Wednesday, January 29, 2014

randomness on the last wednesday in january

This is a random post about random things. It's almost February, and to me, February means Valentine's Day, which means hearts. Lots of hearts. That's thanks to my mother, I suppose, who was the queen of hearts, or at least the queen of holidays. The only reason she put her Christmas decorations away was to make room for Valentine's Day, which in turn gave way to Easter, 4th of July, and so on. You get the idea. So now that she's gone (but not forgotten), I seem to have my brain fixed on her holiday schedule. That's why I'm already thinking about hearts. 

Today is dark and misty, a rare wintery day in Florida. I'm enjoying it, but I know that many of you are really suffering in the horrible cold and ice, and I'm hoping and praying you're warm and safe, inside. I guess if you're reading this post, you must be. 

I read this poem today - it reminded me a bit of my childhood winters, in Illinois:


In the warming house, children lace their skates,   
bending, choked, over their thick jackets.

A Franklin stove keeps the place so cozy
it’s hard to imagine why anyone would leave,

clumping across the frozen beach to the river.   
December’s always the same at Ware’s Cove,

the first sheer ice, black, then white
and deep until the city sends trucks of men

with wooden barriers to put up the boys’   
hockey rink. An hour of skating after school,

of trying wobbly figure-8’s, an hour
of distances moved backwards without falling,

then—twilight, the warming house steamy   
with girls pulling on boots, their chafed legs

aching. Outside, the hockey players keep   
playing, slamming the round black puck

until it’s dark, until supper. At night,
a shy girl comes to the cove with her father.

Although there isn’t music, they glide
arm in arm onto the blurred surface together,

braced like dancers. She thinks she’ll never
be so happy, for who else will find her graceful,

find her perfect, skate with her
in circles outside the emptied rink forever?

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

musing about light, again

  The visible reminder of Invisible Light."
  ― T.S. Eliot

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."
John 1:5

“And you, Ring-bearer,’ she said, turning to Frodo. ‘I come to you last who are not last in my thoughts. For you I have prepared this.’ She held up a small crystal phial: it glittered as she moved it, and rays of white light sprang from her hand. ‘In this phial,’ she said, ‘is caught the light of Eärendil’s star, set amid the waters of my fountain. It will shine still brighter when night is about you. May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out."

― J.R.R. TolkienThe Two Towers

Saturday, January 18, 2014

everything is illuminated

this is sort of me 
the me that holds a camera,

Saturday, January 11, 2014

when the face of god is a three-year-old

sometimes the face of God
looks a lot like a three year old
who sings you a get well song
he made up himself.

sometimes the face of God
is his mother, who reminds you
God is your shield,
and writes silly things
to make you laugh.

sometimes the face of God
is a gift in the mail from a faraway friend,
chosen and wrapped with love.

sometimes the face of God
comes to you in the dark and pain
of early morning,
and it looks like everyone
who ever said they'd pray.

always, the face of God
is my family, who lives it with me
and never gives up

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

the morning air is all awash with angels

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World
The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul   
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple   
As false dawn.
                     Outside the open window   
The morning air is all awash with angels.

    Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,   
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.   
Now they are rising together in calm swells   
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear   
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

    Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving   
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden   
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
                                             The soul shrinks

    From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessèd day,
And cries,
               “Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,   
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.”

    Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world’s hunks and colors,   
The soul descends once more in bitter love   
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,   
    “Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;   
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,   
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating   
Of dark habits,
                      keeping their difficult balance.”

Thursday, January 2, 2014

down to the beach(to play one day)

this is the me

who walks by the sea

this is the me with sun freckles

this is the me he wrote about:

'maggy and milly and molly and may'

maggy and milly and molly and may 
went down to the beach(to play one day) 

and maggie discovered a shell that sang 
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and 

milly befriended a stranded star 
whose rays five languid fingers were; 

and molly was chased by a horrible thing 
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and 

may came home with a smooth round stone 
as small as a world and as large as alone. 

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me) 
its always ourselves we find in the sea 

E. E. Cummings