Inserting here a sun

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G i v e   M e   A   L i t t l e   S i g n

Palmer Street

Ridgeway, South Carolina

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It's easy to invent a Life --

God does it -- every Day --

Creation -- but the Gambol 

Of His Authority --

It's easy to efface it --

The thrifty Deity

Could scarce afford Eternity

To Spontaneity --

The Perished Patterns murmur --

But His Perturbless Plan

Proceed -- inserting Here -- a Sun --

There -- leaving out a Man --

= Emily Dickinson =

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Happy Saturday

Sweet for a hundred miles

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F e e l i n g   V i n e

Yellow Brick Building

Hudson, North Carolina

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There is so much sweetness in children's voices,
And so much discontent at the end of day,
And so much satisfaction when a train goes by.

I don't know why the rooster keeps crying,
Nor why elephants keep raising their trunks,
Nor why Hawthorne kept hearing trains at night.

A handsome child is a gift from God,
And a friend is a vein in the back of the hand,
And a wound is an inheritance from the wind.

Some say we are living at the end of time,
But I believe a thousand pagan ministers
Will arrive tomorrow to baptize the wind.

There's nothing we need to do about John. The Baptist
Has been laying his hands on earth for so long
That the well water is sweet for a hundred miles.

It's all right if we don't know what the rooster
Is saying in the middle of the night, nor why we feel
So much satisfaction when a train goes by.

= Robert Bly =

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Happy Friday

We will never die

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R e a c h   O u t

Broad River at Harry Easterling Bridge

Peak, South Carolina

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When they turn the sun
on again I'll plant children
under it, I'll light up my soul
with a match and let it sing. I'll 
take my bones and polish them, I'll
vacuum up my stale hair, I'll
pay all my neighbors' bad debts, I'll
write a poem called Yellow and put 
my lips down to drink it up, I'll
feed myself spoonfuls of heat and
everyone will be home playing with
their wings and the planet will
shudder with all those smiles and
there will be no poison anywhere, no plague
in the sky and there will be a mother-broth
for all of the people and we will
never die, not one of us, we'll go on
won't we?

= Anne Sexton =

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Happy Thursday

Unblooms the best hope

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A   S c a r   I s   B o r n

Ellis Square

Savannah, Georgia

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If but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: “Thou suffering thing,
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!” 

Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.

But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
-- Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan . . .
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.

= Thomas Hardy =

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Happy Wednesday

With a lighter hand

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H o l d   M e

Rococo Boutique

Knoxville, Tennessee

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To be in love
Is to touch things with a lighter hand.

In yourself you stretch, you are well.

You look at things
Through his eyes.
A cardinal is red.
A sky is blue.
Suddenly you know he knows too.
He is not there but
You know you are tasting together
The winter, or light spring weather.

His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
Too much to bear.

You cannot look in his eyes
Because your pulse must not say
What must not be said.

When he
Shuts a door --

Is not there --
Your arms are water.

And you are free
With a ghastly freedom.

You are the beautiful half
Of a golden hurt.

You remember and covet his mouth,
To touch, to whisper on.

Oh when to declare
Is certain Death!

Oh when to apprize,
Is to mesmerize,

To see fall down, the Column of Gold,
Into the commonest ash.

= Gwendolyn Brooks =

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Happy Tuesday