Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

Black Oak


Black oak stands stark in
the gray dawn after
a night of rain.

Soggy leaves, losing
their grip in
the buffeting wind, cover
the ground beneath
the tree like
a brown blanket.

Do you, too, cling this way when the wind blows?
Do you, too, tumble and twist against your life, weakening
the only tie you have ever known?

And when you release at last,
when you float and fall into that leafy mat,
is it the grief of loss you feel?

Or will you find your way content into the dark dirt,
that grand microbial feast, nurturing with
your precious body
the deep mother root?


- Barton Stone

Villanelle for Our Time

From bitter searching of the heart,
Quickened with passion and with pain
We rise to play a greater part.

This is the faith from which we start:
Men shall know commonwealth again
From bitter searching of the heart.

We loved the easy and the smart,
But now with keener hand and brain
We rise to play a greater part.

The lesser loyalties depart
And neither race nor creed remain
From bitter searching of the heart.

Not steering by the venal chart
that tricked the mass for private gain,
We rise to play a greater part.

Reshaping narrow law and art
Whose symbols are the millions slain,
From bitter searching of the heart
We rise to play a greater part.

- Frank Scott

Leonard Cohen does a beautiful sung version of this poem.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x33Wip2iytE

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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

Villanelle for Our Time

From bitter searching of the heart,
Quickened with passion and with pain
We rise to play a greater part.

This is the faith from which we start:
Men shall know commonwealth again
From bitter searching of the heart.

We loved the easy and the smart,
But now with keener hand and brain
We rise to play a greater part.

The lesser loyalties depart
And neither race nor creed remain
From bitter searching of the heart.

Not steering by the venal chart
that tricked the mass for private gain,
We rise to play a greater part.

Reshaping narrow law and art
Whose symbols are the millions slain,
From bitter searching of the heart
We rise to play a greater part.

- Frank Scott

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Learning

A piccolo played, then a drum.
Feet began to come - a part of the music. Here comes a horse,
clippety clop, away.

My mother said, "Don't run -
the army is after someone
other than us. If you stay
you'll learn our enemy."

Then he came, the speaker. He stood
in the square. He told us who
to hate. I watched my mother's face,
its quiet. "That's him," she said.

- William Stafford

It's That Time Again

politicians pantomime larger than life family values
high production value camouflages personal failings
myopic faith in righteousness hits all requisite marks

color coordinated spectacles excavate seams of hope
inconvenient facts remain sheathed in duplicity
end stage reckonings are presented in a rosy hue

multi candidate choices of forehead slapping doozies
yammer to be the decider yammer to be the change
history is littered with their aspirations

it's that time again
just like before
buy one... get two for free


- Les Bernstein

A Winter’s Alcove

There are sorrowful, chilled fogs these days that remind one of his mortality. We are in that season when the sun loses the eternal tug-of-war with the icy moon, as exhausted leaves fall like wounded soldiers from desperate trees.

It is the time when the earth falls into her hibernation to conceive the unhappy dreams of lost loves, a time when we are reminded of whom we have offended and forgotten and left behind. It is the time of cold rains and hungry animals.

Let me kiss you, turn your collar up to the gray cold, take your hand, and strut the joyous walk of love defying the face of the storm. I will make fire and create a dry alcove for you in this river of iced waters, put my arms around your sadness and for one brief and exotic moment take you to where we will lay naked on warm blessed sands, bask in the sun, and laugh at our melancholy.

Let us heap our fears in the cold night where they will feel at home, polish our joys, and wear them around our necks.

- Armando Garcia-Dávila

Touched By An Angel

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.


- Maya Angelou

In the Grip of the Solstice


Feels like a train roaring into night,

https://lightworkerssanctuary.com/wp...ersolstice.jpg

the journey into fierce cold just beginning.
The ground is newly frozen, the crust
brittle and fancy with striations,
steeples and nipples we break
under our feet.
Every day we are shortchanged a bit more,
night pressing down on the afternoon
throttling it. Wan sunrise later
and later, every day trimmed
like an old candle you beg to give
an hour’s more light.
Feels like hurtling into vast darkness,
the sky itself whistling of space
the black matter between stars
the red shift as the light dies,
warmth a temporary aberration,
entropy as a season.
Our ancestors understood the brute
fear that grips us as the cold
settles around us, closing in.
Light the logs in the fireplace tonight,
light the candles, first one, then two,
the full chanukiya.
Light the fire in the belly.
Eat hot soup, cabbage and beef
borscht, chicken soup, lamb
and barley, stoke the marrow.
Put down the white wine and pour
whiskey instead.
We reach for each other in our bed,
the night vaulted above us
like a cave. Night in the afternoon,
cold frosting the glass so it hurts
to touch it, only flesh still
welcoming to flesh.

- Marge Piercy

Lead

Here is a story
to break your heart.
Are you willing?
This winter
the loons came to our harbor
and died, one by one,
of nothing we could see.
A friend told me
of one on the shore
that lifted its head and opened
the elegant beak and cried out
in the long, sweet savoring of its life
which, if you have heard it,
you know is a sacred thing,
and for which, if you have not heard it,
you had better hurry to where
they still sing.
And, believe me, tell no one
just where that is.
The next morning
this loon, speckled
and iridescent and with a plan
to fly home
to some hidden lake,
was dead on the shore.
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.

- Mary Oliver

Thank you, Mary, for breaking it yet again.

About Solstice Prayers

Here in the northern hemisphere, this is the shortest day of the year. Tonight is the longest time of darkness. We go into the darkness knowing our brothers and sisters in the southern hemisphere are holding the place of the longest day, the shortest night. Through present-moment communication with those on the other side of the world we deepen our awareness of a sacred wholeness, an interdependent balance, and the cycles of our earth-home.

On this side of the globe, celebrations are about the promise of the returning light- something that doesn’t happen all at once, but gradually, a little more light each day from this point on until the summer solstice. It’s a lesson in trust, patience and the natural ebb and flow of life cycles- challenging realities for a culture that often eagerly seeks permanent, instant, life-changing “enlightenment.”

Oh, sometimes things do become clear in an instant- but living full awareness is more about stretching into holding what we know at the deepest level of our being. Today, perhaps a small deepening of the perspective that allows for more kindness or patience than yesterday. Tomorrow, a little more letting go of the illusion of control, a modicum of increased clarity about what we can and cannot do in any given moment. Tonight, perhaps the spontaneous arising of new gratitude and the smallest expansion of compassion for even the ungrateful within and around us.

Today- and especially tonight- I remember and hold in my prayers those aspects of self and my fellow human beings who are experiencing a time of darkness that makes the promise of the returning light feel like an empty daydream. For all those who are feeling lost in the darkness, overwhelmed with loss, unsure of their ability or willingness to continue. . . . may those individuals or aspects of self lean a little into the faith of those who, in this moment, remember and experience the promise of the returning light. For all those sitting in the darkness of confusion and not-knowing, of grief or despair. . . may they feel tonight that someone sits with them, holding in their hearts the seemingly impossible promise of the growing light.

And may we all find in the darkness a place of deep rest and rejuvenation, time for clear dreaming for ourselves and our people that we may co-create a sustainable and soul-full way to live together on this tiny planet we call home.
Blessed be.

- Oriah Mountain Dreamer

A Winter Solstice Prayer
The dark shadow of space leans over us. . . . .
We are mindful that the darkness of greed, exploitation, and hatred
also lengthens its shadow over our small planet Earth.
As our ancestors feared death and evil and all the dark powers of winter,
we fear that the darkness of war, discrimination, and selfishness
may doom us and our planet to an eternal winter.
May we find hope in the lights we have kindled on this sacred night,
hope in one another and in all who form the web-work of peace and justice
that spans the world.
In the heart of every person on this Earth
burns the spark of luminous goodness;
in no heart is there total darkness.
May we who have celebrated this winter solstice,
by our lives and service, by our prayers and love,
call forth from one another the light and the love
that is hidden in every heart.
Amen.
- Edward Hayes

The Magi

Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye,
In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones
Appear and disappear in the blue depth of the sky
With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,
And all their helms of Silver hovering side by side,
And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,
Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied,
The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.


- William Butler Yeats

Christmas Letter

I salute you. I am your friend, and my love for you goes deep.
There is nothing I can give you which you have not. But there is much,
very much, that, while I cannot give it, you can take. No heaven can
come to us unless our hearts find rest in it today. Take heaven!
No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instant.
Take peace! The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within
our reach, is joy. There is radiance and glory in darkness, could we but see.
And to see, we have only to look. I beseech you to look!
Life is so generous a giver. But we, judging its gifts by their covering,
cast them away as ugly or heavy or hard. Remove the covering, and you
will find beneath it a living splendor, woven of love by wisdom, with power.
Welcome it, grasp it, and you touch the angel's hand that brings it to you.
Everything we call a trial, a sorrow or a duty, believe me, that angel's hand is there.
The gift is there and the wonder of an overshadowing presence. Your joys, too,
be not content with them as joys. They, too, conceal diviner gifts.
Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty beneath its covering,
that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven. Courage then to claim it; that is all!
But courage you have, and the knowledge that we are pilgrims together,
wending through unknown country home.
And so, at this time, I greet you, not quite as the world sends greetings,
but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you, now and
forever, the day breaks and shadows flee away.

- Fra Giovanni
(Written on Christmas Eve, 1513)

Sewing Lessons

- On Crafting a Human Life

It is worth it,
going inside.
It mends a torn life,
sews the pieces together.

More beautifully
than if they’d never been apart.
Impossible to know this,
being in pieces.

Lacking instruction
and stitching practice
for new beginnings
delusions tear, inexhaustibly

Humbly consider:

In a room full of darkness

Practice lights the candle,
Intention threads the needle,
Courage guides the stitch,
Through the cloth that is this life.

And the tailor begins …… again.


- Scott Bader

Sewing Lesson


between clouds and abyss
the garment of self
is sewn with the patient enemy time

beyond the hem of language
a selected collision
of eloquence and gibberish
tailor the world we live in

fashioned of earth
embellished with moon
the tight suit of existence
is darned to follow its own light

- Les Bernstein

Threads of Silk

Mother moon spins threads of silk
to knit shining orbs,
evidence of spirit dreams.
Fear unravels the sun and stars
until darkness swallows the universe.
Follow threads of light
glowing in the darkest night,
for divine hands are weaving
the sacred cloth of our lives.
Look for shimmering strands of joy
beneath even sorrow that runs deep.
Be still and feel wings of angels,
gentle as whispers, soft as down.
Heavenly beings, seamstresses of the heart,
reveal our beauty through light and dark.

©2004 Star Kissed Shadows, Sher Lianne Christian

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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

Sewing Lesson


between clouds and abyss
the garment of self
is sewn with the patient enemy time

beyond the hem of language
a selected collision
of eloquence and gibberish
tailor the world we live in

fashioned of earth
embellished with moon
the tight suit of existence
is darned to follow its own light

- Les Bernstein

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The Night Before Christmas redux

two day after christmas and all the thru the store
people were shouting "we need to buy more"
most feared they'd missed out on the best deals of all
so early they got up and drove to the mall

I'm sorry to say it's the 'merican way ...
there's never enough in old Santy Claws sleigh
to fill up that void we buy things we don't need
it's really appalling to witness such greed

I remember when we would behave in this way
only that one late November Friday
we forget to be grateful for all that we've got
so here's an idea let's give it a shot

maybe next weekend to start the new year
we can relish our good health and those we hold dear
be grateful for everything good in our lives
our sisters our brothers our husbands and wives.

peace out, Ruth

This Christmas Altar

Come. Come to this Christmas altar.
Bring any and all that have or have not been invited.
Come and come again.

Guilt shows up. Guilt wants to come and be touched by the light.
It has given its gifts for so many years. Meet it with gratitude.
Let it be the gift that is seen for all that it has brought to this moment.

Any self judgement gets to come also.
Grateful that its job has been very useful in bringing consciousness to this point.
Let it now come to rest in this Light.

May all be invited in and out of the darkness of denial.
All showing up at the door. Open it widely.
Knocking softly at times, and louder with joy when it enters.

Who is knocking?
Anyone you have left out and refused to embrace fully.
Saying “Open your heart to me. I am your Christmas gift to yourself."

I SEE!! It is Christ being born.
Christ is this hand, this body, this Blood.
Let that be the gift that keeps on giving.

The altar keeps growing.
Heart opening and embracing.
The True gifts of this Christmas that keep giving.

- Mary Morgan

Another to Echo


How beautiful you must be
to have been able to lead me
this far with only
the sound of your going away
heard once at a time and then
remembered in silence
when the time was gone
you whom I have never seen
o forever invisible one
whom I have never mistaken
for another voice
nor hesitated to follow
beyond precept and prudence
over seas and deserts
you incomparable one
for whom the waters fall
and the winds search
and the words were made
listening


- W.S. Merwin

A Prayer For Old Age

https://smithsonianassociates.org/ti...tler-yeats.jpg

God guard me from those thoughts men think
In the mind alone;
He that sings a lasting song
Thinks in a marrow-bone;
From all that makes a wise old man
That can be praised of all;
O what am I that I should not seem
For the song's sake a fool?
I pray -- for word is out
And prayer comes round again --
That I may seem, though I die old,
A foolish, passionate man.


- William Butler Yeats

Oh, how I've always loved this--even more, I guess, as time goes on. Thank you!

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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

A Prayer For Old Age
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Close to Home

Let me ask of us gathered here today--
Can we bring the balance back we lost along the way?
And running short on answers there's gonna be hell to pay-
It's close to home--so close to home

I see the ice is melting, the oceans coming up--
Storms gettin' stronger, there's devastation done
And the ones hit the hardest have nowhere to run--
It's close to home, so close to home

My old friend's a farmer, he says you reap what you sow--
It's been a silent spring the bees don't come around no more
And I'm gonna miss those apples down at the country store--
It's hittin' home, so close to home

Back in eighteen forty-three Chief Seattle said it first--
The earth does not belong to man--man belongs to earth

The truth is inconvenient now it's something we've got to face--
A do or die scenario for a fragile rock in space
Set aside our differences so we can save-- our home--our only home

Let me ask of us gathered here today-
Can we bring the balance back we lost along the way
This is our home--our only home--
Close to home--our only home

- Larry Potts
(L.K Potts/George Merrill
2012 album Close to Home)

A New Year’s Blessing

https://www.waccobb.net/forums/wacco...1_10-55-41.png

Unhurried mornings, greeted with gratitude;
good work for the hand, the heart and the mind;
the smile of a friend, the laughter of children;
kind words from a neighbor, a home dry and warm.

Food on the table, with a place for the stranger;
a glimpse of the mystery behind every breath;
some time of ease in the arms of your lover;
then sleep with a prayer of thanks on your lips;

May all this and more be yours this year
and every year after to the end of your days.

- Larry Robinson

Janus


this scatter-trove of planets has plie-ed its practiced way
around our fire-star one more time:
winter to spring to summer to fall to winter again

this throbbing globe has spun around
upon itself one more time:
dawn to day to dusk to dark to dawn again

turn the page
from 31^st to first

take down the old
tack up the new
what will I hang on my wall this year
to harbor hopes, remember memories?:
calligraphies of ancient wisdom?
labial O’Keefe posies?
impossibility of hummingbirds?

beyond the falling ball of crystal
I sense the whirling dance of asteroids and planets
swirling symphony of stars
waltzing me toward eternity

turn the page from 31^st to first
take down the old tack up the new
listen for the music
whirl with the dance inward outward
as I balance en pointe
on this narrow beam of time
Janus looking backward/forward
until
that which endures
is finally told


- Vilma Ginzberg

Our Story


Remind me again - together we
trace our strange journey, find
each other, come on laughing.
Some time we’ll cross where life
ends. We’ll both look back
as far as forever, that first day.
I’ll touch you - a new world then.
Stars will move a different way.
We’ll both end. We’ll both begin.


Remind me again.


- William Stafford

Lower Your Standards


Bill Stafford
continues to encourage me.
“Lower your standards,” he says.

I try.

But this morning,
just when I thought
I had them good and lowered,

an Anna’s hummingbird
popped at the bottom of his dive,
just three feet above my head,

and the woman next door
began yelling
at her husband again.


- Trout Black

The Age Demanded

The age demanded that we sing
And cut away our tongue.

The age demanded that we flow
And hammered in the bung.

The age demanded that we dance
And jammed us into iron pants.

And in the end the age was handed
The sort of shit that it demanded.


- Ernest Hemingway

Malheur Before Dawn

An owl sound wandered along the road with me.
I didn’t hear it—I breathed it into my ears.

Little ones at first, the stars retired, leaving
polished little circles on the sky for a while.

Then the sun began to shout from below the horizon.
Throngs of birds campaigned, their music a tent of sound.

From across a pond, out of the mist,
one drake made a V and said its name.

Some vast animal of sound began to rouse
from the reeds and lean outward.

Frogs discovered their national anthem again.
I didn’t know a ditch could hold so much joy.

So magic a time it was that I was both brave and afraid.
Some day like this might save the world.


- William Stafford

thanks, Larry; this lovely image is a stark contrast to the storms we face today ...

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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

Malheur Before Dawn
...
Then the sun began to shout from below the horizon.
Throngs of birds campaigned, their music a tent of sound.
...

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It's so nice to hear my local frogs singing their national anthem.....

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Posted in reply to the post by gardenmaniac:

thanks, Larry; this lovely image is a stark contrast to the storms we face today ...

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Posted in reply to the post by gardenmaniac:

thanks, Larry; this lovely image is sharp contrast to these dark and stormy days

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You want to hear frogs singing their national anthem, visit the upper levels of Graton Casino"s parking structure at sunset. The concert there is angelic. There used to be a bullfrog farm nearby in times past. Don't know if their decendents are still singing.

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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

Malheur Before Dawn
...
Frogs discovered their national anthem again.
I didn’t know a ditch could hold so much joy.
...

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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

Malheur Before Dawn
...

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A Northern Harrier at Malheur Wildlife Refuge, a national treasure that few know about.

Becoming Old


Like leaves in autumn

https://www.waccobb.net/forums/wacco...13-22-40-1.png
Alexandra Hart

The days fall off the tree of my life.
Bright, some — dull-colored, others,
Which makes the brilliants shine.

All precious, gathering speed,
While I valiantly try to slow,
Never quite fast enough,
Never quite succeeding.

One day, closer, closer, my tree
Will be bare, the branches bony,
No longer dressed in anything
But the memories of my folly,
And those few bright moments that
Make it all worthwhile.

- Alexandra Hart

thank you!
complements my experience just a moment ago when I was in our parking area, looking at a bare maple (gum) tree. (Parenthetically, then I noticed its sister, same variety of maple and similar size, just 100 feet or so across the way, still almost completely clothed in many-colored leaves.

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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

Becoming Old


Like leaves in autumn
The days fall off the tree of my life.
Bright, some — dull-colored, others,
Which makes the brilliants shine.

All precious, gathering speed,
While I valiantly try to slow,
Never quite fast enough,
Never quite succeeding.

One day, closer, closer, my tree
Will be bare, the branches bony,
No longer dressed in anything
But the memories of my folly,
And those few bright moments that
Make it all worthwhile.

- Alexandra Hart

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Catholicism


There’s a possum who appears here at odd times,
often walking up the path to the house
in the middle of the day like a little ghost
with a long tail and a blank expression on his face.

He likes to slip behind the woodpile,
but sometimes he gets so close to the window
where I am standing with a glass in my hand
that I start to review my sins, systematically

going from one commandment to the next.
What is it about him that causes me
to begin an examination of conscience,
calling to mind my failings in this time of reflection?

It could just be the twitching of the tail
and that white face, but his slow priestly pace
also makes a contribution, as do the tiny paws,
more like hands, really, with opposable thumbs

able to carry a nut or dig a hole in the earth
or lift a chalice above his head
or even deliver a document,
I am thinking as he nears the back door,

not merely a subpoena but an order
of excommunication with my name and a date
written in fine Italian ink
and signed with a flourish of the papal sash.

- Billy Collins

I've seen that possum! And his excommunication document with my name on it! But it wouldn't have reached my conscious awareness without your original vision, Billy Collins. Thank you, Larry R. and Billy C.

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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

There’s a possum who appears here at odd times,
...

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Monarch

https://cdn-2.monarch-butterfly.com/...r-emerging.jpg

https://cdn-1.monarch-butterfly.com/...h-emerging.jpg

yellow black stripedtiger worm

spits spider glue on
milkweed
then swings ass

to mouth to close
in on itself

waiting for glory
or just hangs

half
finished like the
rest of us.

- Richard Retecki

To Be a Slave of Intensity


Friend, hope for the Guest while you are alive.
Jump into experience while you are alive!
Think. . .and think. . .while you are alive.
What you call “salvation’ belongs to the time before death.

If you don’t break your ropes while you’re alive,
do you think
ghosts will do it after?

The idea that the soul will join with the ecstatic
just because the body is rotten--
that is all fantasy.
What is found now is found then.
If you find nothing now,
you will simply end up with an apartment in the City of
Death.
If you make love with the divine now, in the next life you
will have the face of satisfied desire.

So plunge into the truth, find out who the Teacher is,
Believe in the Great Sound!

Kabir says this: When the Guest is being searched for,
it is the intensity of the longing for the Guest that
does all the work.
Look at me, and you will see a slave of that intensity.


- Kabir
(version by Robert Bly)

Black Boys Play The Classics

The most popular "act" in
Penn Station
is the three black kids in ratty
sneakers & T-shirts playing
two violins and a cello—Brahms.
White men in business suits
have already dug into their pockets
as they pass and they toss in
a dollar or two without stopping.
Brown men in work-soiled khakis
stand with their mouths open,
arms crossed on their bellies
as if they themselves have always
wanted to attempt those bars.
One white boy, three, sits
cross-legged in front of his
idols—in ecstasy—
their slick, dark faces,
their thin, wiry arms,
who must begin to look
like angels!
Why does this trembling
pull us?
A: Beneath the surface we are one.
B: Amazing! I did not think that they could speak this tongue.

- Toi Derricotte

Definition of the Frontiers

First there is the wind but not like the familiar wind but long and without lapses or falling away or surges of air as is usual but rather like the persistent pressure of a river or a running tide.

This wind is from the other side and has an odor unlike the odor of the winds with us but like time if time had odor and were cold and carried a bitter and sharp taste like rust on the taste of snow or the fragrance of thunder.

When the air has this taste of time the frontiers are not far from us.

Then too there are the animals. There are always animals under the small trees. They belong neither to our side nor to theirs but are wild and because they are animals of such kind that wildness is unfamiliar in them as the horse for example or the goat and often sheep and dogs and like creatures their wandering there is strange and even terrifying signaling as it does the violation of custom and the subversion of order.

There are also the unnatural lovers the distortion of images the penetration of mirrors and the inarticulate meanings of the dreams. The dreams are in turmoil like a squall of birds.

Finally there is the evasion of those with whom we have come. It is at the frontiers that the companions desert us—that the girl returns to the old country

that we are alone.


- Archibald McLeish

For the New Year, 1981 I have a small grain of hope— one small crystal that gleams clear colors out of transparency. I need more. I break off a fragment to send you. Please take this grain of a grain of hope so that mine won’t shrink. Please share your fragment so that yours will grow. Only so, by division, will hope increase, like a clump of irises, which will cease to flower unless you distribute the clustered roots, unlikely source— clumsy and earth-covered— of grace. - Denise Levertov

Dear Ashraf Fayadh,

Outside my window men speak

https://www.waccobb.net/forums/wacco...5_14-21-34.png

in a tongue I do not completely
understand. These are the men
who work the soil, the vineyards,
who pray to another god and the
god’s mother, who sing you are
never alone. We are all orphans
searching for light, harmony lost
to the stark meaning of man-made
laws. In our hearts, the poem of
Love is perfected, is the most holy
relic of Time. Dear Ashraf Fayadh,
may you live happily among the
living, neither lashed nor beheaded,
on little islands of wonder, feeling
for all the gods what they are
incapable of feeling, each word,
each brush stroke, a golden bee
bathed in the breath of heaven.


- Katherine Hastings

Note: Ashraf Fayadh is a Saudia Arabian artist and poet who has been sentenced to death, accused of promoting atheism in his 2008 book of poems Instructions Within.

I would I might Forget that I am I

Sonnet VII
I would I might forget that I am I,
And break the heavy chain that binds me fast,
Whose links about myself my deeds have cast.
What in the body’s tomb doth buried lie
Is boundless; ’tis the spirit of the sky,
Lord of the future, guardian of the past,
And soon must forth, to know his own at last.
In his large life to live, I fain would die.
Happy the dumb beast, hungering for food,
But calling not his suffering his own;
Blessèd the angel, gazing on all good,
But knowing not he sits upon a throne;
Wretched the mortal, pondering his mood,
And doomed to know his aching heart alone


- George Santayana

Prayer
I want a god
as my accomplice
who spends nights
in houses
of ill repute
and gets up late
on Saturdays

a god
who whistles
through the streets
and trembles
before the lips
of his lover

a god
who waits in line
at the entrance
of movie houses
and likes to drink
café au lait

a god
who spits
blood from
tuberculosis and
doesn’t even have
enough for bus fare

a god
knocked
unconscious
by the billy club
of a policeman
at a demonstration

a god
who pisses
out of fear
before the flaring
electrodes
of torture

a god
who hurts
to the last
bone and
bites the air
in pain

a jobless god
a striking god
a hungry god
a fugitive god
an exiled god
an enraged god

a god
who longs
from jail
for a change
in the order
of things

I want a
more godlike
god

- Francisco X. Alarcon
February 21, 1954-January 15, 2016
(Translation by Francisco Aragon)

Fantastic, Larry! I want a god I can thank for creating you to show us this poem. You and Francisco X. Alarcon!

Roland

Quote:

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Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:

Prayer
I want a god
as my accomplice...

---

Coretta Scott King

Watching her funeral on TV, 2006

four tall white men

https://www.waccobb.net/forums/wacco...8_12-49-26.png

southerners all
presidents all
bush carter clinton bush
stand together today
in a congregation of accolades
to honor a small black woman
sweet soprano voice of peace
silenced finally
resting beneath a mound of
scarlet roses sun-yellow lilies
bright and passionate as her courage

no mere appendage
to her towering royal mate
she rose from his ashes
spoke with steely purpose
for the softest of virtues
endured assaults
of spiked and forked tongues
hearth-destroying bombs
to raise to dignity
the petty lives of garbage collectors
the poverty-enveloped
the forgotten children
the unjustly deprived

without bomb or tank she moved nations
lacking armor she prevailed
her only uniform the light of care
her only bugle the call for peace

she stood in silence
walked in grace

for you, now, sister in peace,
we stand in the fist of silence
walk in hope of grace

- Vilma Olivary Ginzberg