Just beautiful. Yes, it happens just this way.
I Am Not Old by Anonymous
I am not old.
In the late morning,
cool drizzle outside,
Sitting on my bed,
good to be inside.
Trying to fold the looming pile of laundry,
When my nine month old son,
Crawls up to hug me,
With a da da da.
No, ma, ma, ma, I reply.
With wet opened mouth, baby attempts a kiss against my shoulder.
I do not wipe it off.
It won't be long before I miss those kisses.
Memories of the first baby,
now driving away,
fill my thoughts,
And I am young again.
To last baby as to first,
I am the most beautiful woman in the world,
Never mind who I really am.
Or is that who I am
If you take away the laundry and diapers, the tired.
No. Sadly no.
I wish I could be what my baby sees.
Our parents never are what we see through nine month old eyes.
And we are disappointed.
And I am disappointed
In the me that I am.
If posting Ray's poem so beloved by me, "What I Do Is Me - For That I Came" would be copyright violation,
then the poem that inspired it, by Gerard Manley Hopkins, who was credited by someone else who also said he must be the author of some of the most lyrical and beautiful English language in existence:
AS kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.
"I Am Not Old" is by Deanna Thiel McGregor, written around 1999.
And this..."Bradbury was right!"
(Video ~ A beautiful poem read by Mr. Bradbury!)
Understand, I am always trying to figure out
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape –
and so, last week,
when I found on the beach
the ear bone
of a pilot whale that may have died
hundreds of years ago, I thought
maybe I was close
to discovering something –
for the ear bone
is the portion that lasts longest
in any of us, man or whale; shaped
like a squat spoon
with a pink scoop where
once, in the lively swimmer’s head,
it joined its two sisters
in the house of hearing,
it was only
two inches long –
and thought: the soul
might be like this –
so hard, so necessary –
yet almost nothing.
the gray sea
was opening and shutting its wave-doors,
unfolding over and over
its time-ridiculing roar;
I looked but I couldn’t see anything
through its dark-knit glare;
yet don’t we all know, the golden sand
is there at the bottom,
though our eyes have never seen it,
nor can our hands ever catch it
lest we would sift it down
into fractions, and facts –
and what the soul is, also
I believe I will never quite know.
Though I play at the edges of knowing,
truly I know
our part is not knowing,
but looking, and touching, and loving,
which is the way I walked on,
through the pale-pink morning light.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Why I Wake Early, 2004)
Shakespeare and Cervantes died within a day of each other. A poem by Ray Bradbury posted at the Center for Ray Bradbury Studies website:
"Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees." -John Muir
I read his biography long ago and have continued to be amazed when reading more about his discoveries, adventures, and locations experienced over a hundred years ago.
I feel like this poem sometimes embodies me:
My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all.
Please, don't be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.
My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
Forgive me, distant wars, for bringing flowers home.
Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
I apologize for my record of minuets to those who cry from the depths.
I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep today at five a.m.
Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.
Pardon me, deserts, that I don't rush to you bearing a spoonful of water.
And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the same cage,
your gaze always fixed o n the same point in space,
forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.
My apologies to the felled tree for the table's four legs.
My apologies to great questions for small answers.
Truth, please don't pay me much attention.
Dignity, please be magnanimous.
Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional thread from your train.
Soul, don't take offense that I've o nly got you now and then.
My apologies to everything that I can't be everywhere at o nce.
My apologies to everyone that I can't be each woman and each man.
I know I won't be justified as long as I live,
since I myself stand in my own way.
Don't bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
then labor heavily so that they may seem light.
A Father’s Day Moment: To all on board, enjoy the day's gifts!
"Only A Dad"
By Edgar Albert Guest
Only a dad with a tired face,
Coming home from the daily race,
Bringing little of gold or fame
To show how well he has played the game;
But glad in his heart that his own rejoice
To see him come and to hear his voice.
Only a dad with a brood of four,
One of ten million men or more
Plodding along in the daily strife,
Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,
With never a whimper of pain or hate,
For the sake of those who at home await.
Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,
Merely one of the surging crowd,
Toiling, striving from day to day,
Facing whatever may come his way,
Silent whenever the harsh condemn,
And bearing it all for the love of them.
Only a dad but he gives his all,
To smooth the way for his children small,
Doing with courage stern and grim
The deeds that his father did for him.
This is the line that for him I pen:
Only a dad, but the best of men.
150 years - today!!
THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG
by: Laura Searing
The days of June were nearly done;
The fields, with plenty overrun,
Were ripening 'neath the harvest sun,
In fruitful Pennsylviania!
Sang birds and children, "All is well!"
When, sudden, over hill and dell,
The gloom of coming battle fell
On peaceful Pennsylvania!
Through Maryland's historic land,
With boastful tongue, and spoiling hand,
They burst--a fierce and famished band--
Right into Pennsylvania!
In Cumberland's romantic vale
Was heard the plundered farmer's wail,
And every mother's cheek was pale,
In blooming Pennsylvania!
With taunt and jeer, and shout and song,
Through rustic towns they passed along--
A confident and braggart throng--
Through frightened Pennsylvania!
The tidings startled hill and glen;
Up sprang our hardy Northern men,
And there was speedy travel then,
All into Pennsylvania!
The foe laughed out in open scorn;
For "Union men were coward-born,"
And then--they wanted all the corn
That grew in Pennsylvania!
It was the languid hour of noon,
When all the birds were out of tune,
And nature in a sultry swoon,
In pleasant Pennsylvania;
When, sudden o'er the slumbering plain,
Red flashed the battle's fiery rain;
The volleying cannon shook again
The hills of Pennsylvania!
Beneath that curse of iron hail,
That threshed the plain with flashing flail,
Well might the stoutest soldier quail,
In echoing Pennsylvania!
Then, like a sudden summer rain,
Storm-driven o'er the darkened plain,
They burst upon our ranks and main,
In startled Pennsylvania;
We felt the old ancestral thrill,
From sire to son transmitted still,
And fought for Freedom with a will,
In pleasant Pennsylvania!
The breathless shock--the maddened toil--
The sudden clinch--the sharp recoil--
And we were masters of the soil,
In bloody Pennsylvania!
To westward fell the beaten foe;
The growl of battle, hoarse and low,
Was heard anon, but dying slow,
In ransomed Pennsylvania!
Sou'-westward, with the sinking sun,
The cloud of battle, dense and dun,
Flashed into fire--and all was won
In joyful Pennsylvania!
But ah, the heaps of loyal slain!
The bloody toil! the bitter pain!
For those who shall not stand again
In pleasant Pennsylvania!
Back, through the verdant valley lands,
Fast fled the foe, in frightened bands,
With broken swords and empty hands,
Out of fair Pennsylvania!
"The Battle of Gettysburg" Penn Publishing Co., 1897.
My beloved responded and said to me,
Arise, my darling, my beautiful one,
And come along.
For behold, the winter is past,
The rain is over and gone.
The flowers have already appeared in the land;
The time has arrived for pruning the vines,
And the voice of the turtledove has been heard in our land.
The fig tree has ripened its figs,
And the vines in blossom have given forth their fragrance.
Arise, my darling, my beautiful one,
And come along!
O my dove, in the clefts of the rock,
In the secret place of the steep pathway,
Let me see your form,
Let me hear your voice;
For your voice is sweet,
And your form is lovely.
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