what sort of a
question is that?
it flew through too quickly
but right through me
leaving a memory
of something
and so I said to myself
that must have been an angel
well you have to try
to put it into words
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National Split Pea Soup Week
without incident
Every poem is an invitation
a vehicle licensedto carry passengerswho sometimes have a greater imaginationthan the poeteven perhaps get more from the poemthan the poet knowingly put inwhich you must admitif with a slight embarrassmentas you read the words of praiseis a divine jokeand from the divine viewpointvery practical sinceevery reader is an invitationfor the poets to match their imagination
O My Beloved
everywhere, and in all things;I looked for Youin all that lives, in all that moves;I looked for Youin bodies, minds, and hearts;I looked for Youin beauty, goodness, truth;You had been in all these thingsbut had moved on..I could not find You in the seen;then found You in the seeing,O My Beloved
But is it an activity for
A kind of stocktaking:sit quietly, begin to feel gratefulfor something, maybe your family,your life even;remember how your grandmothersaid, count your blessingsand you at the age whenyou couldn’t wait to find them firstand then maybe remember them, maybe not.The list grows; a feeling thatyou should give something back.It seems a small gift; just wordson paper. So…
As far from men, as near
where the desert met the mountains;their sustenancebeyond our supermart imaginings,alone or with a few devotedkindred spirits, they lived a lifeof hard work, ascesis, prayer –with all the urban wit of the bestgentlemen’s clubs, all the perceptionof consultant psychiatrists:observing in themselves in solitudeall the ills of man, before, then, since:‘We have rejected the light burdenof condemning…
I believe with William Morris
which is not known to be usefulor seen to be beautiful.So I’m filing for divorce.But which of us should gofirst?