Whose only book has been the light

>>>>++<<<<

P e t a l   D r o p

Oakdale Cemetery

Wilmington, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

O Thou whose face hath felt the Winter’s wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops ’mong the freezing stars,
To thee the spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
Night after night when Phœbus was away,
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens
At the thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.

> John Keats <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Wednesday

Let me hear every perfect note

>>>>++<<<<

T w i g g i n g   O u t

Monongahela River at Fort Pitt Bridge

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

>>>>++<<<<

Love gives all its reasons

as if they were terms for peace.

Love is this but not that

that but not this.

Love as it always was.

But there is no peace in the mountain

cleft where the fruit bats scatter

from the light.

There is no peace in the hollow when

the heat snuffs night's blue candle.

The outline of brown leaves on

the beach is the wind's body.

A crow is squawking at the sun

as if the screech itself is dawn.

Let me hear every perfect note.

How I loved that jasper morning.

> Jonathan Wells <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Tuesday

Hearts that have lost their own

>>>>++<<<<

Y o u   R e d   T h a t   R i g h t

Olivette

Asheville, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching Mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.

On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.

On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.

Possess, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.

For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger’s feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no.

> A. E. Housman <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday

Nothing in the world I see

>>>>++<<<<

H e a r t f e l t

Mount Auburn Cemetery

Boston, Massachusetts

>>>>++<<<<

Here is love vast as the ocean

Loving-kindness as the flood

When the Prince of Life our Ransom

Shed for us His precious blood

Who His love will not remember

Who can cease to sing His praise

He can never be forgotten

Throughout heav'n's eternal days.

On the mount of crucifixion

Fountains opened deep and wide

Through the floodgates of God's mercy

Flowed a vast and gracious tide

Grace and love like mighty rivers

Poured incessant from above

And heav'n's peace and perfect justice

Kissed a guilty world in love.

Let me all Thy love accepting

Love Thee ever all my days

Let me seek Thy kingdom only

And my life be to Thy praise

Thou alone shalt be my glory

Nothing in the world I see

Thou hast cleansed and sanctified me

Thou Thyself hast set me free.

In Thy truth Thou dost direct me

By Thy Spirit through Thy Word

And Thy grace my need is meeting

As I trust in Thee my Lord

Of Thy fullness Thou art pouring

Thy great love and pow'r on me

Without measure, full and boundless

Drawing out my heart to Thee.

> William Rees <

>>>>++<<<<

For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels,

nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,

Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature,

shall be able to separate us from the love of God,

which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

> Romans 8:39-39 <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Sunday

Truth is good health

>>>>++<<<<

J u s t   L e t   M e   R e s t   A w h i l e

Elmwood Cemetery

Columbia, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

A Counterfeit -- a Plated Person --

I would not be --

Whatever strata of Iniquity

My Nature underlie --

Truth is good Health -- and Safety, and the Sky.

How meagre, what an Exile -- is a Lie,

And Vocal -- when we die --

> Emily Dickinson <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Saturday

What the small day cannot hold

>>>>++<<<<

I   S a y   Y e l l o w   Y o u   S a y   G o o d b y e

Monongahela River at Fort Pitt Bridge

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

>>>>++<<<<

Let's go our old way

by the stream, and kick the leaves

as we always did, to make

the rhythm of breaking waves.

This day draws no breath --

shows no colour anywhere

except for the leaves -- in their death

brilliant as never before.

Yellow of Brimstone Butterfly,

brown of Oak Eggar Moth --

you'd say. And I'd be wondering why

a summer never seems lost

if two have been together

witnessing the variousness of light,

and the same two in lustreless November

enter the year's night ...

The slow-worm stream -- how still!

Above that spider's unguarded door,

look -- dull pearls ... Time's full,

brimming, can hold no more.

Next moment (we well know,

my darling, you and I)

what the small day cannot hold

must spill into eternity.

So perhaps we should move cat-soft

meanwhile, and leave everything unsaid,

until no shadow of risk can be left

of disturbing the scatheless dead.

Ah, but you were always leaf-light.

And you so seldom talk

as we go. But there at my side

through the bright leaves you walk.

And yet -- touch my hand

that I may be quite without fear,

for it seems as if a mist descends,

and the leaves where you walk do not stir.

> Frances Bellerby <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Friday

Nothing left but fool's gold

>>>>++<<<<

B e h i n d   t h e   S c e n e s

Point State Park

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

>>>>++<<<<

Show's over, folks. And didn't October do
A bang-up job? Crisp breezes, full-throated cries
Of migrating geese, low-floating coral moon.

Nothing left but fool's gold in the trees.
Did I love it enough, the full-throttle foliage,
While it lasted? Was I dazzled? The bees

Have up and quit their last-ditch flights of forage
And gone to shiver in their winter clusters.
Field mice hit the barns, big squirrels gorge

On busted chestnuts. A sky like hardened plaster
Hovers. The pasty river, its next of kin,
Coughs up reed grass fat as feather dusters.

Even the swarms of kids have given in
To winter's big excuse, boxed-in allure:
TVs ricochet light behind pulled curtains.

The days throw up a closed sign around four.
The hapless customer who'd wanted something
Arrives to find lights out, a bolted door.

> Maggie Dietz <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Thursday

We ache in secret

>>>>++<<<<

S p e e c h l e s s

Riverside Cemetery

Asheville, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

NOVEMBER FOR BEGINNERS

Snow would be the easy
way out — that softening
sky like a sigh of relief
at finally being allowed
to yield. No dice.
We stack twigs for burning
in glistening patches
but the rain won’t give.

So we wait, breeding
mood, making music
of decline. We sit down
in the smell of the past
and rise in a light
that is already leaving.
We ache in secret,
memorizing

a gloomy line
or two of German.
When spring comes
we promise to act
the fool. Pour,
rain! Sail, wind,
with your cargo of zithers!

> Rita Dove <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Wednesday

The same old dream appears

>>>>++<<<<

B e a u t y   D i e s   H a r d

Elmwood Cemetery

Charlotte, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

And when October goes

The snow begins to fly

Above the smokey roofs

I watch the planes go by

The children running home

Beneath a twilight sky

Oh for the fun of them

When I was one of them

And when October goes

The same old dream appears

And you are in my arms

To share the happy years

I turn my head away

To hide the helpless tears

Oh how I hate to see

October go

I should be over it now I know

It doesn't matter much how old I grow

Oh how I hate to see

October go.

> Manilow / Mercer <

>>>>++<<<<

Dedicated to the memory of

Walter "Sweetness" Payton

=0=0=0=

Happy Tuesday :: Happy November

The rare and radiant maiden

>>>>++<<<<

D i e d   A   B r i d e

Chestnut Hill Cemetery

Salisbury, North Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore --

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door --

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; -- vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow -- sorrow for the lost Lenore --

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore --

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me -- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door --

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; --

This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you” -- here I opened wide the door; --

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” --

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore --

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; --

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door --

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door --

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore --

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning -- little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door --

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before --

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore --

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never -- nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite -- respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil! --

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted --

On this home by Horror haunted -- tell me truly, I implore --

Is there -- is there balm in Gilead? -- tell me -- tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore --

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore --

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting --

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted -- nevermore!

> Edgar Allan Poe <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Monday