And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth...
~ Wordsworth (Photo by Jerry Uelsmann)
From Bruce Kirby page
Beautiful thinking. I am in a constant state of eunoia. From my observation, few dwell there. One or two, the vast majority in some state of hunger, satisfying the baser instincts.
Even my Christian friends and church brethren, whom I’d think would find resonance in eunoia, don’t.
How does one achieve it when they don’t see it or seek it? It is my quest to help in some way to open one to the possibility.
It is the nature in man
To lament the beauty
Fading
Never the beauty remaining
Lament not the beauty
Gone
To the beauty now
Dwell on.
Emily Dickinson
I know some lonely houses off the road
A robber'd like the look of,-
Wooden barred,
And windows hanging low,
Inviting to
A portico,
Where two could creep:
One hand the tools,
The other peep
To make sure all's asleep.
Old-fashioned eyes,
Not easy to surprise!
How orderly the kitchen' look
by night,
With just a clock,-
But they could gag the tick,
And mice won't bark;
And so the walls don't tell,
None will.
A pair of spectacles ajar just stir-
An almanac's aware.
Was it the mat winked,
Or a nervous star?
The moon slides down the stair
To see who's there.
There's plunder, -where?
Tankard, or spoon,
Earring, or stone,
A watch, some ancient brooch
To match the grandmama,
Staid sleeping there.
Day rattles, too,
Stealth's slow;
The sun has got as far
As the third sycamore.
Screams chanticleer,
"Who's there?"
And echoes, trains away,
Sneer- "Where?"
While the old couple, just astir,
Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!
john clare
Down on north Marion
In the vacant lot
The walls were rent
On the gospel tent.
The sisters proclaimed
The Holy Ghost was to blame
Fiery tongues on all touching
Skeptic deacons demurred
Offering earthly explanations
Tinkling brass and cymbals banging, the gospel band
Played on, proofed from the
Fire, paid to stoke the flame,
Beating and repeating
Beating and repeating
The brick and mortar Methodists were appalled with it all
Calling it exhibition
Certain their God would
Never dwell in unsafe, repurposed circus tents
But stoic,reverent-like, behind fine stained glass,
Diffusing beautifully the blinding wild light.
In days to come
The debate will linger on
into future dispensations,
While up in Waycross the smell of burning wafted down:
Was it the from the Okeefenokee
Burning?
Or the Holy Shekinah burning down the circus tent?
The deacons up there I'm certain can explain the Lions roaring.
the wonder of a fritillary to inspire...a humble flower inciting poetry....given for all to see...of these i never tire....
Sitting in the wonderfully cool weather on Monday morning, waiting and watching for jets,
mostly from the south to north, the clouds moved in. There was a long spell and Magoo said, I need to get up and start chores.
Magoo then said, when there is a break in the clouds, I’ll shoot the moon, then do chores . As the clouds broke, suddenly unseen through the clouds zoomed the Delta, north to south, unexpected.
Magoo was able to click off five frames.
Magoo was Stoked and said, now I can get up and do chores.
it was a great race wasn't it ole friend...that final stretch from Fenholloway...how the throngs cheered along the big bend....Fleet our feet we sailed toward the end... And as the Terra TC's sped me, 35:36 was the PR for Johnny...
When I see the Suwannee
I will pass, I will pass
over the shore to see
the land flowing with
Cypress knee
and Tupelo honey
The Suwannee at Bell Springs looking upstream
toward Big Shoals around a bend or two.
We wake with last eve's dreams...recalling in misty detail...how vivid it seemed...the love unpaled.
