Then start again

>>>>++<<<<

T i m e   W i l l   S h o w   A n d   T e l l

Lake Murray :: April 2015

Columbia, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave

your house or apartment. Go out into the world.

It's all right to carry a notebook but a cheap

one is best, with pages the color of weak tea

and on the front a kitten or a space ship.

Avoid any enclosed space where more than

three people are wearing turtlenecks. Beware

any snow-covered chalet with deer tracks

across the muffled tennis courts.

Not surprisingly, libraries are a good place to write.

And the perfect place in a library is near an aisle

where a child a year or two old is playing as his

mother browses the ranks of the dead.

Often he will pull books from the bottom shelf.

The title, the author's name, the brooding photo

on the flap mean nothing. Red book on black, gray

book on brown, he builds a tower. And the higher

it gets, the wider he grins.

You who asked for advice, listen: When the tower

falls, be like that child. Laugh so loud everybody

in the world frowns and says, "Shhhh."

Then start again.

> Ron Koertge <

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Happy Thursday

And shining this our now

>>>>++<<<<

I   B e l i e v e   I   C a n   F l y

October 2014

Myrtle Beach, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

now all the fingers of this tree(darling)have
hands,and all the hands have people;and
more each particular person is(my love)
alive than every world can understand

and now you are and i am now and we're
a mystery which will never happen again,
a miracle which has never happened before--
and shining this our now must come to then

our then shall be some darkness during which
fingers are without hands;and i have no
you:and all trees are(any more than each
leafless)its silent in forevering snow

--but never fear(my own,my beautiful
my blossoming)for also then's until

> e.e. cummings <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Tuesday

Without dark thoughts

>>>>++<<<<

S c a r r e d   B u t   S e r e n e

On a Square

Savannah, Georgia

>>>>++<<<<

I do not know what gorgeous thing

the bluebird keeps saying,

his voice easing out of his throat,

beak, body into the pink air

of the early morning. I like it

whatever it is. Sometimes

it seems the only thing in the world

that is without dark thoughts.

Sometimes it seems the only thing

in the world that is without

questions that can't and probably

never will be answered, the

only thing that is entirely content

with the pink, then clear white

morning and, gratefully, says so.

> Mary Oliver <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday

His reign shall know no end

>>>>++<<<<

W r e a t h e d   i n   G l o r y

Laurel Grove Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

>>>>++<<<<

Crown Him with many crowns, the Lamb upon His throne

Hark! How the heav'nly anthem drowns all music but its own

Awake my soul and sing of Him Who died for thee

And hail Him as thy matchless King thro' all eternity.

Crown Him the virgin’s Son, the God incarnate born
Whose arm those crimson trophies won, which now His brow adorn
Fruit of the mystic rose, as of that rose the stem
The root whence mercy ever flows, the Babe of Bethlehem.

Crown Him the Son of God, before the worlds began
And ye who tread where He hath trod, crown Him the Son of Man
Who every grief hath known that wrings the human breast
And takes and bears them for His own, that all in Him may rest.

Crown Him the Lord of life, who triumphed o'er the grave
And rose victorious in the strife for those He came to save
His glories now we sing, Who died and rose on high
Who died eternal life to bring, and lives that death may die.

Crown Him the Lord of peace, Whose pow'r a scepter sways
From pole to pole, that wars may cease, and all be pray'r and praise
His reign shall know no end, and round His piercèd feet
Fair flow'rs of paradise extend their fragrance ever sweet.

Crown Him the Lord of love, behold His hands and side
Those wounds yet visible above, in beauty glorified
No angel in the sky can fully bear that sight
But downward bends his wond'ring eye at mysteries so bright.

Crown Him the Lord of Heav'n, enthroned in worlds above,
Crown Him the King to Whom is giv'n the wondrous name of Love.
Crown Him with many crowns, as thrones before Him fall;
Crown Him, ye kings, with many crowns, for He is King of all.

Crown Him the Lord of lords, Who over all doth reign
Who once on earth the incarnate Word, for ransomed sinners slain
Now lives in realms of light, where saints with angels sing
Their songs before Him day and night, their God, Redeemer, King.

Crown Him the Lord of years, the Potentate of time
Creator of the rolling spheres, ineffably sublime
All hail, Redeemer, hail! For Thou hast died for me
Thy praise and glory shall not fail throughout eternity.

> Matthew Bridges / Godfrey Thring <

>>>>++<<<<

But we see Jesus,

who was made a little lower than the angels

for the suffering of death,

crowned with glory and honour;

that he by the grace of God

should taste death for every man.

Hebrews 2:9

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Sunday

I told my Soul to sing

>>>>++<<<<

L e t ' s   F a c e   I t

Laurel Grove Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

>>>>++<<<<

The first Day's Night had come --

And grateful that a thing

So terrible -- had been endured --

I told my Soul to sing --

She said her Strings were snapt --

How Bow -- to Atoms blown --

And so to mend her -- gave me work

Until another Morn --

And then -- a Day as huge

As Yesterdays in pairs,

Unrolled its horror in my face --

Until it blocked my eyes --

My Brain -- begun to laugh --

I mumbled -- like a fool --

And tho' 'tis Years ago -- that Day --

My Brain keeps giggling -- still.

And Something's odd -- within --

That person that I was --

And this One -- do not feel the same --

Could it be Madness -- this?

> Emily Dickinson <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Saturday

The privilege to live

>>>>++<<<<

L e a n   I n

Laurel Grove Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

>>>>++<<<<

'Twas Crisis -- All the length had passed --

That dull -- benumbing time

There is in Fever or Event --

And now the Chance had come --

The instant holding in its claw

The privilege to live

Or warrant to report the Soul

The other side the Grave.

The Muscles grappled as with leads

That would not let the Will --

The Spirit shook the Adamant --

But could not make it feel.

The Second poised -- debated -- shot --

Another had begun --

And simultaneously, a Soul

Escaped the House unseen --

> Emily Dickinson <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Friday :: Happy 191st birthday to Emily

For this have ages rolled

>>>>++<<<<

L i f e   A n d   L o v e   E t e r n a l

Elmwood Cemetery

Memphis, Tennessee

>>>>++<<<<

I sought the wood in summer

When every twig was green;

The rudest boughs were tender,

And buds were pink between.

Light-fingered aspens trembled

In fitful sun and shade,

And daffodils were golden

In every starry glade.

The brook sang like a robin --

My hand could check him where

The lissome maiden willows

Shook out their yellow hair.

"How frail a thing is Beauty,"

I said, "when every breath

She gives the vagrant summer

But swifter woos her death.

For this the star dust troubles,

For this have ages rolled:

To deck the wood for bridal

And slay her with the cold."

I sought the wood in winter

When every leaf was dead;

Behind the wind-whipped branches

The winter sun set red.

The coldest star was rising

To greet that bitter air,

The oaks were writhen giants;

Nor bud nor bloom was there.

The birches, white and slender,

In deathless marble stood,

The brook, a white immortal,

Slept silent in the wood.

"How sure a thing is beauty,"

I cried. "No bolt can slay,

No wave nor shock despoil her,

No ravishers dismay.

Her warriors are the angels

That cherish from afar,

Her warders people Heaven

And watch from every star.

The granite hills are slighter,

The sea more like to fail;

Behind the rose the planet

The Law behind the veil."

> Willa Cather <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Thursday

Wild music is abroad

>>>>++<<<<

S u g a r   a n d   S p i c e   a n d   E v e r y t h i n g   I c e

Back Yard :: 2014

Columbia, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.
 
O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.
 
Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.
 
Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.
 
Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!
 
But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.
 
Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.

> Henry Wadsworth Longfellow <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Wednesday

In the name of those who wait

>>>>++<<<<

A   C h a n g e   I s   A s   G o o d   A s   A   R e s t

Decatur Cemetery

Decatur, Georgia

>>>>++<<<<

In the shape of this night, in the still fall
of snow, Father
In all that is cold and tiny, these little birds
and children
In everything that moves tonight, the trolleys
and the lovers, Father
In the great hush of country, in the ugly noise
of our cities
In this deep throw of stars, in those trenches
where the dead are, Father
In all the wide land waiting, and in the liners
out on the black water
In all that has been said bravely, in all that is
mean anywhere in the world, Father
In all that is good and lovely, in every house
where sham and hatred are
In the name of those who wait, in the sound
of angry voices, Father
Before the bells ring, before this little point in time
has rushed us on
Before this clean moment has gone, before this night
turns to face tomorrow, Father
There is this high singing in the air
Forever this sorrowful human face in eternity’s window
And there are other bells that we would ring, Father
Other bells that we would ring.

> Kenneth Patchen <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Tuesday

To clothe herself in sparrows

>>>>++<<<<

P a u s e   t o   D e f l e c t

Old Grey Cemetery

Knoxville, Tennessee

>>>>++<<<<

The poet will seek to clothe herself in sparrows.

A motor in each leaf

distills autumn's engines and we're off.

Upstart cartoon morning;

these various roosters scratch inside the eyelids

and declare beneath the streetlamps that their

moats are filled with vowels.

That the life alone is not wasted but

rich with a pageantry of else.

Who absconds with our best sense

and seizes us by the throat as we untangle ourselves

from lovers and, draped in fever, split the

night into halves?

Each contains a commercial

advertising just that.

Despite his tactics, fully rejecting experience

the candid creator winces at the audience's heightened

passing.

Remain, in secret,

a pea of concern, in some harbor of ghostly direction.

There lurks an I among those hours.

> Larry Sawyer <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday