Friday, April 29, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Grounded and Elevated
or The Healing Power of Fleece
On a low dank day
I urge grudging feet out to the sheep,
my gait stuttering and reluctant.
Eager muzzles seek my waiting cupped palm
for apples or grain.
my hands delve deep
into their thick, shy fleece.
I come away with the must
of wool and lanolin,
walk easily back toward
my small family,
a little lighter.
Posted for One Shot Wednesday. Curious? Click & see. Go on now.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Poem (As the cat)
As the cat
the top of
first the right
then the hind
into the pit of
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
"What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why"
by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
Monday, April 11, 2011
I’ll Come When Thou Art Saddest
by Emily Brontë (1818-1848)
I'll come when thou art saddest
Laid alone in the darkened room
When the mad day's mirth has vanished
And the smile of joy is banished
From evening's chilly gloom
I'll come when the heart's [real] feeling
Has entire unbiased sway
And my influence o'er thee stealing
Grief deepening joy congealing
Shall bear thy soul away
Listen 'tis just the hour
The awful time for thee
Dost thou not feel upon thy soul
A flood of strange sensations roll
Forerunners of a sterner power
Heralds of me
Thursday, April 7, 2011
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
Friday, April 1, 2011
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Admit impediment. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark
Whose worth’s unknown although his height be taken.
Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.