And so it ends...
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveler
Like the beam of a lightless star
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what
Not sure of all the bricks to catch my eye, why this one did, but it did. It took me to a poem where I was reminded that after news arrives, life can be familiar. Seeing the sun always helps as well.
Biopsy
After three leaden turns on no-sun, it comes;By Patricia Roth Schwartz
The Angels of Radiators
Every night when my wife
and daughter are asleep
and I'm alone in this old house
lost in landscapes somewhere
between the points of stars,
my furnace fails like heaven.
The water that will turn
to steam and turn to heat
and rise as grace runs out.
In unlighted corners, angles
opening to blank space,
radiators, cold and white,
are silent and dead angels,
incarnate where they fell.
Every night, every winter,
I have to go down cellar,
turn the valve until the gauge
is full of water once again,
until the furnace starts
to rumble with its resurrection.
Then the house begins to move,
and through the winter night
that threatens us like Hell, by God,
the pure spirit of the fire roars
blue, veins ring, and radiators,
a whole chorus of Dominions, sing
and dance wild alleluias warm as spring.
"The Angels of the Radiators" is from Selected Poems.
As seen on The Poet Walk, Memorial Art Gallery, Rochester, NY
Day four. Searching the words at my feet brought me a title. The entire poem had been read that day in Rochester.
heaven on our earth
hopscotch chalked on the sidewalk
dance! dear goddess hop! skip!
By Sam Abrams
Our Family Tree
By Joseph Cephas Holly (1825-1855)
On the death of my sister Cecilia—the last of five members of the family, who died successively.
Our family tree is in the sear
And yellow leaf of life;
Branch after branch, year after year,
Yields to death’s pruning knife.
First, youngest born, as if ’twere meet,
The sacrifice should be,
"The last of earth," the first to meet
Th’ unknown eternity.
’Twas God who gave, ’twas He who took,
His voice let us obey,
So that in his eternal book,
Our names shine bright as day.
Source: African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century: An Anthology (University of Illinois Press, 1992)
what we can’t know
the number of the dead
the stretch of an hour
a bird’s heart
how our embrace feels to the embraced
the moment of a flower’s opening
dirt’s weight
outermost ripples of friendship and love
peace
what our hands do while we sleep
a lie’s uncurling
the depth of loss
an insect’s view
silence
morning brushing against treetops
how we are remembered
James LaVilla-Havelin, "what we can't know" from Counting. Copyright © 2010 by James LaVilla-Havelin. Used with the permission of the author.
As seen on the Poet Walk at the Memorial Art Gallery, Rochester NY
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| It Wasn't a The Wind by Linda Allardt Memorial Art Gallery Poet Walk |
I got an itching to start handing out random cards at work, so I went into the studio last night to draw a card. While at it, why not try the time lapse option on my iPad camera. Beware ~> I spin the card quite a bit.
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| Deb Veshinfsky Tropical Flight photo by Wayne Strat |
I love the symmetry and rainbow of colors going on
in this quilt by Deb Veshinfsky.
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| Christmas cacti cuttings |
Last year was a rough year for our Christmas cacti. Overwatering may have done them in. So it was especially nice when my colleague and friend showed up with her plants this year. Once again she allowed us to take billions and billions of cuttings. Great success with rooting and now planted in these bright yellow pots. Caught my eye as I pondered a photo as my teaching week came to an end. Probably the fact that being a UofO Duck alum helped their cause
