So descriptive, I connected visually with this, thank you for sharing !
A great Thanksgiving poemā¦
A QUIET LIFE by Brian Wormser
What a person desires in life
is a properly boiled egg.
This isnāt as easy as it seems.
There must be gas and a stove,
the gas requires pipelines, mastodon drills,
banks that dispense the lozenge of capital.
There must be a pot, the product of mines
and furnaces and factories,
of dim early mornings and night-owl shifts,
of women in kerchiefs and men with
sweat-soaked hair.
Then water, the stuff of clouds and skies
and God knows what causes it to happen.
There seems always too much or too little
of it and more pipelines, meters, pumping
stations, towers, tanks.
And salt-a miracle of the first order,
the ace in any argument for God.
Only God could have imagined from
nothingness the pang of salt.
Political peace too. It should be quiet
when one eats an egg. No political hoodlums
knocking down doors, no lieutenants who are
ticked off at their scheming girlfriends and
take it out on you, no dictators
posing as tribunes.
It should be quiet, so quiet you can hear
the chicken, a creature usually mocked as a type
of fool, a cluck chained to the chore of her body.
Listen, she is there, pecking at a bit of grain
that came from nowhere.
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Hi,
Iām starting a mindful yoga class for unaccompanied teen refugees (14-18 years old) tonight at a Belgian Red Cross integration centre. If anyone of you has some mindful poetry appropriate for that age I could use, I would be very happy to receive it.
Wishing you all the best,
Caroline
Ill just share a little something I wroteā¦
Roots
A tree may void itās color, leaves fall upon the ground;
but trust me friend, come spring, life will again be found.
A tree may drop some branches, result of weathered storm;
but nothing time and sustenance canāt bring back to itās norm.
A tree may rupture at itās trunk and crash to the earthās floor;
but resurrect, the tree still may, sprouting from itās core.
A tree will overcome most anything, returning much the same;
for itās roots define its essence and no timeās squandered casting blame.
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Almost a koan in itās paradoxal effect; I do love
Kobayashi Issaās Classic Haiku
"If my grumbling wife
were still alive I just
might enjoy tonightās moon.ā
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Just in time to greet the winter winds dancing across the prairie, I was intorduced to this poem by Wallace Stevens.
The Snowman
BY WALLACE STEVENS
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Thanks to all that post poetry here for all of us to share and pass on.
Ellie
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The Generosity of Sharing Oneās Pain
The Generosity of Sharing Oneās Pain
Thank you for sharing your pain
And for taking me to that place I have prohibited myself from visiting
That place where my sadness resides
Thank you for sharing your pain
And for allowing me to shed tears with you
Not only for your suffering, but also for mine
Thank you for letting your pain out
And for revealing a escape route for my own
And for sharing your story, ācause itās my story too
And for reminding me that, in the end
We are all the same on this never-ending journey of change
Thank you for sharing your pain
And for reminding me that although this being human is not easy
I can find great consolation in knowing that I am not alone
That, in the most silent of all silences, we hold each other in love
And that is enough
That is enough
~ Piero Falci
Petaluma, California
February 7, 2017
Dedicated to all those gardeners who plant seeds of mindfulness
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My first postingā¦Hope you all enjoy!
Wendell Berry: Words
What is one to make of a life given to putting things into words, saying them, writing them down? Is there a world beyond words? There is. But donāt start, donāt go on about the tree unqualified, standing in light that shines to timeās end beyond its summoning name. Donāt praise the speechless starlight, the unspeakable dawn. Just stop.
Well, we can stop for a while, if we try hard enough, if we are lucky. We can sit still, keep silent, let the phoebe, the sycamore, the river, the stone call themselves by whatever they call themselves, their own sounds, their own silence, and thus may know for a moment the nearness of the world, its vastness, its vast variousness, far and near, which only silence knows. And then we must call all things by name out of the silence again to be with us, or die of namelessness.
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Delightful! Thank you very much for posting such a poem. Opens to the oneness of all.
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