Friday
Feb132015
Friday, February 13, 2015 at 04:44AM
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L a s t i n g I m p r e s s i o n
Gibson Pond
Lexington, South Carolina
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Brook,
Be still, -- be still!
Midnight's arch is broken
In thy ceaseless ripples.
Dark and cold below them
Runs the troubled water, --
Only on its bosom,
Shimmering and trembling,
Doth the glinted star-shine
Sparkle and cease.
Life,
Be still, -- be still!
Boundless truth is shattered
On thy hurrying current.
Rest, with face uplifted,
Calm, serenely quiet;
Drink the deathless beauty --
Thrills of love and wonder
Sinking, shining, star-like;
Till the mirrored heaven
Hollow down within thee
Holy deeps unfathomed,
Where far thoughts go floating,
And low voices wander
Whispering peace.
= Edward Rowland Sill =
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Happy Friday
Thursday
Feb122015
Pure as baby teeth
Thursday, February 12, 2015 at 04:44AM
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I n P l e a s e
Javier :: Winter 2014
Columbia, South Carolina
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Something went crabwise
across the snow this morning.
Something went hard and slow
over our hayfield.
It could have been a raccoon
lugging a knapsack,
it could have been a porcupine
carrying a tennis racket,
it could have been something
supple as a red fox
dragging the squawk and spatter
of a crippled woodcock.
Ten knuckles underground
those bones are seeds now
pure as baby teeth
lined up in the burrow.
I cross on snowshoes
cunningly woven from
the skin and sinews of
something else that went before.
across the snow this morning.
Something went hard and slow
over our hayfield.
It could have been a raccoon
lugging a knapsack,
it could have been a porcupine
carrying a tennis racket,
it could have been something
supple as a red fox
dragging the squawk and spatter
of a crippled woodcock.
Ten knuckles underground
those bones are seeds now
pure as baby teeth
lined up in the burrow.
I cross on snowshoes
cunningly woven from
the skin and sinews of
something else that went before.
= Maxine Kumin =
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Happy Thursday
Wednesday
Feb112015
Sparrows don't fall
Wednesday, February 11, 2015 at 04:44AM
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W e l l E n o u g h A l o n e
Circular Congregational Church
Charleston, South Carolina
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It is. And needles don't fall;
cones don't fall. The soil keeps
holding the grass seed and the dune
sand beneath is still torn by thirsty,
wooden hands. By bedrock
is where will be my tenoned pine.
And the grass seeds don't split,
their shoots don't spill. The clouds
remain, widely. That locked closet
inside will never have its tumblers
turned. Honestly, all I had
was the only lie -- that I could be
the one who evades. Sparrows
don't fall, no owl falls. Left behind
are her thin hands, a box full
of ribbons, a bolt, a knife.
Photographs with anybody's faces.
Hungry letters, angry letters about
a time and people and love that is
not. No image holds its meaning
within itself. Not one dandelion fell.
Please. Something did happen here.
= C.J. Evans =
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Happy Wednesday
Tuesday
Feb102015
A wonder pure
Tuesday, February 10, 2015 at 04:44AM
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L i f e s p a n
Magnolia Cemetery
Augusta, Georgia
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The things that one grows tired of -- O, be sure
They are only foolish artificial things!
Can a bird ever tire of having wings?
And I, so long as life and sense endure,
(Or brief be they!) shall nevermore inure
My heart to the recurrence of the springs,
Of gray dawns, the gracious evenings,
The infinite wheeling stars. A wonder pure
Must ever well within me to behold
Venus decline; or great Orion, whose belt
Is studded with three nails of burning gold,
Ascend the winter heaven. Who never felt
This wondering joy may yet be good or great:
But envy him not: he is not fortunate.
They are only foolish artificial things!
Can a bird ever tire of having wings?
And I, so long as life and sense endure,
(Or brief be they!) shall nevermore inure
My heart to the recurrence of the springs,
Of gray dawns, the gracious evenings,
The infinite wheeling stars. A wonder pure
Must ever well within me to behold
Venus decline; or great Orion, whose belt
Is studded with three nails of burning gold,
Ascend the winter heaven. Who never felt
This wondering joy may yet be good or great:
But envy him not: he is not fortunate.
= Robinson Jeffers =
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Happy Tuesday
Monday
Feb092015
To sing the perfect song
Monday, February 9, 2015 at 04:44AM
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S t r i n g s A t t a c h e d
Society Street Patio Lights
Charleston, South Carolina
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It may be misery not to sing at all,
And to go silent through the brimming day;
It may be misery never to be loved,
But deeper griefs than these beset the way.
And to go silent through the brimming day;
It may be misery never to be loved,
But deeper griefs than these beset the way.
To sing the perfect song,
And by a half-tone lost the key,
There the potent sorrow, there the grief,
The pale, sad staring of Life's Tragedy.
And by a half-tone lost the key,
There the potent sorrow, there the grief,
The pale, sad staring of Life's Tragedy.
To have come near to the perfect love,
Not the hot passion of untempered youth,
But that which lies aside its vanity,
And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth.
Not the hot passion of untempered youth,
But that which lies aside its vanity,
And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth.
This, this indeed is to be accursed,
For if we mortals love, or if we sing,
We count our joys not by what we have,
But by what kept us from that perfect thing.
For if we mortals love, or if we sing,
We count our joys not by what we have,
But by what kept us from that perfect thing.
June 27, 1872 - February 9, 1906
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Happy Monday