I don’t know about you, but I think we could all use a few more soft cloud-cloths these days. The rough only tumbles the soul and turns the melodies into unharmonious discord. Agree?
And now September burns the careful tree
That builds each year the leaf and bark again
With solemn care and rounded certainty
That nothing lives which seasons do not mend.
The young are never robbed of innocence
But given gold of love and memory.
We live in wealth whose bounds exceed our sense,
And when we die are full of memory.
by Donald Hall
Mr. Hall died last Saturday, June 30th. He was 89.
I decided to look up one of my favorite words along with my favorite poet. Here’s what I got:
What? Emily Dickinson hasn’t posted anything within 14 days??
And then I thought of how we rekindle our own imaginations – through the eyes of children, of course.
Then, I thought of Shel Silverstein.
But this is my all-time favorite:
And, by the way – Just because Emily hasn’t posted in a while doesn’t mean she’s not alive.
see more here
Oh the sisters of mercy,
they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me
when I thought that I just can’t go on.
And they brought me their comfort
and later they brought me this song.
Oh I hope you run into them,
you who’ve been travelling so long.
Yes you who must leave everything
that you cannot control.
It begins with your family,
but soon it comes around to your soul.
Well I’ve been where you’re hanging,
I think I can see how you’re pinned:
When you’re not feeling holy,
your loneliness says that you’ve sinned.
Well they lay down beside me,
I made my confession to them.
They touched both my eyes
and I touched the dew on their hem.
If your life is a leaf
that the seasons tear off and condemn
They will bind you with love
that is graceful and green as a stem.
When I left they were sleeping,
I hope you run into them soon.
Don’t turn on the lights,
you can read their address by the moon.
And you won’t make me jealous
if I hear that they sweetened your night:
We weren’t lovers like that
and besides it would still be all right,
We weren’t lovers like that
and besides it would still be all right.
–beautifully written by Leonard Cohen
I measure every Grief I meet (561)
I measure every Grief I meet With narrow, probing, eyes – I wonder if It weighs like Mine – Or has an Easier size. I wonder if They bore it long – Or did it just begin – I could not tell the Date of Mine – It feels so old a pain – I wonder if it hurts to live – And if They have to try – And whether – could They choose between – It would not be – to die – I note that Some – gone patient long – At length, renew their smile – An imitation of a Light That has so little Oil – I wonder if when Years have piled – Some Thousands – on the Harm – That hurt them early – such a lapse Could give them any Balm – Or would they go on aching still Through Centuries of Nerve – Enlightened to a larger Pain – In Contrast with the Love – The Grieved – are many – I am told – There is the various Cause – Death – is but one – and comes but once – And only nails the eyes – There’s Grief of Want – and grief of Cold – A sort they call “Despair” – There’s Banishment from native Eyes – In sight of Native Air – And though I may not guess the kind – Correctly – yet to me A piercing Comfort it affords In passing Calvary – To note the fashions – of the Cross – And how they’re mostly worn – Still fascinated to presume That Some – are like my own –
photo credit of Emily Dickinson, my FAVORITE poet.
Daily Word Prompt: Enlighten
Before I gift you with my favorite poem (and I DO believe it to be a worthy present) I want to share something with you.
My mother loved birds. She loved watching them eat from their feeders and poke their beaks at her sliding glass door. And, she watched them as she became weaker with age.
I knew of this poem but, after Mom died, it took on a greater significance. As a gift, my sister had this necklace made for me.
On the flip side is the first stanza of my favorite poem.
Here is the beautiful poem by Emily Dickinson:
A big thank you to Ms. Dickinson for creating this poem and to my sister for gifting me with this reminder.
And especially to Mom who, kept warm my soul.
Hope is the thing with feathers.
Daily Word Prompt: Crumb