Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Sunday thoughts


Rather than preaching to the choir, my friend, listen to their singing instead. Or, as Thoreau once said, There’s a cricket in my head — perhaps even under the bed.



Canvas 844



Canvas 844

February 19, 2017




Saturday, February 18, 2017

Dark passage (letter from another time)


Dear Ones, I must tell you, last night I dreamed they

(I could not distinguish their features, only their tragic countenances)

gathered up everyone who isn’t white,
bringing them all together like cattle,

and somehow they forgot me.

I said, Don’t you see how dark I am, and how strange?

And as can happen in dreams, I made myself darker,
and I spoke a hundred customs and languages at once.

(I may have been a flower, but who can be sure?)

They (I still could not see who they were)

laughed. And smiled.

And I pounded at their gates. Was I to be condemned to their heaven?

No, I cried — not if I am awake!


Sky notes


You have one idea of beauty, beauty another of you,

and I the color and meaning of blue . . .

the ideas, and colors, and meanings are true

in and beyond our evenings and absence and through,

just as these fragments dance to be whole . . .

as love does . . . and we will . . .



Friday, February 17, 2017

A little less certainty


My philosophy? a little less certainty —
yes, like a kiss that might never be, so sweet to savor,
you see, once in the way and the sway of it,
the light and the day and the play of it.

Even alone, had you and I known
the notes of this song all along,

I would look back with a little less certainty,
and a lot more love.

There is an old saying,

For she so made the world, that she gave
her most uncertain one, not for life everlasting,
or for many, or few, or some,

But for the wonder of everyone.



I find the stone


I find the stone is not cold, it is warm,
it is moist, she is bold,

And her voice is a thrill.

I find the stone is soft, not hard, it is flight,
it is song, it is word,

And I rejoice in the world.



Thursday, February 16, 2017

By song of her voice


Yesterday is a dream. Today is a song. There is no when. There is no long. Only all elation:

By song of her voice created she them
in womb to rejoice in field and fen,

And blessed are those who call
to us then, and sing from their limb!