Leeks

Source: OregonLive.com

We planted the seeds in the spring
And up they came innocuous as crabgrass.
The tomatoes soon lorded over them,
And even the jalapenos, sad lumps
Hanging from their limbs like mittens
From children playing in the snow.

They stayed that way all summer,
And before the frosts of November
We pulled them up, declaring failure,
And used them as scallions in salads.
Winter white covered the clay soil,
Like layers of dust in an unused room.

Till spring bullied us into wakefulness:
Thunder and lightning and the gray rain
That heartens depressives with reasons
For misery, then out of the sodden ground,
Tiny blades twisting in the wound
Of the old season. It was shocking:

Nothing worse than discarded hopes
Butting in when you have given up,
Thrusting faith into comfortable loss,
Demanding your heart again because
This time they've made a proper start,
This time they will rise in triumph.

~ Richard Spilman

Leeks

Source: OregonLive.com

We planted the seeds in the spring
And up they came innocuous as crabgrass.
The tomatoes soon lorded over them,
And even the jalapenos, sad lumps
Hanging from their limbs like mittens
From children playing in the snow.

They stayed that way all summer,
And before the frosts of November
We pulled them up, declaring failure,
And used them as scallions in salads.
Winter white covered the clay soil,
Like layers of dust in an unused room.

Till spring bullied us into wakefulness:
Thunder and lightning and the gray rain
That heartens depressives with reasons
For misery, then out of the sodden ground,
Tiny blades twisting in the wound
Of the old season. It was shocking:

Nothing worse than discarded hopes
Butting in when you have given up,
Thrusting faith into comfortable loss,
Demanding your heart again because
This time they've made a proper start,
This time they will rise in triumph.

~ Richard Spilman

The Lamp

Source: DHD Multimedia Gallery

I write in order to comprehend not to express myself
I don’t grasp anything I’m not ashamed to admit it
sharing this not knowing with a maple leaf
So I turn with questions to words wiser than myself
to things that will endure long after us
I wait to gain wisdom from chance
I expect sense from silence
Perhaps something suddenly will happen
and pulse with hidden truth
like the spirit of the flame in the oil lamp
under which we bowed our heads
when we were very young
and grandma crossed the bread with a knife
and we believed in everything
So now I yearn for nothing as much
as for that faith

~ Anna Kamienska

The Lamp

Source: DHD Multimedia Gallery

I write in order to comprehend not to express myself
I don’t grasp anything I’m not ashamed to admit it
sharing this not knowing with a maple leaf
So I turn with questions to words wiser than myself
to things that will endure long after us
I wait to gain wisdom from chance
I expect sense from silence
Perhaps something suddenly will happen
and pulse with hidden truth
like the spirit of the flame in the oil lamp
under which we bowed our heads
when we were very young
and grandma crossed the bread with a knife
and we believed in everything
So now I yearn for nothing as much
as for that faith

~ Anna Kamienska

All Roads That Lead To God Are Good

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

All roads that lead to God are good.
What matters it, your faith, or mine?
Both centre at the goal divine
Of love’s eternal Brotherhood.

The kindly life in house or street –
The life of prayer and mystic rite –
The student’s search for truth and light –
These paths at one great Junction meet.

Before the oldest book was writ,
Full many a prehistoric soul
Arrived at this unchanging goal,
Through changeless Love, that leads to it.

What matters that one found his Christ
In rising sun, or burning fire?
In faith within him did not tire,
His longing for the Truth sufficed.

Before our modern hell was brought
To edify the modern world,
Full many a hate-filled soul was hurled
In lakes of fire by its own thought.

A thousand creeds have come and gone,
But what is that to you or me?
Creeds are but branches of a tree –
The root of love lives on and on.

Though branch by branch proved withered wood,
The root is warm with precious wine.
Then keep your faith, and leave me mine –
All roads that lead to God are good.

~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

All Roads That Lead To God Are Good

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

All roads that lead to God are good.
What matters it, your faith, or mine?
Both centre at the goal divine
Of love’s eternal Brotherhood.

The kindly life in house or street –
The life of prayer and mystic rite –
The student’s search for truth and light –
These paths at one great Junction meet.

Before the oldest book was writ,
Full many a prehistoric soul
Arrived at this unchanging goal,
Through changeless Love, that leads to it.

What matters that one found his Christ
In rising sun, or burning fire?
In faith within him did not tire,
His longing for the Truth sufficed.

Before our modern hell was brought
To edify the modern world,
Full many a hate-filled soul was hurled
In lakes of fire by its own thought.

A thousand creeds have come and gone,
But what is that to you or me?
Creeds are but branches of a tree –
The root of love lives on and on.

Though branch by branch proved withered wood,
The root is warm with precious wine.
Then keep your faith, and leave me mine –
All roads that lead to God are good.

~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Morning Prayers

Photo credit: samhakes from morguefile.com

I have missed the guardian spirit

of the Sangre de Cristos

those mountains

against which I destroyed myself

every morning I was sick

with loving and fighting

in those small years.

In that season I looked up

to a blue conception of faith

a notion of the sacred in

the elegant border of cedar trees

becoming mountain and sky.

This is how we were born into the world:

Sky fell in love with earth, wore turquoise,

cantered in on a black horse.

Earth dressed herself fragrantly,

with regard for the aesthetics of holy romance.

Their love decorated the mountains with sunrise,

weaved valleys delicate with the edging of sunset.

This morning I look toward the east

and I am lonely for those mountains

though I've said good-bye to the girl

with her urgent prayers for redemption.

I used to believe in a vision

that would save the people

carry us all to the top of the mountain

during the flood

of human destruction.

I know nothing anymore

as I place my feet into the next world

except this:

the nothingness

is vast and stunning,

brims with details

of steaming, dark coffee

ashes of campfires

the bells on yaks or sheep

sirens careening through a deluge

of humans

or the dead carried through fire,

through the mist of baking sweet

bread and breathing.

This is how we will leave this world:

on horses of sunrise and sunset

from the shadow of the mountains

who witnessed every battle

every small struggle.

~ Joy Harjo

Morning Prayers

Photo credit: samhakes from morguefile.com

I have missed the guardian spirit

of the Sangre de Cristos

those mountains

against which I destroyed myself

every morning I was sick

with loving and fighting

in those small years.

In that season I looked up

to a blue conception of faith

a notion of the sacred in

the elegant border of cedar trees

becoming mountain and sky.

This is how we were born into the world:

Sky fell in love with earth, wore turquoise,

cantered in on a black horse.

Earth dressed herself fragrantly,

with regard for the aesthetics of holy romance.

Their love decorated the mountains with sunrise,

weaved valleys delicate with the edging of sunset.

This morning I look toward the east

and I am lonely for those mountains

though I've said good-bye to the girl

with her urgent prayers for redemption.

I used to believe in a vision

that would save the people

carry us all to the top of the mountain

during the flood

of human destruction.

I know nothing anymore

as I place my feet into the next world

except this:

the nothingness

is vast and stunning,

brims with details

of steaming, dark coffee

ashes of campfires

the bells on yaks or sheep

sirens careening through a deluge

of humans

or the dead carried through fire,

through the mist of baking sweet

bread and breathing.

This is how we will leave this world:

on horses of sunrise and sunset

from the shadow of the mountains

who witnessed every battle

every small struggle.

~ Joy Harjo