Poetry & Words

POETRY & WORDS :: We were created to know beauty beyond what our senses can take in

IMG_0872

We see it in the burst of green which sprouts up from a thick, decaying layer of broken leaves in the spring. It fills our hearts the way of vase of daffodils fills a room, like a smile brightening every line of the face of the one you love after a long, long absence.

This is beauty.

And mountains and sunsets and the magnetic tide, beautiful songs and lilting poetry, and laughter, clear like bells; these are beauty. These things lift our spirits. They buoy us; they bring happiness. We’re created to see this, to breathe this, to be enveloped in this.

We were created to know beauty beyond what our senses can take in.

And all of this earthly beauty — a fire-tinged sky, the quiet breathing of a sleeping child,  velvet buds on a tangled vine — all this great, overwhelming, everywhere beauty is reflection of the One, the author of good, the divine Creator of all things bright and beautiful.

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Inspiration

INSPIRATION :: “Every day do something that won’t compute”

Jesus Storybook Bible

“So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it. …

Ask the questions that have no answers. …

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

…Practice resurrection.”
-Wendell Berry

Poetry & Words

POETRY & WORDS :: I sit, wrapped in my thoughts moreso than anything

Poetry on Oaxacaborn - I sit, wrapped in my thoughts moreso than anything
tonight,
wrapped
in the blanket of red
and green
that only sees use on those
rare days when
the temperatures deign to lower
themselves to us,
i sit.

i sit,
wrapped in my thoughts
moreso than anything;
wrapped in the memories
of thanksgivings past
of home and laughter
of tall pines and
rivers
of turkey leftovers
always finding their way
into a tortilla
on a bed of
cilantro.

tonight,
i ate my leftovers with black beans
and kimchi
and laughed.
everythingandnothing
has changed.

i sit,
wrapped
in the glow of tiny lights,
next to a toy elephant and
three dozen crayons
and a hula hoop.

i sit,
wrapped in the sound of endless
automobile engines, humming
outside
through the exit ramp
like messengers
announcing
they will not sleep —

but i will,
wrapped in words
and thoughts
and near-silence,
enveloped in this warmth
and this home
and this hope
and this light,
tonight,
wrapped
in this old blanket of red
and of green.

“Sometimes our life reminds me
of a forest in which there is a graceful clearing
and in that opening a house,
an orchard and garden,
comfortable shades, and flowers
red and yellow in the sun, a pattern
made in the light for the light to return to.
The forest is mostly dark, its ways
to be made anew day after day, the dark
richer than the light and more blessed,
provided we stay brave
enough to keep on going in.”
-Wendell Berry

Life in Photos, Poetry & Words

LIFE IN PHOTOS :: But now I am mostly at the window watching the late afternoon light…

1000px - Barefoot on a wooden chair, Late Summer

1000 px- Looking out the window in late summer

“…You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light…”

-an excerpt from Billy Collins’ On Turning Ten

Poetry & Words

POETRY & WORDS :: There are no rules in poetry except

There are no rules in poetry except

Poetry has no rules, it has been said.
I say, rules exist. They lie
in how poetry should be read.

For instance, one cannot
read Octavio Paz
without first pausing
to sink into a faded velvet chair
of some bookstore
now out of mode and forgotten

And when
one reads the words of Billy
Collins it can only be
at a kitchen table
after dark
by the light of a single flame.

Shakespeare’s for the school halls, read
by one who thinks he knows
and Dickinson’s for the garden
with a single yellow rose.

Frenzied prose is for the birds,
scattered in the mist of ancient cobblestone
a panicked pandemonium set off
by the toss of a head
or sleight of hand.

But the poem, in all its outdated ink
remains unruffled
and to think

you nearly passed it by.