Us who keep moving

>>>>++<<<<

T o   T h e   T r a i n e d   E y e

From Inside the Art Institute

Chicago, Illinois

>>>>++<<<<

A kind of thrill -- to lie on a road
and flatten yourself,

white fur like a ball of winter,

like the March blossoms on the fruit trees,
each one folded in like

the fledgling that never made it
from the nest.

They do this when they feel threatened,
remain motionless

even when curious people come prod
them with sticks,

stiffening their pearly claws as a tree stiffens
its twigs for winter. What is it to be dead?

The possums know -- that eternal watchfulness
by which the dead in their stately wisdom

watch us
who keep moving.

> Sheila Black <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday :: Happy July

Saved to sin no more

>>>>++<<<<

E l b o w   R o o m

Mount Olivet Cemetery

Nashville, Tennessee

>>>>++<<<<

There is a fountain filled with blood

Drawn from Emmanuel's veins

And sinners plunged beneath that flood

Lose all their guilty stains

Lose all their guilty stains, lose all their guilty stains

And sinners plunged beneath that flood

Lose all their guilty stains!

The dying thief rejoiced to see

That fountain in his day

And there may I, though vile as he

Wash all my sins away

Wash all my sins away, wash all my sins away

And there may I, though vile as he

Wash all my sins away!

Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood

Shall never lose its pow'r

Till all the ransomed church of God

Be saved to sin no more

Be saved to sin no more, be saved to sin no more

Till all the ransomed church of God

Be saved to sin no more!

E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream

Thy flowing wounds supply

Redeeming love has been my theme

And shall be till I die

And shall be till I die, and shall be till I die

Redeeming love has been my theme

And shall be till I die!

Then in a nobler, sweeter song

I'll sing Thy pow'r to save

When this poor lisping, stam'ring tongue

Lies silent in the grave

Lies silent in the grave, lies silent in the grave

When this poor lisping, stam'ring tongue

Lies silent in the grave!

Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared

Unworthy though I be

For me a blood-bought free reward

A golden harp for me

'Tis strung and tuned for endless years

And formed by pow'r divine

To sound in God the Father's ears

No other name but Thine!

> William Cowper <

>>>>++<<<<

Herein is love, not that we loved God,

but that he loved us, and sent his Son

to be the propitiation for our sins.

I John 4:10

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Sunday

A few rejoice

>>>>++<<<<

H e r o e s   P r o v e d

Quaker Cemetery :: Little Arlington

Camden, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

This is a Blossom of the Brain --

A small -- italic Seed

Lodged by Design or Happening

The Spirit fructified --

Shy as the Wind of his Chambers

Swift as a Freshet's Tongue

So of the Flower of the Soul

Its process is unknown.

When it is found, a few rejoice

The Wise convey it Home

Carefully cherishing the spot

If other Flower become.

When it is lost, that Day shall be

The Funeral of God,

Upon his Breast, a closing Soul

The Flower of our Lord.

> Emily Dickinson <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Saturday

The present that it bears away

>>>>++<<<<

F l a g s   O n   T h e   P l a y

The Art Institute

Chicago, Illinois

>>>>++<<<<

I believe in the ordinary day
that is here at this moment and is me

I do not see it going its own way
but I never saw how it came to me

It extends beyond whatever I may
think I know and all that is real to me

it is the present that it bears away
where has it gone when it has gone from me

there is no place I know outside today
except for the unknown all around me

the only presence that appears to stay
everything that I call mine it lent me

even the way that I believe the day
for as long as it is here and is me

> W.S. Merwin <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Friday

High-tide of the year

>>>>++<<<<

W a i t   F o r   I t

Mount Olivet Cemetery

Nashville, Tennessee

>>>>++<<<<

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For our couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,
And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,
'Tis for the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

> James Russell Lowell <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Thursday

From this yellow ended room

>>>>++<<<<

X   M a r k s   t h e   S p o t l e s s

Bull Street Lunatic Asylum (Abandoned)

Columbia, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

In the prebirth of the evening
the blue cherry blossoms
on the blue tree
from this yellow, ended room --
press to the windows
inside shall be out
the clustered faces of the flowers
straining to look in

> William Carlos Williams <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Wednesday

Reach me rose

>>>>++<<<<

H o l d i n g   F o r t h

Bethesda Presbyterian Church

Camden, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Come littlest, come tenderest,

Come whispering over the small waters,

Reach me rose, sweet one, still moist in the loam,

Come, come out of the shade, the cool ways,

The long alleys of string and stem;

Bend down, small breathers, creepers and winders;

Lean from the tiers and benches,

Cyclamen dripping and lilies.

What fish-ways you have, littlest flowers,

Swaying over the walks, in the watery air,

Drowsing in soft light, petals pulsing.

Light airs! Light airs! A pierce of angels!

The leaves, the leaves become me!

The tendrils have me!

> Theodore Roethke <

>>>>++<<<<

In loving memory of my mother

Patricia Ann Sandifer Dykstra

on what would have been her eighty-seventh birthday

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Tuesday

Downhill at dusk

>>>>++<<<<

 W a t c h   Y o u r   S t e p

Riverside Cemetery

Asheville, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear;
And once that seemed too much;
I lived on air

That crossed me from sweet things,
The flow of -- was it musk
From hidden grapevine springs
Downhill at dusk?

I had the swirl and ache
From sprays of honeysuckle
That when they’re gathered shake
Dew on the knuckle.

I craved strong sweets, but those
Seemed strong when I was young;
The petal of the rose
It was that stung.

Now no joy but lacks salt,
That is not dashed with pain
And weariness and fault;
I crave the stain

Of tears, the aftermark
Of almost too much love,
The sweet of bitter bark
And burning clove.

When stiff and sore and scarred
I take away my hand
From leaning on it hard
In grass and sand,

The hurt is not enough:
I long for weight and strength
To feel the earth as rough
To all my length.

> Robert Frost <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday

To Him all majesty ascribe

>>>>++<<<<

I   A m   T h e   V i n e

Trinity Episcopal Cathedral Cemetery

Columbia, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

All hail the pow'r of Jesus' name

Let angels prostrate fall

Bring forth the royal diadem

And crown Him Lord of all!

Bring forth the royal diadem

And crown Him Lord of all.

Ye chosen seed of Israel's race

Ye ransomed from the fall

Hail Him Who saves you by His grace

And crown Him Lord of all!

Hail Him Who saves you by His grace

And crown Him Lord of all.

Let ev'ry kindred, every tribe

On this terrestrial ball

To Him all majesty ascribe

And crown Him Lord of all!

To Him all majesty ascribe

And crown Him Lord of all.

O that with yonder sacred throng

We at His feet may fall

We'll join the everlasting song

And crown Him Lord of all!

We'll join the everlasting song

And crown Him Lord of all.

> Edward Perronet <

>>>>++<<<<

Wherefore God also hath highly exalted him,

and given him a name which is above every name:

That at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,

of things in heaven, and things in earth,

and things under the earth;

And that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord,

to the glory of God the Father.

Philippians 2:9-11

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Sunday

Just as high as you and I

>>>>++<<<<

Ear Tears

Finlay Park

Columbia, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

 The Butterfly upon the Sky,

That doesn't know its Name

And hasn't any tax to pay

And hasn't any Home

Is just as high as you and I,

And higher, I believe,

So soar away and never sigh

And that's the way to grieve --

> Emily Dickinson <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Saturday