What you were of old

>>>>++<<<<

M a k i n g   a   L e a n   B r e a k

Colonial Park Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

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This after-sunset is a sight for seeing.

Cliff-heads of craggy cloud surrounding it.
-- And dwell you in that glory-show?

You may; for there are strange strange things in being,

 Stranger than I know.

Yet if that chasm of splendour claim your presence

Which glows between the ash cloud and the dun,

How changed must be your mortal mould!

Changed to a firmament-riding earthless essence

From what you were of old:

All too unlike the fond and fragile creature

Then known to me ... Well, shall I say it plain?

I would not have you thus and there,

But still would grieve on, missing you, still feature

You as the one you were.

> Thomas Hardy <

Happy Birthday to Thomas Hardy, born on this day in 1840

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Wednesday

The charm of it

>>>>++<<<<

S i g h t   t o   B e h o l d

Mount Auburn Cemetery

Cambridge, Massachusetts

>>>>++<<<<

Just once I knew what life was for.

In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;

walked there along the Charles River,

watched the lights copying themselves,

all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening

their mouths as wide as opera singers;

counted the stars, my little campaigners,

my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love

on the night green side of it and cried

my heart to the eastbound cars and cried

my heart to the westbound cars and took

my truth across a small humped bridge

and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home

and hoarded these constants into morning

only to find them gone.

> Anne Sexton <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday :: Happy June

Though the angels sleep

>>>>++<<<<

T h e   S t a r s   a n d   S t r i p e s   F o r e v e r

National Cemetery

Beaufort, South Carolina

=0=0=0=

To fallen soldiers let us sing

Where no rockets fly nor bullets wing

Our broken brothers let us bring

To the mansions of the Lord

No more weeping, no more fight

No prayers pleading through the night

Just divine embrace, eternal light

In the mansions of the Lord

Where no mothers cry and no children weep

We will stand and guard though the angels sleep

All through the ages let us keep

The mansions of the Lord

> Randall Wallace <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday :: Happy Memorial Day

Now and always

>>>>++<<<<

B a c k   t o   t h e   F u t u r e

Elmwood Cemetery

Memphis, Tennessee

>>>>++<<<<

Be thou my vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.
Thou my best thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

Be Thou my battle shield, sword for the fight;
Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight;
Thou my soul’s shelter, Thou my high tower:
Raise Thou me heavenward, O power of my power.

Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise,
Thou mine inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.

High King of Heaven, my victory won,
May I reach Heaven’s joys, O bright Heaven’s Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my vision, O Ruler of all.

> Dallan Forgaill <

>>>>++<<<<

He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good;

and what doth the LORD require of thee,

but to do justly, and to love mercy,

and to walk humbly with thy God?

Micah 6:8

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Sunday

The truth must dazzle

>>>>++<<<<

S t a t e m e n t   P i e c e

Trump International Hotel and Tower

Chicago, Illinois

>>>>++<<<<

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant --
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind --

= Emily Dickinson =

=0=0=0=

Happy Saturday

Against the green in the shadow

>>>>++<<<<

F e e l i n g   F u l l

Palmetto Trail

Peak, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

No more than a week and the leaves

have all come out on the ash trees

now they are more than half open

on the ancient walnuts standing

alone in the field reaching up

through the mute amazement of age

they have uncurled on the oaks from

hands small as the eyelids of birds

and the morning light shines through them

and waits while the hawthorn gleams white

against the green in the shadow

in a moment the river has

disappeared down in the valley

the curve of the sky gliding slowly

from before not seeming to move

it will not be seen again now

a while from this place on the ridge

but over it the summer will

flow and not seem to be moving

> W.S. Merwin <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Friday

Your pain is already stirring

>>>>++<<<<

S t a n d   a n d   W i t h s t a n d

Green Mount Cemetery

Baltimore, Maryland

>>>>++<<<<

You must rock your pain in your arms

until it's asleep, then leave it

in a darkened room

and tiptoe out.

For a moment you will feel

the emptiness of peace.

But in the next room

your pain is already stirring.

Soon it will be

calling your name.

> Linda Pastan <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Thursday

An occasion you could not imagine

>>>>++<<<<

C a n   I   G e t   A n   A m e n

Cave Hill Cemetery

Louisville, Kentucky

>>>>++<<<<

There's just no accounting for happiness,

or the way it turns up like a prodigal

who comes back to the dust at your feet

having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?

You make a feast in honor of what

was lost, and take from its place the finest

garment, which you saved for an occasion

you could not imagine, and you weep night and day

to know that you were not abandoned,

that happiness saved its most extreme form

for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never

knew about, who flies a single-engine plane

onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes

into town, and inquires at every door

until he finds you asleep midafternoon

as you so often are during the unmerciful

hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.

It comes to the woman sweeping the street

with a birch broom, to the child

whose mother has passed out from drink.

It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing

a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,

and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots

in the night.

It even comes to the boulder

in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,

to rain falling on the open sea,

to the winegless, wearing of holding wine.

> Jane Kenyon <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Wednesday

All night the sheaves

>>>>++<<<<

C a t c h i n g   t h e   R e d e y e

Olivette

Asheville, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching Mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.

On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.

On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.

Possess, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.

For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger’s feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no.

> A. E. Housman <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Tuesday

Dulled by much traveling

>>>>++<<<<

I   M i s s e d   T h e   D i g i t a l   A g e

Bonaventure Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

=0=0=0=

Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
Nor do they send up fires where they fall
Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
They are eaten immediately by the pines.

Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort,
And they are wan, dulled by much traveling.
The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble;
They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.

The Big Dipper is my own familiar.

I miss Orion and Cassiopeia’s Chair. Maybe they are
Hanging shyly under the studded horizon
Like a child’s too-simple mathematical problem.
Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.
Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright
I am overlooking them by looking too hard.
Perhaps it is the season that is not right.

And what if the sky here is no different,
And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?
Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.
The few I am used to are plain and durable;
I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth
Or much company, or the mildness of the south.
They are too puritan and solitary for that --
When one of them falls it leaves a space,

A sense of absence in its old shining place.
And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,
I see those constellations in my head,
Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.
There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell
Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes
And drink the small night chill like news of home.

= Sylvia Plath =

=0=0=0=

Happy Monday