Miracles (poem by Walt Whitman)
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles…
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles…
Each year harder to live without. Each year harder to live without.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours…
We are all beloved of the one Father, directed, protected, sustained by Him.
Saved by a storm and dug out from a drift:
I celebrate each time I hear your voice singing,
knowing you are a thread born to knit and mend hearts.
When Mary birthed Jesus ’twas in a cow’s stall
With wise men and farmers and shepherds and all
But high from God’s heaven, a star’s light did fall
And the promise of ages it then did recall.
I’ve been enjoying these two books of poetry lately and have marked some to eventually share with you.
This book is billed as a novel, but it is a record of a fictitious woman poet being interviewed, including all her mind’s meanderings and flashbacks.
I want to make poems that say right out, plainly,
what I mean, that don’t go looking for the
laces of elaboration, puffed sleeves.
The simple beauty of walking in your truth because it is your own truth, is the path we eventually return to.
It hovers in dark corners
before the lights are turned on,
it shakes sleep from its eyes
and drops from mushroom gills,
The peonies this year have been exceptional as you can see by the volume of photos in this post. The weather stayed cool for quite a while allowing these beauties to linger until now that it has finally gotten hot.
I love the metaphor both of these pieces utilize. Indeed, take heart! “The impeded stream is the one that sings.”
I believe in a good strong cup of ginger tea
And all these shoots and roots will become a tree
Beneath the windows where my mother sat, a mockingbird sang– a slender, pale, gray bird…
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;