Stone's Secret

Source: Pixabay

Otter-smooth boulder

lies under rolling

black river-water

stilled among frozen

hills and the still unbreathed 

blizzards aloft; 

silently, icily, is probed 

stone's secret.

Out there—past trace

of eyes, past these

and those memorial skies 

dotting back signals from 

men's made mathematics (we

delineators of curves and time who are

                                      subject to these)—

out there, inaccessible

to grammar's language the 

stones curve vastnesses,

cold or candescent

in the perceived 

processional of space.

                                  The stones out there in the

                                  violet-black are part of a

                                  slow-motion fountain? or of a

                                  fireworks pin-wheel?

                                  i.e. breathed in and out as in 

                                  cosmic lungs? or

                                  one-way as an eye looking?

What mathematicians must,

also the pert, 

they will

as the dark river runs.

Word has arrived that 

peace will brim up, will come

"like a river and the 

glory...like a flowing stream."

So.

Some of all people will 

wondering wait 

until this very stone 

utters.

~ Margaret Avison

On The Pulse Of Morning

Credit: stafichukanatoly at Pixabay

A Rock, A River, A Tree

Hosts to species long since departed,

Mark the mastodon.

The dinosaur, who left dry tokens

Of their sojourn here

On our planet floor,

Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom

Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,

Come, you may stand upon my

Back and face your distant destiny,

But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than

The angels, have crouched too long in

The bruising darkness,

Have lain too long

Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words

Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,

But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,

A river sings a beautiful song,

Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,

Delicate and strangely made proud,

Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit

Have left collars of waste upon

My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside,

If you will study war no more.

Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs

The Creator gave to me when I

And the tree and stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow

And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.

The river sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to

The singing river and the wise rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,

The African and Native American, the Sioux,

The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,

The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,

The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,

The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.

They hear. They all hear

The speaking of the Tree.

Today, the first and last of every tree

Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.

Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed on

Traveller, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name,

You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,

You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,

Then forced on bloody feet,

Left me to the employment of other seekers- 

Desperate for gain, starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...

You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,

Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare

Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am the 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, and if faced with courage,

Need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon

The day breaking for you.

Give birth again

To the dream.

Women, children, men,

Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most

Private need. Sculpt it into

The image of your most public self.

Lift up your hearts.

Each new hour holds new chances

For new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever

To fear, yoked eternally

To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,

Offering you space to place new steps of change.

Here, on the pulse of this fine day

You may have the courage

To look up and out upon me,

The rock, the river, the tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day

You may have the grace to look up and out

And into your sister's eyes,

Into your brother's face, your country

And say simply

Very simply

With hope  -- 

Good morning. 

~ Maya Angelou

On The Pulse Of Morning

Credit: stafichukanatoly at Pixabay

A Rock, A River, A Tree

Hosts to species long since departed,

Mark the mastodon.

The dinosaur, who left dry tokens

Of their sojourn here

On our planet floor,

Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom

Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,

Come, you may stand upon my

Back and face your distant destiny,

But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than

The angels, have crouched too long in

The bruising darkness,

Have lain too long

Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words

Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,

But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,

A river sings a beautiful song,

Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,

Delicate and strangely made proud,

Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit

Have left collars of waste upon

My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside,

If you will study war no more.

Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs

The Creator gave to me when I

And the tree and stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow

And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.

The river sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to

The singing river and the wise rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,

The African and Native American, the Sioux,

The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek,

The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,

The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,

The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.

They hear. They all hear

The speaking of the Tree.

Today, the first and last of every tree

Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.

Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed on

Traveller, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name,

You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,

You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me,

Then forced on bloody feet,

Left me to the employment of other seekers- 

Desperate for gain, starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...

You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru,

Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare

Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am the 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, and if faced with courage,

Need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon

The day breaking for you.

Give birth again

To the dream.

Women, children, men,

Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most

Private need. Sculpt it into

The image of your most public self.

Lift up your hearts.

Each new hour holds new chances

For new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever

To fear, yoked eternally

To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,

Offering you space to place new steps of change.

Here, on the pulse of this fine day

You may have the courage

To look up and out upon me,

The rock, the river, the tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day

You may have the grace to look up and out

And into your sister's eyes,

Into your brother's face, your country

And say simply

Very simply

With hope  -- 

Good morning. 

~ Maya Angelou

If sometimes I say that flowers smile

Source: Favimages

If sometimes I say that flowers smile
And if I should say that rivers sing,
It’s not because I think there are smiles in flowers
And songs in the rivers’ flowing…
It’s so I can help misguided men
Feel the truly real existence of flowers and rivers.

Since I write for them to read me, I sometimes stoop
To the stupidity of their senses…
It isn’t right, but I excuse myself,
Because I’ve only taken on this odious role, an interpreter of Nature,
Because there are men who don’t grasp its language,
Which is no language at all.

~ Alberto Caeiro (Fernando Pessoa)

If sometimes I say that flowers smile

Source: Favimages

If sometimes I say that flowers smile
And if I should say that rivers sing,
It’s not because I think there are smiles in flowers
And songs in the rivers’ flowing…
It’s so I can help misguided men
Feel the truly real existence of flowers and rivers.

Since I write for them to read me, I sometimes stoop
To the stupidity of their senses…
It isn’t right, but I excuse myself,
Because I’ve only taken on this odious role, an interpreter of Nature,
Because there are men who don’t grasp its language,
Which is no language at all.

~ Alberto Caeiro (Fernando Pessoa)

The River

Source: community.herewomentalk.com

I sit on a bench next to the river.
The streets are far enough away
so by the time the sound of traffic
reaches me it massages my back.
I've come here before to figure
things out or just read. Last week
it was a novel I got hooked on,
inhaling every sentence as if they
were lines of coke. Mostly it's just
to look at the river; the tide stays wet,
each wave soaked all the way
through — making it easier for ships
to enter and leave the harbor.
When a page from a newspaper
grabs my ankle like a small dog
I pick it up, crumble it into
a basketball and shoot it into a trash
bin a few feet away as thousands cheer.

I then look across the river past
its banks that in this section of the city
are filled with rock and concrete instead
of cash, to the road and parked cars
where drivers go to come for twenty bucks.
I can almost make out a hooker's head
bobbing up and down in the front seat
as if it were floating on waves.

Dark water keeps most gulls away,
though eagles fly low in a flock
of tattoos on men who work tankers
and tugs. I know enough not to stare
at the water too long since it will pollute
my eyes and turn them brown but it's the only
river I've got. The pigeons that land near
my feet are always gray from rubbing
against sky and when I stomp my foot,
I know they'll fly away full on plans
that never worked out for me.
Plans that became just so many crumbs
I bring to feed them in brown paper bags.

~ Kevin Pilkington

The River

Source: community.herewomentalk.com

I sit on a bench next to the river.
The streets are far enough away
so by the time the sound of traffic
reaches me it massages my back.
I've come here before to figure
things out or just read. Last week
it was a novel I got hooked on,
inhaling every sentence as if they
were lines of coke. Mostly it's just
to look at the river; the tide stays wet,
each wave soaked all the way
through — making it easier for ships
to enter and leave the harbor.
When a page from a newspaper
grabs my ankle like a small dog
I pick it up, crumble it into
a basketball and shoot it into a trash
bin a few feet away as thousands cheer.

I then look across the river past
its banks that in this section of the city
are filled with rock and concrete instead
of cash, to the road and parked cars
where drivers go to come for twenty bucks.
I can almost make out a hooker's head
bobbing up and down in the front seat
as if it were floating on waves.

Dark water keeps most gulls away,
though eagles fly low in a flock
of tattoos on men who work tankers
and tugs. I know enough not to stare
at the water too long since it will pollute
my eyes and turn them brown but it's the only
river I've got. The pigeons that land near
my feet are always gray from rubbing
against sky and when I stomp my foot,
I know they'll fly away full on plans
that never worked out for me.
Plans that became just so many crumbs
I bring to feed them in brown paper bags.

~ Kevin Pilkington

The Art of Poetry

Photo by ANDI WHISKEY on Unsplash

To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.

To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.

To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.

To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.

Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.

They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.

Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.

~ Jorge Luis Borges

The Art of Poetry

Photo by ANDI WHISKEY on Unsplash

To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.

To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.

To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.

To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.

Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.

They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.

Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.

~ Jorge Luis Borges