Friday, November 17, 2017

Before Dark by Wendell Berry

Kingfisher in flight, from: Mike Lane Wildlife Photography


Before Dark

From the porch at dusk I watched
a kingfisher wild in flight
he could only have made for joy.
He came down the river, splashing
against the water’s dimming face
like a skipped rock, passing
on down out of sight. And still
I could hear the splashes
farther and farther away
as it grew darker. He came back
the same way, dusky as his shadow,
sudden beyond the willows.
The splashes went on out of hearing.
It was dark then. Somewhere
the night had accommodated him
—at the place he was headed for
or where, led by his delight,
he came.
“Before Dark” by Wendell Berry from Collected Poems.

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Elegy by Linda Pastan

My witch balls, reflecting Autumn...



Elegy

Our final dogwood leans
over the forest floor
offering berries
to the birds, the squirrels.
It’s a relic
of the days when dogwoods
flourished—creamy lace in April,
spilled milk in May—
their beauty delicate
but commonplace.
When I took for granted
that the world would remain
as it was, and I
would remain with it.
“Elegy” by Linda Pastan from Insomnia

Thursday, November 2, 2017

In Blackwater Woods by Mary Oliver

Some beautiful trees on my block, photographed last Autumn.  Trees are masters of letting go...


In Blackwater Woods
By Mary Oliver, from "American Primitive"

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
 
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
 
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
 
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is
 
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
 
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
 
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world
 
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
 
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it
go,
to let it go.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Saturday, October 28, 2017

Indigo Dreams by Marion

A fabric dyer's attempt to capture the elusive Indigo...


Purple Kale
Purple glass
Grape.
                  Indigo
                                   Indigo by Graham Joyce---
                                   Indigo kitchen stools---
                                   Indigo's mystery - the scent of Passionflowers---


I once drank Purple Russian Kale
from my plastic purple glass
and it transmogrified into
a misty, holy, Russian mass
in a huge psychedelic cathedral with
melting stained glass windows.

                               ---imagiNATION

Modigliani was a poet; yet
his medium was paint on canvas.
He loved long-necked women
and Absinthe---green liquor
that took him to other worlds---


Dearests, I love you the way 
purple loves the elusive indigo,
the way paint makes love to a canvas and
the way words and ink love paper...
the way my fingers love
the feel of dirt as I plant silvery-white
moonflowers, Passiflora incarnata
and crimson tomatoes.

I dream of touching your skin as gently 
as the morning sunlight caresses
the tips of the tallest trees...

I dream of your dark, silky hair
tangled in a morning breeze,
your face upturned as words
come to you---pure & unfiltered.

I wake, 
eager to read them.


Marion Lawless, for my loves---
7/17/17
One of my rare Indigo Morning Glories, Godlight shining.



Thursday, October 5, 2017

Song of the Witches by William Shakespeare

From:  "Amy Brown's Fairies". The time of fairies is upon us...


Song of the Witches: “Double, double toil and trouble”

(from Macbeth)
Double, double toil and trouble; 
Fire burn and caldron bubble. 
Fillet of a fenny snake, 
In the caldron boil and bake; 
Eye of newt and toe of frog, 
Wool of bat and tongue of dog, 
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, 
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing, 
For a charm of powerful trouble, 
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. 

Double, double toil and trouble; 
Fire burn and caldron bubble. 
Cool it with a baboon's blood, 
Then the charm is firm and good.
Macbeth: IV.i 10-19; 35-38

A little tree frog near my patio last summer.

October page on an old Mary Englebreit calendar. Quote by Abraham Lincoln. :-)


Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Praying, lyrics to a song by Kesha



Praying 
By Kesha

Well, you almost had me fooled
Told me that I was nothing without you
Oh, but after everything you've done
I can thank you for how strong I have become
'Cause you brought the flames and you put me through hell
I had to learn how to fight for myself
And we both know all the truth I could tell
I'll just say this is "I wish you farewell"
I hope you're somewhere prayin', prayin'
I hope your soul is changin', changin'
I hope you find your peace
Falling on your knees, prayin'
I'm proud of who I am
No more monsters, I can breathe again
And you said that I was done

Well, you were wrong and now the best is yet to come
'Cause I can make it on my own
And I don't need you, I found a strength I've never known
I'll bring thunder, I'll bring rain, oh
When I'm finished, they won't even know your name
You brought the flames and you put me through hell
I had to learn how to fight for myself
And we both know all the truth I could tell
I'll just say this is "I wish you farewell"
I hope you're somewhere prayin', prayin'
I hope your soul is changin', changin'
I hope you find your peace
Falling on your knees, prayin'
Oh, sometimes, I pray for you at night
Someday, maybe you'll see the light
Oh, some say, in life, you're gonna get what you give
But some things only God can forgive
I hope you're somewhere prayin', prayin'
I hope your soul is changin', changin'
I hope you find your peace
Falling on your knees, prayin'
Songwriters: Kesha Rose Sebert / Ben Abraham / Ryan Lewis / Andrew Joslyn

This Moment by Eavan Boland

Window from  Pinterest



THIS MOMENT
By Eavan Boland

A neighborhood.
At dusk.
Things are getting ready
to happen
out of sight.
Stars and moths.
And rinds slanting around fruit.
But not yet.
One tree is black.
One window is yellow as butter.
A woman leans down to catch a child
who has run into her arms
this moment.
Stars rise.
Moths flutter.
Apples sweeten in the dark.
“This Moment” by Eavan Boland from In a Time of Violence. © Norton, 1994. 
__________
Prayers for the family & friends of those in Las Vegas who lost their lives or were injured.  God help us all... xo

Sunday, September 24, 2017

With Mercy for the Greedy by Anne Sexton



With Mercy For The Greedy by Anne Sexton
for my friend Ruth, who urges me to make an appointment for the Sacrament of Confession

Concerning your letter in which you ask
me to call a priest and in which you ask
me to wear The Cross that you enclose;
your own cross,
your dog-bitten cross,
no larger than a thumb,
small and wooden, no thorns, this rose --

I pray to its shadow,
that gray place
where it lies on your letter ... deep, deep.
I detest my sins and I try to believe
in The Cross. I touch its tender hips, its dark jawed face,
its solid neck, its brown sleep.

True. There is
a beautiful Jesus.
He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef.
How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in!
How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes!
But I can't. Need is not quite belief.

All morning long
I have worn
your cross, hung with package string around my throat.
It tapped me lightly as a child's heart might,
tapping secondhand, softly waiting to be born.
Ruth, I cherish the letter you wrote.

My friend, my friend, I was born
doing reference work in sin, and born
confessing it. This is what poems are:
with mercy
for the greedy,
they are the tongue's wrangle,
the world's pottage, the rat's star.
--------------------
I am reading about nonduality.  (How could Jesus dying brutally, violently, cruelly by crucifixion have such an impact on bringing love, mercy and forgiveness into the world?  A paradox, no?)  How have I not ever studied duality/nonduality before?  I came across the subject in an amazing, 138 page book that Little Flower gave me, "you are here" by Thich Nhat Hahn.  She bookmarked the chapter, "Healing Our Wounds and Pain".  Indeed. It continually surprises & astounds me, page after page.  Some books we are meant to read exactly when we are supposed to read them.  This is one for me.  xo

Friday, September 22, 2017

I Do Not Write Poetry by Carol Carpenter





Datura Moonflower's birth...


I Do Not Write Poetry
By Carol Carpenter
it writes me
into the blue-black center
of my birth back then
when I slid head first
into sterile white with no words
for my life pushed into that mid-afternoon
glare of Detroit time clocked in and out
at the Ford Body and Assembly Plant
and ticked off by the White Castle
belly-buster burgers slammed one after the other
onto the greasy grill and patted flat by the slender cook
who knew her blank-verse days ended Sundays
in the Temple Baptist church on Woodward,
the main drag for the ‘43 Ford V8 DeLuxe coupes
revving up and running lights too red
after the world war I read about in poems
without rhyme
and later, words
slapped me flat as a White Castle
when poetry sizzled blue in my mouth
dribbled onto pages of my life
and wrote me into a simile
as if I could puzzle out
my birth and death rites
and scrawl poems in between.

----------------------

Happy first day of Autumn!  You'd never know it here in the sweltering, humid swamp, but I have spotted a few red leaves fallen from the trash trees.  The hummingbirds are fewer as are the dragonflies, but butterflies are everywhere, covering my Zinnias and Gerbera Daisies.

May Autumn bring us all peace of mind and an absence of pain...

xo,
Marion