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring for ever:

the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.

Psalm 19:7-9

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Sunday

Now to be seen

>>>>++<<<<

L i n e s   o f   I n q u i r y

Clouds :: Late Summer 2017

Southeast Michigan

>>>>++<<<<

This was in the White of the Year --

That -- was in the Green --

Drifts were as difficult then to think

As Daisies now to be seen --

Looking back is best that is left

Or if it be -- before --

Retrospection is Prospect's half,

Sometimes, almost more.

> Emily Dickinson <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Saturday

A cadence of peace

>>>>++<<<<

S o u t h e r n   C r o s s e d

Quaker Burial Ground

Camden, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

A voice from the dark called out,
‘The poets must give us
imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar
imagination of disaster. Peace, not only
the absence of war.’
 

But peace, like a poem,
is not there ahead of itself,
can’t be imagined before it is made,
can’t be known except
in the words of its making,
grammar of justice,
syntax of mutual aid.
 

 A feeling towards it,
dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have
until we begin to utter its metaphors,
learning them as we speak.
 

A line of peace might appear
if we restructured the sentence our lives are making,
revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power,
questioned our needs, allowed
long pauses ...
 

A cadence of peace might balance its weight
on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence,
an energy field more intense than war,
might pulse then,
stanza by stanza into the world,
each act of living
one of its words, each word
a vibration of light -- facets
of the forming crystal.

> Denise Levertov <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Friday

Where the foam flies wide

>>>>++<<<<

P i g e o n h o l e d

Folly Beach

Charleston, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Down on the shore, on the sunny shore!
Where the salt smell cheers the land;
Where the tide moves bright under boundless light,
And the surge on the glittering strand;
Where the children wade in the shallow pools,
Or run from the froth in play;
Where the swift little boats with milk-white wings
Are crossing the sapphire bay,
And the ship in full sail, with a fortunate gale,
Holds proudly on her way;
Where the nets are spread on the grass to dry,
And asleep, hard by, the fishermen lie,
Under the tent of the warm blue sky,
With the hushing wave on its golden floor
To sing their lullaby.

Down on the shore, on the stormy shore!
Beset by a growling sea,
Whose mad waves leap on the rocky steep
Like wolves up a traveller's tree;
Where the foam flies wide, and an angry blast
Blows the curlew off, with a screech;
Where the brown sea-wrack, torn up by the roots,
Is flung out of fishes' reach;
And the tall ship rolls on the hidden shoals,
And scatters her planks on the beach;
Where slate and straw through the village spin,
And a cottage fronts the fiercest din
With a sailor's wife sitting sad within,
Hearkening the wind and the water's roar,
Till at last her tears begin.

> William Allingham <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Thursday