Tag: poetry

Sunday Muse

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I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

The Daffodils ~ William Wordsworth

solstice to solstice :: white

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white

The sun rose on fields
snow blown and misted
ghostly swirls and dervishes.
No fog this–––
for fog simply lies.
No–––this was living
as it arched and twisted,
fingering out to the road
and reaching for me
like the shade of a beloved friend.
There was white inside,
trying to seep out of pores,
I felt it strain
trying to mesh and meld
with this sentient wraith
fingers touching
joining
and suddenly
I am the morning mist
dancing in the crystal air.

‘Reaching for White’ by Lisa Shields

response to week 10 of the solstice to solstice project
with urban.prairie.forest
please check out all the wonderful contributions in the flickr pool

Sunday Muse

Sheeps & Peeps2 Comments

“Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am that Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I, the River, I, the Tree
I am yours — your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, but if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes
Upon this day breaking for you.
Give birth again
To the dream.”

— excerpted from “The Pulse of the Morning” by Maya Angelou

Old March

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March

Of all the months of all the year old March has them all beat.
First we suffer from the cold, then we suffer from the heat.
The wind it huffs and puffs around.  The rain falls all day,
But then at night it snows and snows and never stops to play.

Next morning out pops the sun and melts the snow, and then
The children all come running out ready for play again.

The east wind takes a look and thinks, “Now I’ll have some fun.”
He picks up the boys hats and says, “Now watch them run.”
He tosses all the kites around away off through the sky.
And then he laughs, how he can make the little girls to cry.

Oh yes! Old March is full of fun, he keeps us on the go.
First we are wading through the mud, then plowing through the snow.
So of all the months of all the year, we like old March the best.
He keeps us guessing all the time and never lets us rest.

— by Lena Gertrude Dixon Wiles, our Grandmother

Fairy Lace

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When I got up this morning guess what I found
Frilly lace doilies all over the ground.
Some call them cobwebs but they are not that to me
They are lace doilies made by the fairies and left there you see.
Frilly lace doilies, oh hasten to see
Frilly lace doilies made especially for me.

Their midsummer social was held on my lawn
They danced by the light of the firefly till dawn
And in their haste to leave before light
They left all their napkins behind in their flight.
Frilly lace doilies that’s what I found.
Frilly lace doilies all over the ground.

I believe they were left there as thanks to me,
For the use of my lawn, I’m Irish you see.
No lovelier lace can be found
Than made by the fairies and left on the ground.
Frilly lace doilies, oh hasten to see
Frilly lace doilies made especially for me.

— by Lena Gertrude Dixon Wiles, our grandmother

Fairy stories were often told to us by our grandmother while we were growing up. 
We still believe 🙂 

Sunday Muse

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Roses
You love the roses – so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!
George Eliot (1819 – 1880)

March 1st

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MARCH

Of all the months of all the year old March has them all beat.
First we suffer from the cold, then we suffer from the heat.
The wind it huffs and puffs around. The rain falls all day,
But then at night it snows and snows and never stops to play.

Next morning out pops the sun and melts the snow, and then
The children all come running out ready for play again.

The east wind takes a look and thinks, “Now I’ll have some fun.”
He picks up the boys hats and says, “Now watch them run.”
He tosses all the kites around away off through the sky
And then he laughs, how he can make the little girls to cry.

Oh yes! Old March is full of fun, he keeps us on the go.
First we are wading through the mud, then plowing through the snow.
So of all the months of all the year, we like old March the best.
He keeps us guessing all the time and never lets us rest.

author… Lena Gertrude Dixon Wiles, our Grandmother

Sunday Muse

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Mother Winter

Storm by Robert Pack

Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
The surge of swirling wind defines
As if your human shape were what the storm
Sought to contrive, intending to express
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Calling me to you with wild gesturings
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.