In open conversation

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B r e a k i n g   P o i n t

Parish Church of St. Helena Graveyard

Beaufort, South Carolina

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Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them --
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

> Sylvia Plath <

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Happy Tuesday

Though eyes grow dim

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H e a r t f e l t

Allegheny Cemetery

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

>>>>++<<<<

I'll walk with God from this day on

His helping hand I'll lean upon

This is my prayer, my humble plea

May the Lord be ever with me

There is no death, though eyes grow dim

There is no fear when I'm near to Him

I'll lean on Him forever

And He'll forsake me never

He will not fail me, as long as my faith is strong

Whatever road I may walk along

I'll walk with God, I'll take His hand

I'll talk with God, He'll understand

I'll pray to Him, each day to Him

And He'll hear the words that I say

His hand will guide my throne and rod

And I'll never walk alone

While I walk with God.

> Paul Francis Webster <

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He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good;

and what doth the LORD require of thee, but to do justly,

and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?

Micah 6:8

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Happy Sunday

I got your letter

>>>>++<<<<

B y   t h e   R i v e r   t o   R e s t

Rose Hill Cemetery

Macon, Georgia

>>>>++<<<<

Dear March -- Come in --

How glad I am --

I hoped for you before --

Put down your Hat --

You must have walked --

How out of Breath you are --

Dear March, how are you, and the Rest --

Did you leave Nature well --

Oh March, Come right up stairs with me --

I have so much to tell --

I got your Letter, and the Birds --

The Maples never knew that you were coming -- till I called

I declare -- how Red their Faces grew --

But March, forgive me -- and

All those Hills you left for me to Hue --

There was no Purple suitable --

You took it all with you --

Who knocks? That April.

Lock the Door --

I will not be pursued --

He stayed away a Year to call

When I am occupied --

But trifles look so trivial

As soon as you have come

That Blame is just as dear as Praise

And Praise as mere as Blame --

> Emily Dickinson <

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Happy Saturday

It is light that matters

>>>>++<<<<

I ' m   Y o u r   W i n g m a n

Beulah United Methodist Church Cemetery

Gilbert, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Have you not wounded yourself
And battered those you love
By sudden motions of evil,
Black rage in the blood
When the soul, premier danseur,
Springs toward a murderous fall?
The furies possess you.

Have you not surprised yourself
Sometimes by sudden motions
Or intimations of goodness,
When the soul, premier danseur,
Perfectly poised,
Could shower blessings
With a graceful turn of the head?
The angels are there.

The angels, the furies
Are never far away
While we dance, we dance,
Trying to keep a balance
To be perfectly human
(Not perfect, never perfect,
Never an end to growth and peril),
Able to bless and forgive
Ourselves.
This is what is asked of us.

It is light that matters,
The light of understanding.
Who has ever reached it
Who has not met the furies again and again?
Who has reached it without
Those sudden acts of grace?

> May Sarton <

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Happy Friday

Reach out your hands

>>>>++<<<<

T h e   R u n a w a y

Poolside :: Late Spring 2016

Columbia, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Let a joy keep you.

Reach out your hands

And take it when it runs by,

As the Apache dancer

Clutches his woman.

I have seen them

Live long and laugh loud,

Sent on singing, singing,

Smashed to the heart

Under the ribs

With a terrible love.

Joy always,

Joy everywhere --

Let joy kill you!

Keep away from the little deaths.

> Carl Sandburg <

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Happy Thursday

Other realms are noisy

>>>>++<<<<

E y e s   o n   t h e   P r i z e

Aimwell Cemetery

Ridgeway, South Carolina

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The unknowns are up early;
they browse through the bronze
porch bells. Crows
call & late
apples blaze
toward western emptiness.
In your illness,
the edges hesitate;
like the revolt
of workers, they
will take a while …

Here comes the fond
mild winter; other
realms are noisy
& unanimous. You tap
the screen & dream
while waiting; four
kinds of forever
visit you today: 
something, nothing,
everything & art,
greater than you are
& of your making --

> Brenda Hillman <

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Happy Wednesday

No more than remembered light

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F l y  -  B y

Semi-Rural

Lexington County, South Carolina

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Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end,
Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like
When he's held by the sea's roar, motionless, there at the end,
Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he’ll never go back.

When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat,
When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down
No longer appear, not every man knows what he’ll discover instead.
When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky

Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus
And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight,
Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing
When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.

> Mark Strand <

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Happy Tuesday :: Happy March

Wherever green is worn

>>>>++<<<<

L e a n   t o   t h e   L i g h t

St. Helena's Parish Church Cemetery

Beaufort, South Carolina

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I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman’s days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute to minute they live;
The stone’s in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse --
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

> W.B. Yeats <

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Happy Monday

So infinite His grace

>>>>++<<<<

S k y ' s   t h e   L i m i t

Rose Hill Cemetery

Macon, Georgia

>>>>++<<<<

And can it be that I should gain
An int’rest in the Savior’s blood
Died He for me, who caused His pain
For me, who Him to death pursued
Amazing love! How can it be
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?

’Tis mystery all! The Immortal dies
Who can explore His strange design
In vain the firstborn seraph tries
To sound the depths of love Divine
’Tis mercy all! Let earth adore
Let angel minds inquire no more.

He left His Father’s throne above
So free, so infinite His grace
Emptied Himself of all but love
And bled for Adam’s helpless race
’Tis mercy all, immense and free
For O, my God, it found out me.

Long my imprisoned spirit lay
Fast bound in sin and nature’s night
Thine eye diffused a quick'ning ray
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light
My chains fell off, my heart was free
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.

No condemnation now I dread
Jesus, and all in Him, is mine
Alive in Him, my living Head
And clothed in righteousness Divine
Bold I approach the eternal throne
And claim the crown, through Christ my own.

> Charles Wesley <

>>>>++<<<<

And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us.

God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God,

and God in him.

Herein is our love made perfect,

that we may have boldness in the day of judgment:

because as he is, so are we in this world.

I Jonn 4:16-17

=0=0=0=

Happy Sunday

Certain as it comes

>>>>++<<<<

B a r   N o n e

Old Brick Church Cemetery

Jenkinsville, South Carolina

>>>>++<<<<

Did Our Best Moment last --

'Twould supersede the Heaven --

A few -- and they by Risk -- procure --

So this Sort -- are not given --

Except as stimulants -- in

Cases of Despair --

Or Stupor -- The Reserve --

These Heavenly Moments are --

A Grant of the Divine --

That Certain as it Comes --

Withdraws -- and leaves the dazzled Soul

In her unfurnished Rooms

> Emily Dickinson <

>>>>++<<<<

Happy Saturday