Bear his mild yoke

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H e a v e n   ::  O p e n   F o r   B u s i n e s s

Lake Murray 2014

Columbia, South Carolina

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When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide,

"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait."

= John Milton =

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And makes my heaven

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S e e   a n d   b e   S c e n e

Hot Pocket Building :: 444 West Lake Street

Chicago, Illinois

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I will not toy with it nor bend an inch.
Deep in the secret chambers of my heart
I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch
I bear it nobly as I live my part.
My being would be a skeleton, a shell,
If this dark Passion that fills my every mood,
And makes my heaven in the white world’s hell,
Did not forever feed me vital blood.
I see the mighty city through a mist --
The strident trains that speed the goaded mass,
The poles and spires and towers vapor-kissed,
The fortressed port through which the great ships pass,
The tides, the wharves, the dens I contemplate,
Are sweet like wanton loves because I hate.

= Claude McKay =

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Happy Tuesday

Turn the key deftly

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S h i n i n g   i n   S h a d o w

Broyhill Walking Park

Lenoir, North Carolina

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TO SLEEP

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,

Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,

Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,

Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:

O soothest Sleep! If so it please thee, close

In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,

Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws

Around my bed its lulling charities.

Then save me, or the passed day will shine

Upon my pillow, breeding many woes, --

Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords

Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,

And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

= John Keats =

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Happy Monday

Like separation's swell

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S o a r   S p o t

Pine Forest

Batesburg, South Carolina

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A Wind that rose

Though not a Leaf

In any Forest stirred

But with itself did cold engage

Beyond the Realm of Bird --

A Wind that woke a lone Delight

Like Separation's Swell

Restored in Arctic Confidence

To the Invisible --

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Saturday

Yearning in the wingèd music

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D a g n y   C l a r e

January 8, 2016

Columbia, South Carolina

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Life! Ay, what is it? E'en a moment spun

From cycles of eternity. And yet,

What wrestling 'mid the fever and the fret

Of tangled purposes and hopes undone!

What affluence of love! What vict'ries won

In agonies of silence, ere trust met

A manifold fulfillment, and the wet,

Beseeching eyes saw splendors past the sun!

What struggle in the web of circumstance,

And yearning in the wingèd music! All,

One restless strife from fetters to be free;

Till, gathered to eternity's expanse,

Is that brief moment at the Father's call.

Life! Ay, at best, 'tis but a mystery!

= Henrietta Cordelia Ray =

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Dedicated to the memory of

Stanley Ray Weber

on his tenth anniversary in heaven

July 28, 1925 - January 8, 2011

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Happy Friday