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Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

I love it when people surprise me with their wit and humor, curiosity and imagination.  My friend Dawn-Marie Quinche does that quite often, as witnessed by her take on the ordinary rhubarb plant.  Dawn-Marie has been painting her kitchen cupboards, and what better image to put over the door to her compost bucket than the lovely rhubarb plant?  What better image, indeed.

Brings back memories of those long-ago days when my sister and I would pick rhubarb to take in to our mom, then would use the discarded leaves to make lovely skirts and hats.  They were sooooooo BIG.  My romantic, nostalgic reaction to rhubarb is much different from my husband, Dan’s, who thinks rhubarb is best left in the garden all together.  But me?  I love Dawn-Marie’s rendering and the gentle way it takes me on a walk along that inner garden path of memory.

For a treat with words, click on the link to Dawn-Marie’s blog, and scroll down to the April 29 post to see what she has to say about Robert Frost’s Poem, “The Road Less Traveled”.  Made me smile!  And how about the earlier post about the rabbit being painted near the … ( I won’t give that part away.  You’ll have to click to read it!).

And be sure and scroll through her postings about her mural and faux finish work as well.  Delightful!  Dawn-Marie Quinche blog

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Tell Me …

This poem was sent to me by Jenelle Boyer, who also happens to be my daughter.  How much better can it get than to receive a lovely poem from someone whom you watched grow from infancy into her current Beingness?  I print it here as a gift for all of you – and for me.

 

The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

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Whistling through the Cracks 

Submerged in a dark sanctuary.
Waiting.
Listening. 

A shaft of light finds a crack through which to whistle a tune.
Again.
And again. 

Then, when the melody rings as true to her as the air she breathes,
She rides it through the crack and into the world.

© 2006 Maureen Carlson

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