I must miss you
Under the ashen sky
And out from among them
You and you
Those who spin as glass

On this iron ship
Into their own hands cast
Oh, it is this sad news
That has traveled so fast

All these tears gather together
Down your cheek
Your neck and feathers
All these tears

Letter by letter
They must be found
While still day as dead men do
Do not find their way
Beneath the cedars
The cedars of Lebanon they

All these tears gather together
Down your cheek
Your neck and feathers
All these tears

Feather fell a voice
A calling answer there
To the hearing soul
The soul in the hollow square  —wovenhand

don’t throw stones at me son.

what are you doing down here?

thinking.

about what?

things.

good things or bad things?

some of both.

did you ever know my daddy?

no i never did. 

think you would have liked him if you had?

i guess. 

..in response to a short story a friend wrote.  gee he is talented bc it inspired me to write this, not that it’s great but i don’t know where it came from in my mind.  and that’s something.

the tearing down of trees and life as we knew it
or as it should have been
the only colors were pink and silver
they came again and again
this was our bread
this was our butter
i mourn for what we never had
something beautiful i can barely see
something like love outside the window
being torn from me.

mpdrolet:

From Israel

Jungjin Lee

saddled up for a cold day in the sun

yesterday’s grief has just begun

to scatter to whisper in the wind

to tell you where to begin

fox

(via theanimalblog)

oldflorida:

Florida fresh, 1940’s.

this is one of my favorite poems.  i find it meaningful everytime i read it, and i think of it most winters.  the first lines stop me short, a lovely chastisement.  i want to stay simple and on a straight path. there is a joy without price found in narrowness, narrowness that opens up to splendor.  i am thankful that my spirit might recognize this and receive it as life.

Advent, by Patrick Kavanagh

We have tested and tasted too much, lover –
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room
Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea
Of penance will charm back the luxury
Of a child’s soul, we’ll return to Doom
The knowledge we stole but could not use.

And the newness that was in every stale thing
When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking
Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill
Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking
Of an old fool will awake for us and bring
You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins
And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.

O after Christmas we’ll have no need to go searching
For the difference that sets an old phrase burning –
We’ll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning
Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching.
And we’ll hear it among decent men too
Who barrow dung in gardens under trees,
Wherever life pours ordinary plenty.
Won’t we be rich, my love and I, and
God we shall not ask for reason’s payment,
The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges
Nor analyse God’s breath in common statement.
We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages
Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour –
And Christ comes with a January flower.

mpdrolet:

The Girl at the Gate, 1889

Sir George Clausen