but grows larger.
Sometimes not knowing is a blessing.
Sometimes it’s sad-making.
Sometimes it’s bloody annoying.
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On a crowded commuter train
caught too for words:bystanders pretending not to listen;but today riding shotgunon Poemhunter betweentwo poems by Hanque Ofull of fresh air and new day. No problems.
Bland determination sat upon her public face
so busy doing goodshe had no time for people.
This starry dawn – the wise men yet afar –
Is Mary tired? Or, as one untouched?All birth’s a miracle; no less this one.The cattle have bestirred at hint of morn,the thought of feeding making moist their muzzle;straw is rustling as they, manger-drawn,find unfamiliar form – so warm – to nuzzle.What were the first words Joseph softly saidto Mary, as dawn broke, this day of…
Rose-pink, glowing, tiny hands and toes,
if we can think beyond that self-same glow,how may we help your passage through this life?For ‘education’ seems too long a wordto speak too near your tiny ear just yet;yet mother’s, father’s, total hopes and loveupon you – who are world itself – are set:perhaps, like Hindu mothers, we should singa cradle song: ‘You are…
How strange it is – and yet, why should it be? –
of that which gives them life itself to live;so see the All as always everywhere?yet from the jungle, or a city’s heart,the sound of praise does not unceasing rise;and we may tread a springtime’s flowered fieldand hear no coloured choir of grateful cries..why has our Lord Creator set it thus,and hid His love from His…
We are born, live, and die.
Where’s my ink-block?[with respectful acknowledgements to Vita Brevis and Art Longer ]