The household makes noises,
It is how I know the house is well, listening to it breathe.
The peace and quiet brought by the storm
Were healing balm.
I am grateful beyond measure for that sacred time.
The convenience of electricity and running water
Are mighty nice.
It is now,
It is now,
It is now.
Come to me
Come to me
I See you,
and touch me with plum-dark gaze.
And you wait.
And I let you into my heart.
Stay on the path,
Stay on the path,
Stay on the path.
Why am I blowing myself off of it?
Be fully present, Self.
Apparently there’s some weather coming in.
They took me on a different walk today – round back of the house
where all the excellent burrs and brambles are.
My ankles have paid the price. But I had
delicious coffee with me.
I stood on a bit of construction material,
and 8 x 4 sheet,
and the size was indeed right for a poet’s treehouse.
I sought clarity,
and got clarity on a completely different topic.
I may have beaten the second law of thermodynamics.
I can tell that it’s coming,
the dead make such a noise in my head.
In the end, though, they will hush and settle. Most of them only need to be told,
“Yes, someone will remember.”
“Yes, I will tell your story.”
“Yes, it will be all right, just you see!”
And then I’ll sit
out on the lawn
with a small cauldron fire
and have a beer with my dad and all the good dogs.
What’s he that wishes so?Will Shaxper
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
A Very Small Dog,
meek and mild,
runs into his kennel to hide.
Porcupine quills give away his secret:
He didn’t learn the first time.
Soft, small rain
Just larger than fog, enough to fall,
Soft, small rain early, pre-dawn, all over my skin.
Last night, I drove home through amazing fog and foliage
on a stretch of New Hampshire road that I have never seen before.
It was new and luxuriant in its gorgeousness, my senses feasted –
feasted and sated and yes.
I thank You God for most this amazing day.
tip-of-the-hat to e e cummings
A sweet and worthy rain,
very cool, very dense, with those big drops which spatter (you know the ones)
fell on the grass and dogs and me.
A worthy and delicious rain.
Thank you, Goddess of Rain, for this treat
and this laughter
and this running of four-foots and two-foot
and this safe, dry, warm house.