Words from a Child

This is a poem written by a fifth grader in my school. I will not print his name but you can trust me - he's a fifth grader.


Cause sometimes I feel that way
Sometimes I need a friend
Sometimes I am all alone
I don't want to be a loser
Don't want to be bullied, NO
Because that's not me anymore

I'm right
I'm not a lonely
I'm not a loser
I'm not getting bullied anyway

Well, maybe sometimes that may happen
Maybe sometimes I fell bullied
Maybe sometimes I feel sad
Maybe sometimes it felt like they walked away
Because they don't like me

Let me tell you a story about my life
It started in third grade
People always call me words
People called me gay

People called me stupid
They called me gay because I hung out with girls
They called me stupid because I didn't get the answer right
But my mom said don't worry
They called you that because they got made fun of
So they do that to other people just for fun

They still call me gay
They still call me stupid
They still do that for fun
But it's really not fun for me
But I just ignore it now

Rilke

In deep nights I dig for you
like treasure.
For all I have seen
that clutters the surface
of my world
is a poor and paltry substitute
for the beauty of you
that has not happened yet.

Rainer Maria Rilke

My Birthday

Today is my birthday. I have a book on my new Kindle Fire that gives readings from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke for every day of the year. I was struck by the one for January 30 so I thought I'd share it with you all. It reminds me of something I would write myself.

Alone

No. Of my heart I will make a tower
and stand on its very edge,
where nothing else exists - just once again pain
and what cannot be said, and once again world.

Once again in all that vastness
now dark, now light again, the single thing I am,
one final face confronting
what can never be appeased.

That ultimate face, enduring as stone,
at one with its gravity,
drawn by distances that could dissolve it
into some promise of the sacred.

Coexist with Kindness

So many gods,
so many creeds,
so many paths
that wind and wind.
While just the art
of being kind
is all the sad worlds needs.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox
poet, 1850-1899

(Artist listed only as Sawyer.)

There is Faint Music

There is faint music in the night
and pale wings fanned by silver flight.
A frosty hill with tender glow
of countless stars that shine on snow.

A shelter from the winter storm,
a straw-lined manger safe and warm,
and Mary singing lullabies
to hush her baby's sleepy sighs.

Her eyes are fixed upon his face,
unheeded here is time and space.
Her heart is filled with blinding joy
for God's own son, her baby boy.

Nancy Buckley

Reluctance

by Robert Frost

Out through the fields and the wood
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world and descended
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question "Whither?"

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less that a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

When despair for the world grows in me . . .

I've realized lately that the divisive state of our country, the injustices I read about and see on the news daily are beginning to stretch my soul and spirit.

From a young age I had a sense of indignation at injustices and it was then that I began writing about them. Then, as an adult, I became completely consumed with raising children, various relationships, and discovering myself and how I would spend my time in life. My 30's and 40's were turbulent, and life is a little calmer now.

My mind is uncongested of so many yearnings now. I attribute this to my new-found frustrations with politicians, education, infighting and generally NOT coexisting!

There is a running dialogue in my head on various topics and I don't like it! There may be times when righteous anger makes a real difference, but in reality we have very little say and very little impact on the larger world. We can, of course, make smaller positive changes in our own corner of the world and sometimes this is all we can do.

In a moment of serendipity I came across this poem today. The first and last lines captivated me. I don't want to live in a state of anger or even frustration so tonight instead of watching the news I will come into the peace of wild things.

The Peace of Wild Things

by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water,
and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

In Honor of Lou Suarez

I am posting a beautiful poem by Lou Suarez, my poetry mentor and friend.

At Last

by Lou Suarez

We rise to work, then rest to rise
again, the cancer in your breast
familiar now as this scarred
nightstand beside our bed,
still stunning as the mountain
trails we hiked just last autumn.

Remember how, at one vantage,
dangling your feet over the edge,
you fractured shale stones and
flung the debris into a gust of wind
overhead. Our ears felt numb,
so silent was the violet dusk,

so tender our soft tissue then.
Today under the eaves a wren
sang. We listened, dissolving like
some new alloy, pliant and light,
heat and stress tolerant, tempered
by the cool song just before winter.

Battery Life

by Dane Zito

(This was written by a high school senior and friend of my late step-son Louie, who passed away in February at the age of 27 from muscular dystrophy. We have all been touched by his maturity, writing talent and profound compassion. He gave me permission to share this with you.)

The sun illuminated the landscape ahead as we approached
the neighborhood lake, your wheelchair bulldozed
the blades of grass.The wooden bench comforted me,
the branches above protecting us,but your body
still becoming weaker. Yet, you always made me laugh.
The battery on your wheelchair glowed green; full power.


The clouds cart wheeled in front of the sun, the air
becoming colder,as you grew old. Your brittle fingers
struggled to text as we sat staring at the water.
We observed our friends swim and play but I always chose
to stay with you. The eye of the birds stared at us,
as if they were listening to us talk. The battery meter
on your wheelchair flashed yellow, losing power.

The sun battled the clouds, the rays narrowed through the sky,
the grass accepting the light the sun provided. You were hungry
so I fed you,cutting your food into bite size pieces you could
manage to eat. The straw pressed to your lips,
the liquid washing down your throat.The battery meter
on your wheelchair flickered orange, power halfway gone.

The sun jumped behind the lake sliding down the sky,
painting the sky red. Darkness nearly won but you kept fighting.
You had no energy to do anything but I would still see you.
The Xbox controller exploded when it hit the ground but I helped
you placing it back in your hands. The battery meter
on your wheelchair has now turned to red, low power.

Darkness painted the sky, the sun disappearing,
the clouds choking any light that was left. I cried.
My palms crushed my face not knowing what to do.
I miss you already, and now I understand what it is like to
be alone. We no longer could see the lake.
The battery meter on your wheelchair shows no color, no power.

Aquainted With the Night

by Robert Frost

I have been acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in the rain - and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not call me back or say good-bye;
And further still an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been acquainted with the night.

(I like this one because it's very much like something I would write, I think.)

Happy Birthday

This evening, I sat by an open window
and read till the light was gone and the book
was no more than a part of the darkness.
I could easily have switched on a lamp,
but I wanted to ride this day down into night,
to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page
with the pale gray ghost of my hand.

Ted Kooser

Dogs

Dharma
by Billy Collins

The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her dog house
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance -
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Ghandi with his staff and holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.

If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she would be,
what a paragon on earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.

A Prayer in Spring

Robert Frost (1915)

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfill.

The Words/Poetry of Rumi

We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.
That's fine with us. Every morning
we glow and in the evening we glow again.

There is a community of the spirit.
Join it, feel the delight
of walking in the noisy street,
and being the noise.

Drink all your passion,
and be a disgrace,
close both eyes
to see with the other eye.

Open your hands
if you want to be held.

Sit down in this circle.
Quit acting like a wolf, and feel
the shepherd's love filling you.

At night your beloved wanders.
Don't accept consolations.

Close your mouth against food.
Taste the lover's mouth in yours.

You moan, "She left me." "He left me."
Twenty more will come.

Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!

Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?

Thought for The Day

Sometimes exhausted
with toil and endeavor
I wish I could sleep
forever and ever
but then this reflection
my longing allays
I shall be doing it
one of these days!
Piet Hein

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


I heard the bells on Christmas day
their old familiar carols play,
and wild and sweet the words repeat
of peace on earth, good will to men.

And thought how, as the day had come,
the belfries of all Christendom
had rolled along the unbroken song
of peace on earth , good will to men.

Till ringing, singing on its way
the world revolved from night to day,
a voice, a chime, a chant sublime
of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head
There is no peace on earth," I said.
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
of peace on earth, good will to men."

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
the wrong shall fail, the right prevail
with peace on earth, good will to men."

Elephant in the Dark

A coexist poem by Rumi

Some Hindus have an elephant to show.
No one here has ever seen an elephant.
They bring it at night to a darkened room.

On by one, we go in the dark and come out
saying how we experience the animal.

One of us happens to touch the trunk,
"A water-pipe kind of creature."

Another, the ear. "A very strong, always moving
back and forth fan animal."

Another, the leg. "I find it still,
like a column on a temple."

Another touches the curved back.
"A leathery throne."

Another, the cleverest, feels the tusk.
"A rounded sword made of porcelain."
He's proud of his description.

Each of us touches one place
and understands the whole that way.

The palm and the fingers feeling in the dark are
how the senses explore the reality of the elephant.

If each of us held a candle there,
and if we went in together,
we could see it.

I carry your heart with me

by e.e.cummings
(to my kids)

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope of mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

A Borrowed Poem

Things will be busy the next couple of weeks as school (and work) begins again for me. Please bear with me if posts are elusive for a little while. Meanwhile I am borrowing a poem to share written by my friend and Cleveland Heights poet laureate Gail Ghetia Bellamy. This is one of my favorites:
Tall Kitchens
by Gail Ghetia Bellamy

In my first marriage
we moved a lot
and I struggled
in tall kitchens
where other women
had hung their tea cups
and stored their grandmothers'
turkey platters
I tried to
hit all the hooks
reach all the shelves
and make fresh-baked pies
with good apple smells
that would waft from
windowsills
to backyards
so none of the neighbors
would notice
how short I fell.

Thank You. My Fate

by Anna Swir

Great humility fills me,
great purity fills me,
I make love with my dear
as if I made love dying
as if I made love praying,
tears pour
over my arms and his arms.
I don't know whether this is joy
or sadness, I don't understand
what I feel, I'm crying,
I'm crying, it's humility
as if I were dead,
gratitude, I thank you, my fate,
I'm unworthy, how beautiful
my life.