Gates of our silence

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P a i n t e d   P o r t a l

Anshai Sfard Cemetery

Rossford, Ohio

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Who are we in the valley of their language?

The landscape listens to their

Shapes like sounds

That perfectly express the heliocryptic

Slant of the rays they tread

Homeward to barn.

And so -- grown bright enough to still our speech

And let them embody a thought

We cannot say --

We perch on the fence and study that free tongue

Of color wonderfully winding

The ragged hill.

It used to be when cows came home transfigured

One of us always jumped some

Flank of splendor

In hope of a big ride over a thousand acres --

Only to get thrown hard

On humble ground.

But now their quiet moves us. Our golden faces

Crisped by aubergine shadows from

Our golden hands

Turn after them an abstruse longing to learn --

From the slowly pageanted idiom

Their shapes take on

With jewelled clarity from the hypnogogic

THAT ART THOU still hanging bright

In the West --

Just who we are in the valley of any language

If only the gates of our silence

Let in sky.

= Frederick Stern Bock =

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Happy Thursday

The limits of your longing

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B o u n d l e s s

Wrightsville Beach

Wilmington, North Carolina

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God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like a flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

= Rainer Maria Rilke =

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Happy Wednesday

And be beloved

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U p s o t

Eternal Hills Cemetery

Snellville, Georgia

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The sense of the world is short, --
Long and various the report, --
To love and be beloved;
Men and gods have not outlearned it;
And, how oft soe’er they’ve turned it,
’Tis not to be improved.

= Ralph Waldo Emerson =

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Happy Tuesday

Fruit of the mystic rose

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R e p r e s e n t

Laurel Grove Cemetery

Savannah, Georgia

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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 =

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And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him

was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war.

His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns;

and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself.

And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood:

and his name is called The Word of God.

Revelation 19:11-13

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In loving memory of

Stanley Ray Weber

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Happy Sunday

Our hopes such as they are

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B r a n c h i n g   O u t

Oakdale Cemetery

Wilmington, North Carolina

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With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning

so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible

= W.S. Merwin =

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In loving memory of

Sherrill Edwin Sandifer

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Happy Friday :: Happy Weekend