Up late with books, reading in bed—
Up early with coffee, extra lead.
-all posts-
Half-breaths
Grieving is being
at the bottom
of quicksand
trying to claw
my way up —
because I need to breathe
When you died, my
breath left with you
my lungs, my life —
filled with half-breaths
I’m thankful for your life
is all that gets me through
To Kopke & Ashley
I like odd numbers — and the odder, the better.
Pink pony
“Stored away in some brain cell is the image of a long-departed aunt you haven’t thought of in 30 years. Stored away in another cell is the image of a pink pony stitched on your first set of baby pajamas. All it takes to get that aunt mounted on the back of that pony is to eat a hunk of meatloaf immediately before going to bed.”
—Robert Brault, rbrault.blogspot.com
Deep calleth unto deep
great mysterious
multitudinous
voice of the sea —
a composite of all
sounds of the world
brought down
by all the rivers
in their courses
through the lands —
all the sounds
the earth utters
to the heavens
in its daily life —
the tinkle and drip
of pellucid springs
hidden deep in
remote hill countries —
the rattling laughter
of summer streams
with rustling leaves
and piping birds —
the deep whisper
of the woods and
the boom and roar
as they wrestle
with the winds —
the crash of waterfalls
echoes of mountains
the rush of storms and
roll and peal of thunder —
the merry shouts
of playing children
commingled murmurs
of manifold labor and
brooding world-spirit —
the clatter and
grinding of mills
the tumultuous
straining voices
of busy towns —
the world-embracing sea
has taken in and blended
and harmonized all these
into its own eternal call —
as you, child of the world
sit there and listen
your own comes back
to you in that mighty voice —
deep calling unto deep
the soul of the sea
to the soul of the man —
________________
Ecob began his sermon: “I have long wanted some one whose soul hears, to write a poem on this subject, the call of the sea.” The good reverend already had the contents of the poem right there in his prose; I simply set it free for him and sincerely hope that the new creation is to his liking.
Who Shall Measure?
From my highest hill
I watched for Antares.
Brief would be his glimmer
Where the long line of mountains
Duped the horizon
With vague, rambling mist.
And I shall never know
If that was Antares’
Eye on the earth-line,
Or the gleam of a lantern
The wild poet carried;
For God who saw both
Only laughs when I ask him.
—Olive Tilford Dargan (1869–1968), Lute and Furrow, 1922
My heart sees all the better
my eyes can’t see as well anymore
but my heart sees all the better
my ears have begun to fail me
but I hear the quiet budding of success
I move more slowly now
but have learned to be still with myself
my aching body is stiff and sore
but my spirit has never felt so fine
my memory is slipping
but I’ve got a firm grip on what it is to live
my head is going gray
but I have found all my true colors
I get out of bed earlier
but still have plenty of dreams
I live more softly
but don’t back down from doing hard things
my teeth are getting artificially replaced
but my soul is real and all my own
my bones are brittle
but my resolve is strong
I no longer bounce back
but continue to look forward
I tell the same stories over and again
but become a new me every day
I’m nearer to the end
yet I have only just begun
Keys to happiness
“The key to happiness is pretty much the same as the key to worry and anxiety — you must learn to make a big deal out of nothing.”
“The key to happiness? Simple really. You don’t let short-term concerns ruin your life, and you don’t let long-term concerns ruin your day.”
—Robert Brault, rbrault.blogspot.com
Poet’s id
Two most important things in a writer’s wallet: library card and
Phoenix sunrise
the seam between desert and night
glows pastel to neon to clear blue light
Poem of the April Palo Verde
Yellow.
Freaking.
Everywhere.
Homeward
Weather is a great metaphor for life — sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad, and there’s nothing much we can do about it but carry an umbrella or choose to dance in the rain.
Book-sticky
“Old or new, the only sign I always try to rid my books of (usually with little success) is the price-sticker that malignant booksellers attach to the backs. These evil white scabs rip off with difficulty, leaving leprous wounds and traces of slime to which adhere the dust and fluff of ages, making me wish for a special gummy hell to which the inventor of these stickers would be condemned.”
—Alberto Manguel, The Library at Night, 2006