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Sunday
Dec152019
Saturday
Dec142019
Until it burst the hearts
Saturday, December 14, 2019 at 08:44AM 
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A r d e n t
Graceland Cemetery
Chicago, Illinois
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He gave away his Life --
To Us -- Gigantic Sum --
A trifle -- in his own esteem --
But magnified -- by Fame --
Until it burst the Hearts
That fancied they could hold --
When swift it slipped its limit --
And on the Heavens -- unrolled --
'Tis Ours -- to wince -- and weep --
And wonder -- and decay
By Blossoms gradual process --
He chose -- Maturity --
And quickening -- as we sowed --
Just obviated Bud --
And when We turned to note the Growth --
Broke -- perfect -- from the Pod --
= Emily Dickinson =
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Happy Saturday
Friday
Dec132019
Keeper of the small gate
Friday, December 13, 2019 at 11:44AM 
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P l e a
Green-Wood Cemetery
Brooklyn, New York
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Echo of the clocktower, footstep
in the alleyway, sweep
of the wind sifting the leaves.
Jeweller of the spiderweb, connoisseur
of autumn's opulence, blade of lightning
harvesting the sky.
Keeper of the small gate, choreographer
of entrances and exits, midnight
whisper travelling the wires.
Seducer, healer, deity, or thief,
I will see you soon enough --
in the shadow of the rainfall,
in the brief violet darkening a sunset --
but until then I pray watch over him
as a mountain guards its covert ore
and the harsh falcon its flightless young.
in the alleyway, sweep
of the wind sifting the leaves.
Jeweller of the spiderweb, connoisseur
of autumn's opulence, blade of lightning
harvesting the sky.
Keeper of the small gate, choreographer
of entrances and exits, midnight
whisper travelling the wires.
Seducer, healer, deity, or thief,
I will see you soon enough --
in the shadow of the rainfall,
in the brief violet darkening a sunset --
but until then I pray watch over him
as a mountain guards its covert ore
and the harsh falcon its flightless young.
= Dana Gioia =
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Happy Friday
Thursday
Dec122019
Thought's golden and glad name
Thursday, December 12, 2019 at 11:44AM 
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P o l l e y
West Cemetery
Amherst, Massachusetts
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We are thine, O Love, being in thee and made of thee,
As thou, Love, were the deep thought
And we the speech of the thought; yea, spoken are we,
Thy fires of thought out-spoken:
But burn'd not through us thy imagining
Like fierce mood in a song caught,
We were as clamour'd words a fool may fling,
Loose words, of meaning broken.
For what more like the brainless speech of a fool, --
The lives travelling dark fears,
And as a boy throws pebbles in a pool
Thrown down abysmal places?
Hazardous are the stars, yet is our birth
And our journeying time theirs;
As words of air, life makes of starry earth
Sweet soul-delighted faces;
As voices are we in the worldly wind;
The great wind of the world's fate
Is turned, as air to a shapen sound, to mind
And marvellous desires.
But not in the world as voices storm-shatter'd,
Not borne down by the wind's weight;
The rushing time rings with our splendid word
Like darkness filled with fires.
For Love doth use us for a sound of song,
And Love's meaning our life wields,
Making our souls like syllables to throng
His tunes of exultation.
Down the blind speed of a fatal world we fly,
As rain blown along earth's fields;
Yet are we god-desiring liturgy,
Sung joys of adoration;
Yea, made of chance and all a labouring strife,
We go charged with a strong flame;
For as a language Love hath seized on life
His burning heart to story.
Yea, Love, we are thine, the liturgy of thee.
Thy thought's golden and glad name,
The mortal conscience of immortal glee,
Love's zeal in Love's own glory.
= Lascelles Abercrombie =
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Happy Thursday
Wednesday
Dec112019
Safe enough to rest
Wednesday, December 11, 2019 at 11:44AM 
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K e e p i n g W a t c h
Mount Auburn Cemetery
Cambridge, Massachusetts
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It was an ordinary morning: November, thin light,
and we paused over our pancakes to watch
something red move outside. Our house is on
an untamed patch of land and, across the lagoon,
another house surrounded by trees. On the banks
of their shore, facing us: a fox. We thought
he might be a dog at first for he trotted and sniffed
like a dog but when he turned to us
we knew he was nobody’s pet. His face was arranged
like a child’s face -- playful, dainty -- and his eyes
were liquid and wild. He stood for awhile, looking out,
as if he could see us in our pajamas, then found
a patch of sand beneath a tree and turned himself
into a circle of fur: his head tucked into his tail.
It was awful to watch him sleep: exposed,
tiny, his eyes closed. How can any animal
be safe enough to rest? But while I washed
our dishes he woke again, yawned, and ran
away to the places only foxes know. My God
I was tired of being a person. Even now his tail
gestures to me across the disapproving lagoon.
and we paused over our pancakes to watch
something red move outside. Our house is on
an untamed patch of land and, across the lagoon,
another house surrounded by trees. On the banks
of their shore, facing us: a fox. We thought
he might be a dog at first for he trotted and sniffed
like a dog but when he turned to us
we knew he was nobody’s pet. His face was arranged
like a child’s face -- playful, dainty -- and his eyes
were liquid and wild. He stood for awhile, looking out,
as if he could see us in our pajamas, then found
a patch of sand beneath a tree and turned himself
into a circle of fur: his head tucked into his tail.
It was awful to watch him sleep: exposed,
tiny, his eyes closed. How can any animal
be safe enough to rest? But while I washed
our dishes he woke again, yawned, and ran
away to the places only foxes know. My God
I was tired of being a person. Even now his tail
gestures to me across the disapproving lagoon.
= Faith Shearin =
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Happy Wednesday
