[I Saw Myself]

[I Saw Myself] 
by Lew Welch


I saw myself
a ring of bone
in the clear stream
of all of it

and vowed
always to be open to it
that all of it
might flow through

and then heard
“ring of bone” where
ring is what a

bell does 


Found here. 

In the Garden of Eden

IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN
Sheryl St. Germain

No one tells much about it,
but there were vultures in the Garden of Eden,
Turkey vultures, to be exact.
Dark eagles, they would soar like gods
voiceless, their wings held out in blessing,
their unfeathered heads the red jewels
of the sky of the garden.
They were vegetarian then.
There were no roadside kills,
no bones to pick, no dead flesh to bloom, ripen.
And they were happy.
They could not imagine
what they would become.


from her collection of poems: "How Heavy the Breath of God."
http://sheryl-stgermain.com/

Malheur Before Dawn

Malheur Before Dawn
William Stafford

An owl sound wandered along the road with me.
I didn’t hear it—I breathed it into my ears.

Little ones at first, the stars retired, leaving
polished little circles on the sky for awhile.

Then the sun began to shout from below the horizon.
Throngs of birds campaigned, their music a tent of sound.

From across a pond, out of the mist,
one drake made a V and said its name.

Some vast animal of sound began to rouse
from the reeds and lean outward.

Frogs discovered their national anthem again.
I didn’t know a ditch could hold so much joy.

So magic a time it was that I was both brave and afraid.
Some day like this might save the world.


http://williamstafford.org/broad/pages/malheur.html

Praise Song

Praise Song
by Barbara Crooker

Praise the light of late November
the thin sunlight that goes deep in the bones.
Praise the crows chattering in the oak trees;
though they are clothed in night, they do not
despair. Praise what little there's left:
the small boats of milkweed pods, husks, hulls,
shells, the architecture of trees. Praise the meadow
of dried weeds; yarrow, goldenrod, chicory,
the remains of summer. Praise the blue sky
that hasn't cracked yet. Praise the sun slipping down
behind the beechnuts, praise the quilt of leaves
that covers the grass: Scarlet Oak, Sweet Gum,
Sugar Maple. Though the darkness gathers, praise the crazy
fallen world; it's all we have, and it's never enough.



Found on the Writer's Almanac here. 
 

God got a dog

God got a dog
 by Cynthia Rylant

She never meant to
She liked dogs. She'd
liked them ever since She was a kid,
but She didn't think
She had time for a dog now.
She was always working
and dogs needed so
much attention.
God didn't know if She
could take being needed
by one more thing.
But She saw this dog
out by the tracks
and it was hungry
and cold
and lonely
and God realized
She'd made that dog
somehow,
somehow She was responsible
though She knew logically
that She had only set the
world on its course.
She couldn't be blamed
for everything.
But She saw this dog
and She felt bad
so She took it home
and named it Ernie
and now God....
has somebody
keeping Her feet warm at night.


buy the book here:
http://www.powells.com/book/god-got-a-dog-9781442465183

My Triumph

My Triumph

by John Greenleaf Whittier

 

The autumn-time has come;

On woods that dream of bloom,

And over purpling vines,

The low sun fainter shines.

The aster-flower is failing,

The hazel’s gold is paling;

Yet overhead more near

The eternal stars appear!

And present gratitude

Insures the future’s good,

And for the things I see

I trust the things to be;

That in the paths untrod,

And the long days of God,

My feet shall still be led,

My heart be comforted.

O living friends who love me!

O dear ones gone above me!

Careless of other fame,

I leave to you my name.

Hide it from idle praises,

Save it from evil phrases:

Why, when dear lips that spake it

Are dumb, should strangers wake it?

Let the thick curtain fall;

I better know than all

How little I have gained,

How vast the unattained.

Not by the page word-painted

Let life be banned or sainted:

Deeper than written scroll

The colors of the soul.

Sweeter than any sung

My songs that found no tongue;

Nobler than any fact

My wish that failed of act.

Others shall sing the song,

Others shall right the wrong,—

Finish what I begin,

And all I fail of win.

What matter, I or they?

Mine or another’s day,

So the right word be said

And life the sweeter made?

Hail to the coming singers!

Hail to the brave light-bringers!

Forward I reach and share

All that they sing and dare.

The airs of heaven blow o’er me;

A glory shines before me

Of what mankind shall be,—

Pure, generous, brave, and free.

A dream of man and woman

Diviner but still human,

Solving the riddle old,

Shaping the Age of Gold!

The love of God and neighbor;

An equal-handed labor;

The richer life, where beauty

Walks hand in hand with duty.

Ring, bells in unreared steeples,

The joy of unborn peoples!

Sound, trumpets far off blown,

Your triumph is my own!

Parcel and part of all,

I keep the festival,

Fore-reach the good to be,

And share the victory.

I feel the earth move sunward,

I join the great march onward,

And take, by faith, while living,

My freehold of thanksgiving.

 

 

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174756

What the Bird Said Early In the Year

What the Bird Said Early In the Year
C.S. Lewis


I heard in Addison’s Walk a bird sing clear:
This year the summer will come true. This year. This year.

Winds will not strip the blossom from the apple trees
This year nor want of rain destroy the peas.

This year time’s nature will no more defeat you.
Nor all the promised moments in their passing cheat you.

This time they will not lead you round and back
To Autumn, one year older, by the well worn track.

This year, this year, as all these flowers foretell,
We shall escape the circle and undo the spell.

Often deceived, yet open once again your heart,
Quick, quick, quick, quick! – the gates are drawn apart.


Found here. 

Aimless Love

"Aimless Love" by Billy Collins

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor's window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door—
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor—
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.




Found at the Writers Almanac here. 

Brief for the Defense

A Brief for the Defense
by Jack Gilbert

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.

Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.

If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.

If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.

We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.



I first saw this poem on Rob Breszny's facebook page, but you can read it here. 

I Dwell in Possibility

I dwell in Possibility – (466)

By Emily Dickinson
 

I dwell in Possibility –

A fairer House than Prose –

More numerous of Windows –

Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –

Impregnable of eye –

And for an everlasting Roof

The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –

For Occupation – This –

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise –

 

 

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182904