Fire-Flowers And only where the forest fires have sped, Scorching relentlessly the cool north lands, A sweet wild flower lifts its purple head, And, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed, It hides the scars with almost
We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store and the gas station and the green market and Hurry up honey, I say, hurry hurry, as she runs along two or three steps behind
I love William Stafford‘s poetry. I came across him when we were still living in the Pacific Northwest where he is from. The first poem of his I heard from Parker Palmer when I
Before Covid19, and certainly even more now, the systems that were meant to take care of us, protect our most vulnerable, and be focused on the best interest of the people rather than for those
A Spiritual Journey And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles, no matter how long, but only by a spiritual journey, a journey of one inch, very arduous and humbling and joyful,
Eric Muhr from Barclay Press shared this poem around earlier this week from a new book of poetry Barclay Press recently published from Carol Bialock, which is really good: Does the heart have a narrow
I tried to put a bird in a cage. O fool that I For the bird was Truth. Sing merrily, Truth: I tried to put Truth in a cage! And when I had the bird
An awe so quiet I don’t know when it began. A gratitude has begun to sing in me. Was there some moment dividing song from no song? When does dewfall begin? When does night
Earnestly I looked into their abandoned faces at the moment of death and while I and aged their slack jaws and straighter waxy unrestraint limbs and plugged the orifices with cotton but like everyone else
That a woman not ask a man to leave meaningful work to follow her. That a man not ask a woman to leave meaningful work to follow him. That no one try to put Eros
When death comes by Mary Oliver When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
A powerful and challenging poem I came across this week. They Have Threatened Us With Resurrection (1980) by Julia Esquivel; translated by Ann Woehrle It isn’t the noise in the streets that keeps us