posted April 08, 2019 04:45 PM            

quote:

---

Originally posted by Pearlty:
In Our Woods, Sometimes a Rare Music

Every spring
I hear the thrush singing
in the glowing woods
he is only passing through.
His voice is deep,
then he lifts it until it seems
to fall from the sky.
I am thrilled.
I am grateful.

Then, by the end of morning,
he's gone, nothing but silence
out of the tree
where he rested for a night.
And this I find acceptable.
Not enough is a poor life.
But too much is, well, too much.
Imagine Verdi or Mahler
every day, all day.
It would exhaust anyone.
~Mary Oliver

---

posted May 10, 2019 01:42 PM            

Wishing you a Happy Mother's Day
(Sunday May 12)
Have a day loaded with fun and appreciation with your girls

My Mother, My Friend
c) Amber Couture
-- May 2015

The strength you have is astounding.
The miracles you work are brilliant.
I look up to you and ask you for guidance.
I admire all that you are.
One day I want to be the woman you are;
I aspire to make you proud.
You're my every breath and heartbeat;
You are my soul.
In my eyes you're perfect,
I couldn't ask for anything more.
I can always count on you,
Even when I'm in the wrong.
I love all that you are,
My mother, my friend.

- http://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/my-mother-my-friend

posted July 25, 2019 01:58 PM            

"Humor moisturizes the soul."
~David L. Miller
Medieval theory of humors, essay.

posted August 24, 2019 04:32 PM            

Time isn’t a door that only
Opens to shut; time isn’t
The lamp that’s on,
Then clicks off.
Time is the great wheel of
It,
Winter then spring, time
Is the great whirl of it:
The dance in which we
Hold
Close the body of the
beloved,
Hold tight for dear life.

~ Gregory Orr
Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved
(Copper Canyon Press, 2005)

- http://poets.org/poet/gregory-orr
- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gregory_Orr_(poet)

ref.
- http://juliesimmons.ca/insights-for-the-month-of-virgo-8/
Sept 2019

posted October 17, 2019 06:09 PM            

A thousand faces flow past me,
A thousand voices clamoring to be heard:
The stories of my life:
beloved, abandoned,
hated, feared.
Which mask shall I wear in this moment?
Which voice shall I claim as my own
in this moment?
In this moment
I am a river.
I am the watcher of the river.
Grabbing no mask
They are all my own.
Choosing no voice
I see them all
flowing through me
endlessly changing.

—by Carl Woebcke
- http://www.myastrologybook.com/about-the-author.htm

posted October 30, 2019 11:59 AM            

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We're all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It's in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.

posted October 31, 2019 04:34 PM            

quote:

---

Originally posted by mirage29:
[b]Autumn
Poem by Rainer Maria Rilke

The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning "no."

And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.

We're all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It's in them all.

And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.

ref. PoemHunter[/B]

---

So lovely...

posted December 29, 2019 09:09 PM            

Life's spell is so exquisite, everything conspires to break it.
~Emily Dickinson

It wasn't bliss. What was bliss
but the ordinary life? She'd spend hours
in patter, moving through whole days
touching, sniffing, tasting . . . exquisite
housekeeping in a charmed world.
And yet there was always

more of the same, all that happiness,
the aimless Being There.
So she wandered for a while, bush to arbor,
lingered to look through a pond's restive mirror.
He was off cataloging the universe, probably,
pretending he could organize
what was clearly someone else's chaos.

That's when she found the tree,
the dark, crabbed branches
bearing up such speechless bounty,
she knew without being told
this was forbidden. It wasn't
a question of ownership—
who could lay claim to
such maddening perfection?

And there was no voice in her head,
no whispered intelligence lurking
in the leaves—just an ache that grew
until she knew she'd already lost everything
except desire, the red heft of it
warming her outstretched palm.

- http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/41628/i-have-been-a-st ranger-in-a-strange-land