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  1. TopTop #2521
    Roland Jacopetti's Avatar
    Roland Jacopetti
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Quote Posted in reply to the post by Shandi: View Post
    When was this ever in America? "Where is white? Where is the place where color meant nothing?
    White is the sum of all colors.
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  3. TopTop #2522
    Shandi's Avatar
    Shandi
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    I understand that. What I don't understand is this "where is the place where color meant nothing?" Maybe it means that there is no place? It seemed to be referring to America's past, so that's why I questioned it. Maybe just my interpretation, but what are others? I do appreciate your clarification of the meaning of that phrase. (Not the meaning of white)

    Quote Posted in reply to the post by Roland Jacopetti: View Post
    White is the sum of all colors.
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  4. TopTop #2523

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Well, yes and no. If you are talking about sunlight or transmitted light, then white contains all the colors, and darkness (black) is the absence of color. However the colors we see are mostly reflected colors. In this case, black is the sum of all colors, and white is the absence of color.

    Patrick Brinton

    Quote Posted in reply to the post by Roland Jacopetti: View Post
    White is the sum of all colors.
    Last edited by Bella Stolz; 07-06-2015 at 10:41 AM.
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  6. TopTop #2524
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Don't Make Lists


    Every day a new flower rises
    from your body's fresh soil.
    Don't go around looking
    for fallen petals
    in a fairy tale, when you've
    got the golden plant
    right here, now,
    shooting forth in light from your eyes,
    your awakening crown.


    Don't make lists, or explore ancient accounts.
    Forget everything you know
    and open.

    - Dorothy Walters
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  8. TopTop #2525
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    End Of The World


    When I was young in school in Switzerland, about the time of the Boer War,
    We used to take it for known that the human race
    Would last the earth out, not dying till the planet died. I wrote a schoolboy poem
    About the last man walking in stoic dignity along the dead shore
    Of the last sea, alone, alone, alone, remembering all
    His racial past. But now I don't think so. They'll die faceless in flocks,
    And the earth flourish long after mankind is out.


    - Robinson Jeffers
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  10. TopTop #2526
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    1,000 Year Old Poem


    In his hand,
    a small book of Zen poetry
    His strong voice
    reading quietly
    this one poem
    Brings me into
    the presence
    of Cold Mountain
    The Spiritual home
    of the Immortals...
    I am cleansed by the Spring
    that flows from the mouth
    of the poet's rock
    Amazed by the wonder
    of Heaven and Earth's
    Mystery !
    No longer a body of flesh
    I become ONE with the wind
    the glorious, pure, elements
    of Nature !
    for 1,000 years,
    how did this poet's
    treasured words
    remain?

    - Mary Barror
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  12. TopTop #2527
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    This Is What Was Bequeathed Us


    This is what was bequeathed us:
    This earth, the beloved left
    and, leaving,
    Left to us.


    No other world
    But this one:
    Willows and the river
    And the factory
    With its black smokestacks.


    No other shore, only this bank
    On which the living gather.


    No meaning but what we find here.
    No purpose but what we make.


    That, and the beloved’s clear instructions:
    Turn me into song; sing me awake.


    - Gregory Orr
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  14. TopTop #2528
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Old Man, Old Man


    Young men, not knowing what to remember,
    Come to this hiding place of the moons and years,
    To this Old Man. Old Man, they say, where should we go?
    Where did you find what you remember? Was it perched in a tree?
    Did it hover deep in the white water? Was it covered over
    With dead stalks in the grass? Will we taste it
    If our mouths have long lain empty?
    Will we feel it between our eyes if we face the wind
    All night, and turn the color of earth?
    If we lie down in the rain, can we remember sunlight?


    He answers, I have become the best and worst I dreamed.
    When I move my feet, the ground moves under them.
    When I lie down, I fit the earth too well.
    Stones long underwater will burst in the fire, but stones
    Long in the sun and under the dry night
    Will ring when you strike them. Or break in two.
    There were always many places to beg for answers:
    Now the places themselves have come in close to be told.
    I have called even my voice in close to whisper with it:
    Every secret is as near as your fingers.
    If your heart stutters with pain and hope,
    Bend forward over it like a man at a small campfire.

    - David Wagoner
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  16. TopTop #2529
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Happiness

    Our ancestors in the earth are not
    Ashamed of us. The strong smell
    Of dirt, the delirious rabbits, the
    Clocks are all disappearing. A

    Prehistoric gift acquires the smell
    Of salt. I grasp onto winter’s tail.
    Some water plants are lying around.
    Smell & taste, I have had good

    Luck in love. The slippery roads,
    The capricious numbers on a blazing
    Road, meet me at the forest’s edge
    Where we can go with our legs

    Lopped off, strangers to the clean
    Teeth and tongue of outward happiness.


    - Noelle Kocot
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  17. TopTop #2530
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Per Diem



    Spherically wondrous sunbeam

    dwelling in the mansion

    of the pine of chastity,

    today we bought an ice pack

    For Mildred’s injured foot.

    Luminous shadow

    in the plumflower chamber,

    Edna quit her job yesterday,

    got drunk, stayed drunk,

    behaved like a defective monster

    collapsing in the mansion

    of self-pity. Meanwhile,

    the great sea of compassion

    rolled in rolled out, rolled in.

    And the blue mountain

    of itself remains,

    and the blind shampooers

    never tire of their work.


    - James Tate
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  19. TopTop #2531
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    I Hate Incense

    Who can even discuss a master's methods?
    Speaking of Dao, talking of Zen, your tongues grow long.
    Old Ikkyu abhors your scrambling after marvels.
    I make a pinched, sour face, all this incense thrown on the
    Buddha.

    - Ikkyu
    (translated by Sarah Messer and Kidder Smith)
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  21. TopTop #2532
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    An Arab shepherd is searching for his goat on Mount Zion
    and on the opposite mountain I am searching
    for my little boy.
    An Arab shepherd and a Jewish father
    both in their temporary failure.
    Our voices meet above the Sultan’s Pool
    in the valley between us. Neither of us wants
    the child or the goat to get caught in the wheels
    of the terrible Had Gadya machine.

    Afterward we found them among the bushes
    and our voices came back inside us, laughing and crying.

    Searching for a goat or a son
    has always been the beginning
    of a new religion in these mountains.

    - Yahuda Amichai
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  23. TopTop #2533
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    And What If I Spoke Of Despair?

    And what if I spoke of despair—who doesn’t
    feel it? Who doesn’t know the way it seizes,
    leaving us limp, deafened by the slosh
    of our own blood, rushing
    through the narrow, personal
    channels of grief. It’s beauty
    that brings it on, calls it out from the wings
    for one more song. Rain
    pooled on a fallen oak leaf, reflecting
    the pale cloudy sky, dark canopy
    of foliage not yet fallen. Or the red moon
    in September, so large you have to pull over
    at the top of Bayona and stare, like a photo
    of a lover in his uniform, not yet gone;
    or your own self, as a child,
    on that day your family stayed
    at the sea, watching the sun drift down,
    lazy as a beach ball, and you fell asleep with sand
    in the crack of your smooth behind.
    That’s when you can’t deny it. Water. Air.
    They’re still here, like a mother’s palms,
    sweeping hair off our brow, her scent
    swirling around us. But now your own
    car is pumping poison, delivering its fair
    share of destruction. We’ve created a salmon
    with the red, white, and blue shining on one side.
    Frog genes spliced into tomatoes—as if
    the tomato hasn’t been humiliated enough.
    I heard a man argue that genetic
    engineering was more dangerous
    than a nuclear bomb. Should I be thankful
    he was alarmed by one threat, or worried
    he’d gotten used to the other? Maybe I can’t
    offer you any more than you can offer me—
    but what if I stopped on the trail, with shreds
    of manzanita bark lying in russet scrolls
    and yellow bay leaves, little lanterns
    in the dim afternoon, and cradled despair
    in my arms, the way I held my own babies
    after they’d fallen asleep, when there was no
    reason to hold them, only
    I didn’t want to put them down.

    - Ellen Bass
    Last edited by Barry; 07-16-2015 at 11:15 AM.
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  25. TopTop #2534
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Observer

    I watch how other things travel

    to get an idea how I might move.
    A cloud sweeps by silently,
    gathering other clouds.
    A doodlebug curls in his effort to get there.
    A horse snorts before stepping forward.
    A caterpillar inches across the kitchen floor.
    When I carry him outside on a leaf,
    I imagine someone doing that to me.
    Would I scream?
    In the heart of the day
    nothing moves.
    No one is going anywhere
    or coming back.
    The blue glass on the table
    lets light pass through.
    Something shines
    but nothing moves.
    I watch that too.

    - Naomi Shihab Nye
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  26. Gratitude expressed by 4 members:

  27. TopTop #2535
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    This Is The Time

    This is the time for holding still.
    It is the space between breaths.
    It is before you pick up the pen.
    And after the last syllable.
    It is the mountain lake unshattered.
    It is before thought, that hungry fish,
    rises crashing. It is after the ripples
    have spent themselves on the silty shore.
    It is precious.
    Do not invent requirements.
    Do not try to remember.
    Holding still a while
    will not kill you.

    - Alice Klein

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  29. TopTop #2536

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    love this one, had it on our fridge!
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  31. TopTop #2537
    Roland Jacopetti's Avatar
    Roland Jacopetti
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Actually, holding still a while is more likely to help you cure yourself.

    Quote Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson: View Post
    This Is The Time

    This is the time for holding still

    ...

    Holding still a while
    will not kill you.

    - Alice Klein
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  33. TopTop #2538
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Limitations

    Bulldog on a leash, your bald owner defines your universe


    how proud on your morning walk

    past the Momofuko Milk Bar

    aware of your boundary within leather lengths of constraint

    what’s your name?

    you bear the gait of a celebrity or even a saint

    in the firmament of flesh,

    someone like LeBron James, Meryl Streep

    or my deceased Grandpa Moishe

    who sang socialist hymns and preached baseball stats

    and must have walked early morning avenues like you dog,

    on the way to the steamy loft

    where he sewed garments

    twelve hours a day


    - Barry Denny
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  35. TopTop #2539
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Benedicto

    May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous,

    leading to the most amazing view.
    May your rivers flow without end,
    meandering through pastoral valleys tinkling with bells,
    past temples and castles and poets' towers
    into a dark primeval forest
    where tigers belch and monkeys howl,
    through miasmal and mysterious swamps
    and down into a desert of red rock,
    and down again into a deep vast ancient unknown chasm
    where bars of sunlight blaze on profiled cliffs,
    where deer walk across the white sand beaches,
    where storms come and go
    as lightning clangs upon the high crags,
    where something strange and more beautiful
    and more full of wonder than
    your deepest dreams waits for you--
    beyond that next turning of the canyon walls.

    - Edward Abbey
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  37. TopTop #2540
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    1996, V

    Some Sunday afternoon, it may be,
    you are sitting under your porch roof,
    looking down through the trees
    to the river, watching the rain. The circles
    made by the raindrops’ striking
    expand, intersect, dissolve,

    and suddenly (for you are getting on
    now, and much of your life is memory)
    the hands of the dead, who have been here
    with you, rest upon you tenderly
    as the rain rests shining
    upon the leaves. And you think then

    (for thought will come) of the strangeness
    of the thought of heaven, for now
    you have imagined yourself there,
    remembering with longing this
    happiness, this rain. Sometimes here
    we are there, and there is no death.

    - Wendell Berry
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  39. TopTop #2541
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Growing Old


    In some summers there is so much fruit,
    the peasants decide not to reap any more.
    Not having reaped you, oh my days,
    my nights, have I let the slow flames
    of your lovely produce fall into ashes?

    My nights, my days, you have borne so much!
    All your branches have retained the gesture
    of that long labor you are rising from:
    my days, my nights. Oh my rustic friends!

    I look for what was so good for you.
    Oh my lovely, half-dead trees,
    could some equal sweetness still
    stroke your leaves, open your calyx?

    Ah, no more fruit! But one last time
    bloom in fruitless blossoming
    without planning, without reckoning,
    as useless as the powers of millenia.

    - Rainer Maria Rilke

    (Translated by A. Poulin)
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  41. TopTop #2542
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    One Hundred and Eighty Degrees

    Have you considered the possibility

    that everything you believe is wrong,
    not merely off a bit, but totally wrong,
    nothing like things as they really are?
    If you've done this, you know how durably fragile
    those phantoms we hold in our heads are,
    those wisps of thought that people die and kill for,
    betray lovers for, give up lifelong friendships for.
    If you've not done this, you probably don't understand this poem,
    or think it's not even a poem, but a bit of opaque nonsense,
    occupying too much of your day's time,
    so you probably should stop reading it here, now.
    But if you've arrived at this line,
    maybe, just maybe, you're open to that possibility,
    the possibility of being absolutely completely wrong,
    about everything that matters.
    How different the world seems then:
    everyone who was your enemy is your friend,
    everything you hated, you now love,
    and everything you love slips through your fingers like sand.

    - Federico Moramarco
    Last edited by Barry; 07-23-2015 at 01:45 PM.
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  42. Gratitude expressed by 4 members:

  43. TopTop #2543
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    On Memorizing A Poem


    In the beginning was the Word--
    there's creativity involved,
    inot just duplicating
    a page of print
    in your brain.
    You can't clip
    these unique flowers
    of the ages
    and stuff them in
    some mental vase.
    You have to plant them
    inside.
    First reading scatters
    seeds, atoms,
    whirling with life,
    even ones that
    seem inert.
    Repetition becomes
    a steady hand holding
    a watering can.
    Imperceptibly, every word
    germinates and sprouts.
    Tendrils begin to reach out,
    join hands, solidify
    a clause, link it with the body
    of a sentence, until
    each word is tropically bonded,
    no longer exists alone.
    A stanza coheres. The force
    flows on, spirit leaps
    across a gap to the next stanza,
    back to the one before!
    Each reading, connections firmer.
    New ones arise, flourish
    like bougainvillea. Roads appear.
    Signs. Turn Left Here.
    Paths and gardens of knowing
    form in the brain. Flowering vines
    perfume the air above the brain!
    Finally, a world
    lives inside to be invoked,
    called forth like genie
    from bottle.
    Every poem or story
    made one’s own
    initiates its keeper
    into the long line
    stretching back
    to ancient campfires.
    Every teller chants with Homer,
    Valmiki, bards whose names
    we do not know, carries
    the Light in eyes
    onward.


    - Max Reif
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  44. Gratitude expressed by 2 members:

  45. TopTop #2544
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    We Raise Our Hands

    We raise our hands not in suplication
    but desperation, rage, demand,
    protest against the bloody hands
    of the criminals & the government
    impossible to distinguish the ones from the other.
    "I am tired of so many scoldings,"
    said the prosecutor. Well, be more tired jet,
    Mr. Prosecutor for we want
    our children, ours of the people
    that alive were taken
    & live we want them back.
    We will go on raising our hands
    with the "43" now a motto of the injustice
    that we suffer & is no longer tolerable
    that we suffer any longer.

    Meanwhile the president
    visits the U. S. of A. to discuss
    security & the economy.
    Whose security & economy?
    Ask for more weapons for crime
    & repression? The security of the rich?
    Assuring them profits at our cost?
    Surrender the economy to foreign enterprises
    of "Free trade"? Do not confuse us
    with flags now stained, dirtied with outrage.
    Tired are we & we raise out hands
    crying like la Llorona for our children
    who alive were taken & alive we want them back.

    © Rafael Jesús González 2015



    Alzamos las manos

    Alzamos las manos no en súplica
    sino desesperación, en rábia, en demanda,
    en protesta contra las manos sangrientas
    de los criminales y del gobierno
    imposible distinguir los unos del otro.
    "Ya estoy cansado de tantos regaños,"
    dijo el procurador. Pues cánsese más,
    Sr. Procurador que queremos
    a nuestros hijos, nuestros del pueblo
    que vivos se los llevaron
    y vivos los queremos.
    Seguiremos alzando las manos
    con el "43" ya un lema de la injusticia
    que sufrimos y ya no es tolerable
    que suframos más.

    Mientras tanto el presidente
    visita los EE. UU. para discutir
    la seguridad y la economía.
    ¿Seguridad y economía de quien?
    ¿Pedir más armas para el crimen
    y la represión? ¿Seguridad de los ricos?
    ¿Asegurarles ganancias a costo nuestro?
    ¿Entregar la economía a empresas extranjeras
    del "libre comercio"? No nos confundan
    con banderas ya manchadas, sucias de injuria.
    Cansados estamos nosotros y alzamos las manos
    clamando como la Llorona por nuestros hijos
    que vivos se los llevaron y vivos los queremos.

    © Rafael Jesús González 2015
    Last edited by Barry; 07-25-2015 at 02:09 PM.
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  47. TopTop #2545
    AliceHelene
     

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Quote Posted in reply to the post by Roland Jacopetti: View Post
    Actually, holding still a while is more likely to help you cure yourself
    Right, Roland, that's the point I was trying to get across.
    Last edited by Barry; 07-26-2015 at 02:18 PM.
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  48. TopTop #2546
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Fireflies

    In the dry summer field at nightfall,

    fireflies rise like sparks.
    Imagine the presence of ghosts
    flickering, the ghosts of young friends,
    your father nearest in the distance.
    This time they carry no sorrow,
    no remorse, their presence is so light.
    Childhood comes to you,
    memories of your street in lamplight,
    holding those last moments before bed,
    capturing lightning-bugs,
    with a blossom of the hand
    letting them go. Lightness returns,
    an airy motion over the ground
    you remember from Ring Around the Rosie.
    If you stay, the fireflies become fireflies
    again, not part of your stories,
    as unaware of you as sleep, being
    beautiful and quiet all around you.

    - Marilyn Kallet
    Last edited by Barry; 07-26-2015 at 02:22 PM.
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  49. Gratitude expressed by 3 members:

  50. TopTop #2547
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    In Cemetery Pere Lachaise

    I want to write about the way, in this City
    of the Dead, a who's who from
    Napoleonic heirs to their victims, the famed
    and infamous, the important and
    self-important share this crumbling hillside
    village, made magnificent by time and weather.

    But all I see is rain and a
    British ex-pat killing time near the not-yet
    occupied tomb of a still-living photographer.
    A stranger with all the time a free and aging
    man could want and no money, he passes
    time in the luxury of this place where
    no one is bothered by money and what it
    cannot heal anymore. This stranger

    without motive guides us in
    the labyrinth of stones and crypts, gives
    due attention to the known and unknown,
    who like us, wander in the cemetery
    of life, bumping shoulders
    with loss and living.

    - Rebecca del Rio
    Last edited by Barry; 07-27-2015 at 03:30 PM.
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  52. TopTop #2548
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Song


    The chimney sweepers

    Wash their faces and forget to wash the neck;
    The lighthouse keepers
    Let the lamps go out and leave the ships to wreck;
    The prosperous baker
    Leaves the rolls in hundreds in the oven to burn;
    The undertaker
    Pins a small note on the coffin saying, "Wait till I return,
    I've got a date with Love."
    And deep-sea divers
    Cut their boots off and come bubbling to the top,
    And engine-drivers
    Bring expresses in the tunnel to a stop;
    The village rector
    Dashes down the side-aisle half-way through a psalm;
    The sanitary inspector
    Runs off with the cover of the cesspool on his arm --
    To keep his date with Love.


    - W.H. Auden
    Last edited by Barry; 07-29-2015 at 01:14 PM.
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  53. Gratitude expressed by 7 members:

  54. TopTop #2549
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    A Summer Night
    Out on the lawn I lie in bed,
    Vega conspicuous overhead
    In the windless nights of June,
    As congregated leaves complete
    Their day’s activity; my feet
    Point to the rising moon.
    Lucky, this point in time and space
    Is chosen as my working-place,
    Where the sexy airs of summer,
    The bathing hours and the bare arms,
    The leisured drives through a land of farms
    Are good to a newcomer.
    Equal with colleagues in a ring
    I sit on each calm evening
    Enchanted as the flowers
    The opening light draws out of hiding
    With all its gradual dove-like pleading,
    Its logic and its powers:
    That later we, though parted then,
    May still recall these evenings when
    Fear gave his watch no look;
    The lion griefs loped from the shade
    And on our knees their muzzles laid,
    And Death put down his book.
    - W.H. Auden
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  55. Gratitude expressed by 6 members:

  56. TopTop #2550
    Larry Robinson's Avatar
    WaccoBB Poet Laureate

    Re: Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

    Drought


    I
    Can you spare some water?

    I’m down to rock bottom.


    No water for horses.
    Can’t even begin to think
    about keepin’ the fruit trees alive.
    Never been like this before.

    Mid-December and the only fires
    on my neighbors’ minds
    are those that could
    scar these hills again.
    Crisp clear days
    hardwoods aglow
    but at night
    no fires are needed.

    Gardens long ago withered
    wells gone dry
    high country lakes dead and desolate
    drained for the first planting
    of winter crops in the valley below.

    II
    Among the Hopi Indians
    when the rain doesn’t fall
    each man and woman asks
    What did I do wrong?
    Did I stumble in the sacred dance?
    lay down cornmeal with an evil thought?

    Many seasons ago when
    no rain had fallen
    on the land and the spirit
    for so long
    I set out on a journey
    in search of a rainmaker.
    (It must be my fault.
    It is because of me
    the clouds always pass.)

    Rabbis reverends roshis
    and then atop the high mesas of Arizona
    I ask the Hopi elder Grandfather David
    what I can do.
    A long night in the kiva
    the feet of dancing kachinas
    shaking the earth
    and he says
    Return to your home
    Purify your heart
    Ask nothing for yourself.

    Simple and direct.
    An impossible task
    a quest for heroes
    who left our world long ago
    but what else to do?

    III
    Now years later
    so many lives bone dry
    dreams crushed by reality
    visions incomplete
    anger and bitterness seeping in
    through the fault lines of the heart
    and still no rain.

    I search the radio dial
    for a hopeful sign
    and hear Smokey the Bear
    died in a cage in Washington D.C.
    He was 25 years old.

    Discouraged but undaunted
    I consult the Talmud at random
    and find: ‘The rain falls from above
    but it begins below.’

    As always
    It comes down to
    letting the rain fall.
    Dear friends,
    please do what you can.

    - Steve Sanfield
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