Friday, May 31, 2013



If winter is a house then summer is a window
in the bedroom of that house. Sorrow is a river
behind the house and happiness is the name

of a fish who swims downstream. The unborn child
who plays the fragrant garden is named Mavis:
her red hair is made of future and her sleek feet

are wet with dreams. The cat who naps
in the bedroom has his paws in the sun of summer
and his tail in the moonlight of change. You and I

spend years walking up and down the dusty stairs
of the house. Sometimes we stand in the bedroom
and the cat walks towards us like a message.

Sometimes we pick dandelions from the garden
and watch the white heads blow open
in our hands. We are learning to fish in the river
of sorrow; we are undressing for a swim.

–Faith Shearin 


image via datura 



Wednesday, May 29, 2013


There's a moon in my body, but I can't see it! 
A moon and a sun. 
A drum never touched by hands, beating,
and I can't hear it.

As long as a human being worries about when he will die, 
and what he has that is his, 
all of his works are zero. 

When affection for the I-creature and what it owns is dead, 
then the work of the Teacher is over. 

The purpose of labor is to learn; 
when you know it, the labor is over. 

The apple blossom exists to create fruit; 
when that comes, the petal falls. 

The musk is inside the deer, 
but the deer does not look for it: 

It wanders around looking for grass. 



Tuesday, May 28, 2013



Another morning and I wake with thirst
for the goodness I do not have. 
I walk out to the pond and all the way God  
has given us such beautiful lessons. 

Oh Lord, I was never a quick scholar but
sulked and hunched over my books past the
hour and the bell; grant me, in your mercy,
a little more time. 

Love for the earth and love for you are having
such a long conversation in my heart. 

Who knows what will finally happen or where
I will be sent, yet already I have given a great
many things away, expecting to be told to pack
nothing, except the prayers which, with this
thirst, I am slowly learning.

–Mary Oliver


image via in love i persevere



Tuesday, May 21, 2013


And did you get what
you wanted fro this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

–Raymond Carver


Sunday, May 19, 2013

In Blackwater Woods


Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

–Mary Oliver


Friday, May 17, 2013

Ode 959


If you could not feel tenderness and hurt.
If you could live in the poorhouse of non-wanting
and never be indignant.
If you could take two steps away from the beautiful one
you want so much to lie down with.
If you could trust there's a spirit-wife
for you somewhere, a whole harem of wives,
a nest, a jewel-setting where
when you sit down, you know
you've always wanted to be.
If you could quit living here and go there.
If you could remember clearly what you've done.

But strong hooks hold you in this wind.
So many people love you,
you mix with the color and smell and taste of surroundings.
Champion lovemaker and leader of men!
You can't give up your public fascination,
or your compassion for the dying.

There's another compassion you don't know yet,
but you may, when griefs disappear.
It's a place,
with no questioning thorns in the pasture grass.
If you could remember you're not a crow,
but the mystic osprey that never needs to light,
you could be walking there
with Shams.

version by Coleman Barks


Tuesday, May 14, 2013



That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God 
had His hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter, 
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it-
books, bricks, grief-
it's all in the way
you embrace it, balance it, carry it

when you cannot, and would not,
put it down."
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard 
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled-
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?

–Mary Oliver


Monday, May 13, 2013

remembering you


in time of daffodils (who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why, remember how
in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so (forgetting seem)

in time of roses (who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if, remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek (forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time
shall set us free)
forgetting me, remember me

–E. E. Cummings


image via vivre !


Saturday, May 11, 2013


What was come here to do
having finished,
shelves of the water lie flat.

Copper the leaves of the doorsill,
yellow and falling.
Scarlet the bird that is singing.

Vanished the labor, here walls are.
Completed the asking.
Loosing the birds there is water.

Having eaten the pears.
Having eaten
the black figs, the white figs.
Eaten the apples.

Table be strewn.
Table be strewn with stems,
table with peelings of grapefruit and pleasure.

Table be strewn with pleasure,
what was here to be done having finished.

–Jane Hirshfield
The Lives of the Heart


image via datura


Wednesday, May 8, 2013

the wild geese


Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer’s end. In time’s maze
over the fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed’s marrow.

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.

Wendell Berry



Sunday, May 5, 2013



As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them,
so the meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together
and trying, with difficulty, to remember how to make wildflowers.

–Marie Howe


Saturday, May 4, 2013


Awareness is not limited to consciousness. It is of all that is.
Consciousness is of duality. There is no duality in awareness.
It is one single block of pure cognition.

In the same way one can talk of the pure being and pure creation—
nameless, formless, silent and yet absolutely real, powerful, effective.
Their being indescribable does not affect them in the least.

While they are unconscious, they are essential.
The conscious cannot change fundamentally, it can only modify.

Any thing, to change, must pass through death, through obscuration
and dissolution. Gold jewellery must be melted down before it is cast
into another shape. What refuses to die cannot be reborn.





Friday, May 3, 2013


Cover me with soft Earth… jasmine, lilies and myrtle; and when they grow above me… they will breathe the fragrance of my Heart into space.

–Kahlil Gibran