Savor..

“I stalk certain words…                                                             Imagine by Rebecca Jones
I catch them in mid-flight, as they buzz past,
I trap them, clean them, peel them,
I set myself in front of the dish,
they have a crystalline texture to me,
vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily,
like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives…
I stir them, I shake them, I drink them,
I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them…
I leave them in my poem like stalactites,
like slivers of polished wood, like coals,
like pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves…
Everything exists in the word.”

~Pablo Nerada

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Now Is The Time

If we are ever to enjoy life, now is the time-not tomorrow, nor       
next year, nor in some future life after we have died.
The best preparation for a better life next year is a full, complete,
harmonious, joyous life this year.
Our beliefs in a rich future life are of little importance unless we
coin them into a rich present life.

Today should always be our most wonderful day!

~ Thomas Dreier

Remember When…

We were young and played games like Ring Around the Rosie.

We played London Bridge is Falling Down.

We played Hopscotch.

We played skipping games with the skipping rope.

We played marbles.

We played Annie, Annie Over.

Those were the days.

How many of you played the same games or some of the games?

by Eric Drooker

Everything is Waiting for You

Your great mistake is to act the drama

as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny     
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.

Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves.

Everything is waiting for you.

~ David Whyte

Emotional Breakdown by Kristian Mumford

To be of use

“The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.

They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

Harvest
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who stand in the line and haul in their places,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

 by Marge Piercy  Artist~Holly Sierra

Rides a Black and White Horse

by Noemi Gambini

I am a book….
Sheaves pressed from the pulp of oaks and pines
a natural sawdust made dingy from purses, dusty
from shelves.
Steamy and anxious, abused and misused,
kissed and cried over,
smeared, yellowed, and torn,
loved, hated, scorned.

I am a book.
I am a book that remembers,
days when I stood proud in good company
When the children came, I leapt into their arms,
when the women came, they cradled me against their soft breasts,
when the men came, they held me like a lover,
and I smelled the sweet smell of cigars and brandy as we sat together in leather chairs,
next to pool tables, on porch swings, in rocking chairs,
my words hanging in the air like bright gems, dangling,
then forgotten, I crumbled,
dust to dust.

I am a tale of woe and secrets,
a book brand-new, sprung from the loins of ancient fathers clothed in tweed,
born of mothers in lands of heather and coal soot.
A family too close to see the blood on its hands,
too dear to suffering, to poison, to cold steel and revenge,
deaf to the screams of mortal wounding,
amused at decay and torment,
a family bred in the dankest swamp of human desires.

I am a tale of woe and secrets,
I am a mystery.

I am intrigue, anxiety, fear,
I tangle in the night with madmen, spend my days cloaked in black,
hiding from myself, from dark angels,
from the evil that lurks within
and the evil we cannot lurk without.

I am words of adventure,
of faraway places where no one knows my tongue,
of curious cultures in small, back alleys, mean streets,
the crumbling house in each of us.

I am primordial fear, the great unknown,
I am life everlasting.
I touch you and you shiver, I blow in your ear and you follow me,
down foggy lanes, into places you’ve never seen,
to see things no one should see,
to be someone you could only hope to be.

I ride the winds of imagination on a black-and-white horse,
to find the truth inside of me, to cure the ills inside of you,
to take one passenger at a time over that tall mountain,
across that lonely plain to a place you’ve never been
where the world stops for just one minute
and everything is right…

I am a mystery.
– by Lise McClendon

I just had to share this Incredible piece of Art …..

“What if our religion was each other If our practice was our life If prayer, our words What if the temple was the Earth If forests were our church If holy water–the rivers, lakes, and ocean What if meditation was our relationships If the teacher was life If wisdom was self-knowledge If love was the center of our being.” ~Ganga White Art by John Martin