The Mystery of Grace by Charles De Lint

Charles De Lint is the master of fastasy fiction. I found this book on the 'New Book' shelf at the library and was attracted by the cover. I'm in the midst of it right now, but had to recommend it. It's a wonderful, beautifully written, amazing book unlike any other book I've ever read. I have to get back to it......I just wanted to recommend it.


Here's the blurb from Amazon:


"Grace Quintero works at Sanchez Motor Works, customizing hot rods. Her whole world consists of her apartment building, the grocery store, the library, the record shop, and the local music hall. She misses her grandfather, the only person she was close to. She meets John at the music hall one night and has a feeling that they might have a relationship, not just a hookup. But there’s one problem. Grace is dead and trying to adjust to her “life” as a ghost. De Lint’s skillful depiction of people trying to resolve unfinished business, develop the courage to let some things go, and distinguish between the two draws the reader into a world that is neither life nor death. We agonize, in the classic sense, along with Grace and root for her resolution. This is a stand-alone work, unconnected to anything else de Lint has done before, but it should please his regular readers, and perhaps fantasy fans in general."

Leaves Compared With Flowers & Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost

Fall always makes me think of Robert Frost, the farmer poet, and his wonderous poems. I share two of my favorites of his below. Wishing you sunshine, peace, love and blessings.....

An Autumn fairy checks out a yellow mushroom that sprouted overnight in my pot of thyme.

A last burst of early Autumn Moonflowers.




A simple collage I made last week.

A decoupaged art card from last summer.

Take time to smell the roses before Winter steals them all away.

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

Leaves Compared With Flowers

By Robert Frost

A tree's leaves may be ever so good,

So may its bark, so may its wood;

But unless you put the right thing to its root

It never will show much flower or fruit.

But I may be one who does not care

Ever to have tree bloom or bear.

Leaves for smooth and bark for rough,

Leaves and bark may be tree enough.

Some giant trees have bloom so small

They might as well have none at all.

Late in life I have come on fern.

Now lichens are due to have their turn.

I bade men tell me which in brief,

Which is fairer, flower or leaf.

They did not have the wit to say,

Leaves by night and flowers by day.

Leaves and bar, leaves and bark,

To lean against and hear in the dark.

Petals I may have once pursued.

Leaves are all my darker mood.

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

Nothing Gold Can Stay

By Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

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

From the Garden and Frenzy by Anne Sexton

It's not officially Autumn in my brain until the first Spider Lilies appear with their pretty orange/red spidery legs all upside down---or maybe they're right side up. These bloomed just yesterday and already the weather is cooler. It's like they hold the cool weather in their blooms and release it upon opening.

I'm beginning to feel wistful about the year(s) passing so swiftly. I remember when my kids were young, time seemed to slide by like pure cane syrup, slooooowwwly and oh, so golden! Now it's more like a runaway train with no brakes, all full-tilt-boogie headed for _______. You fill in the blank.

So, I'm in an Anne Sexton mood on this overcast, day of bruised clouds and not even a gossipy whisper of a breeze. I'll never forget the first time I read her poetry. I'm pretty sure my mouth fell open in surprise that a woman had finally spoken the truth from her soul. And that makes me think of this quote by Muriel Rukeyser: "What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open."

On that note, wishing you all a happy Friday and a blessed, peaceful weekend. ~Marion~







From the Garden
By Anne Sexton


Come, my beloved,
consider the lilies.
We are of little faith.
We talk too much.
Put your mouthful of words away
and come with me to watch
the lilies open in such a field,
growing there like yachts,
slowly steering their petals
without nurses or clocks.
Let us consider the view:
a house where white clouds
decorate the muddy halls.
Oh, put away your good words
and your bad words. Spit out
your words like stones!
Come here! Come here!
Come eat my pleasant fruits.


*************************


Frenzy
By Anne Sexton


I am not lazy.
I am on the amphetamine
of the soul.
I am, each day,
typing out the God
my typewriter believes in.
Very quick. Very intense,
like a wolf at a live heart.
Not lazy. When a lazy
man, they say,
looks toward heaven,
the angels close the windows.


Oh angels,
keep the windows open
so that I may reach in
and steal each object,
objects that tell me the sea is not dying,
objects that tell me the dirt has a life-wish,
that the Christ who walked for me,
walked on true ground
and that this frenzy,
like bees stinging the heart all morning,
will keep the angels
with their windows open,
wide as an English bathtub.


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

When Somone Deeply Listens To You by John Fox

I dedicate the following poem to you, my blog friends and followers. My life is richer, deeper, and more alive since I've met you all. You are my water and my sunshine. Love & Blessings!!

When Someone Deeply Listens To You

By John Fox

When someone deeply listens to you

it is like holding out a dented cup

you've had since childhood

and watching it fill up with

cold, fresh water.

When it balances on top of the brim,

you are understood.

When it overflows and touches your skin,

you are loved.

When someone deeply listens to you

the room where you stay

starts a new life

and the place where you wrote

your first poem

begins to glow in your mind's eye.

It is as if gold has been discovered!

When someone deeply listens to you

your bare

feet are on the earth

and a beloved land that seemed distant

is now at home within you.

From: "Poetic Medicine: The Healing Art of Poem Making" by John Fox

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

Another Motive For Metaphor by Jennifer Knox

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


ANOTHER MOTIVE FOR METAPHOR
By Jennifer L. Knox


I love to masturbate, especially
after a poem of mine's been accepted in
a literary magazine. Shit---
I open up that letter, smile awhile
and think, "This one goes out to Don, a total
tool who I temped for in '89:
Data-mother-fucking-entry this."
Who's got "inappropriate footwear" now?
"The inappropriate footwear's on the other
foot today, you hick," I tell him, tell
them all, as, lifting up my shirt, I notice
nipples! Mine (O, gorgeous areolas!---
pink as Peonies)! And ass (my bouncy
pony, prance in skintight smarty-pants!)!


From: "The Best American Erotic Poems" edited by David Lehman


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


This poem cracks me up every single time I read it. Any of you who have ever had a temp job or dealt with an asshole boss can appreciate it, I'm sure, whether or not you've ever had a poem accepted by a literary magazine.


Another rainy day here on the first official day of Autumn. Happy Autumn! Wishing you laughter, sunshine, peace, love and blessings----


~*~Marion~*~

Psalm 23 by King David and On Death by Kahlil Gibran

For Renee

PSALM 23

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

On Death
By: Kahlil Gibran

You would know the secret of death.But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.

If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;

And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.

Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

My dear, precious blog and life friend, Renee, lost her 25 year old nephew, Sheldon, to a rare brain cancer today and I ask you to pray for her and her family. Sheldon was diagnosed only a few short months ago.

Renee's life-affirming blog is:

http://circlingmyhead.blogspot.com/

Sheldon fought a valient fight, but sadly, lost his short battle. His mother, Jacquie, is in the hospital fighting cancer also. Jacquie is Renee's favorite sister, as she so eloquently blogged about not long ago. Renee is herself a cancer survivor having been diagnosed with Stage IV Inflammatory Breast Cancer in February, 2006. She is in remission and through her blog, she has educated hundreds, perhaps thousands of us on how to live---with her big heart, her wisdom, courage, joie de vivre and wonderful sense of humor.

Knowing Renee has changed my life. She has taught me how to live life more fully, more aware and to keep on keeping on in the midst of hardships, no matter what life throws at me. A book she often recommends and journals about is, "Cancer – 50 Essential Things to Do" by Greg Anderson. I highly recommend it if you or a loved one is battling cancer.

On Friday, August 7, Renee posted the following about Sheldon and I thought it was a perfect example of her warrior heart and a beautiful tribute to Sheldon's gentle, brave spirit. I close with her quote and send her my love, prayers, comfort and blessings---She is truly a friend of my heart......

"I admire Sheldon. I have always loved Sheldon; that goes without saying. But now I know what it really means to truly look up to a person, because, for the first time in my life I look up to someone. Sheldon is 25 years old and has the heart of a lion. And to chaos all I can say is ‘Fuck you. You have been beaten by a 25 year old man with the attitude of a god.'"

"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal." ~From a headstone in Ireland

And the Cantilevered Inference Shall Hold the Day

And the Cantilevered Inference Shall Hold the Day
by Michael Blumenthal


Things are not as they seem: the innuendo of everything makes
itself felt and trembles towards meanings we never intuited

or dreamed. Take, for example, how the warbler, perched on a

mere branch, can kidnap the day from its tediums and send us

heavenwards, or how, held up by nothing we really see, our

spirits soar and then, in a mysterious series of twists and turns,

come to a safe landing in a field, encircled by greenery. Nothing

I can say to you here can possibly convince you that a man

as unreliable as I have been can smuggle in truths between tercet

and quatrains on scraps of paper, but the world as we know

is full of surprises, and the likelihood that here, in the shape

of this very bird, redemption awaits us should not be dismissed

so easily. Each year, days swivel and diminish along their inscrutable

axes, then lengthen again until we are bathed in light we were not

prepared for. Last night, lying in bed with nothing to hold onto

but myself, I gazed at the emptiness beside me and saw there, in the

shape of absence, something so sweet and deliberate I called it darling.

No one who encrusticates (I made that up!) his silliness in a bowl,

waiting for sanctity, can ever know how lovely playfulness can be,

and, that said, let me wish you a Merry One (or Chanukah if you

prefer), and may whatever holds you up stay forever beneath you,

and may the robin find many a worm, and our cruelties abate,

and may you be well and happy and full of mischief as I am,

and may all your nothings, too, hold something up and sing.

~from "And".

Longing by Basho

Paro Taktsang (spa gro stag tshang) is one of the most famous monasteries in Bhutan. Completed in 1692, the temple hangs on a cliff at 3,120 metres (10,200 feet), some 700 meters (2,300 feet) above the bottom of Paro valley, some 10 km from the district town of Paro. The name Taktsang (stag tshang) means "Tiger's lair" or "the Tiger's nest", the legend being that Padmasambhava (Guru Rinpoche) flew there on the back of a tiger. The monastery includes seven temples which can all be visited. The monastery suffered several blazes and is a recent restoration. Visitors ascend the slope to the monastery on foot or on mule-back.

"Down though the dark cypress forests, the call of a solitary cuckoo awakens the poet from a restless sleep. From his hut on the mountainside, the haiku master holds the entire valley in his view---and yet its essence somehow still escapes him. He lights the lamp, and fumbles for his brush:

Though I am in Kyoto

I long for Kyoto

Song of the nightbird.

~Matsuo Basho

With these words, Matsuo Basho, the wandering poet, records an indefinable sense of longing, for an ancient city perhaps, for an entire civilization, for an ideal. He grasps a beauty that is at once exquisite and unattainable. Basho captures a need we all share, for an enlightened place or a moment in time. He misses "Kyoto"---not the city, but the dream." ~From: "Wabi Sabi, The Art of Everyday Life" by Diane Durston

A Dream Within A Dream - Edgar Allan Poe

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
By Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow---
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.


I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand---
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Sweet Darkness by David Whyte

Sweet Darkness
By David Whyte

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone

no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark

where the night has eyes

to recognize its own.

There you can be sure

you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb

tonight.

The night will give you a horizon

further than you can see.

You must learn one thing:

the world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds

except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet

confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone

that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

From: "The House of Belonging" - page 23

Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins

Introduction to Poetry
By: Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.


from The Apple that Astonished Paris, 1996


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

Oh, how I love Billy Collins! He's to poetry what John Wayne was to cowboys. LOL! Reading his poetry fills me with hope, which is no small thing these days. The poem above is an old one, but I don't think I've ever posted it here. It's my #1 favorite poem by Billy Collins. I have three or four of his books and I can't recommend just one. All of his books are amazing.

Wishing you love, peace, joy and blessings,

~*~Marion~*~