Thursday, November 20, 2014

ACROSS THE FROSTED FIELDS WE FLED

INTO  THE  STRAINS  OF 

[an]  IMPENDING  

WINTER  SOLSTICE











clothed in crinoline...in smoky burgandy...I heard cathedral bells...as I walked on...

we walked on frosted fields...I held your hand...


Friday, October 24, 2014

MAKING IT UP AS THEY GO ALONG? NAH!












C aution,
D istance,
C ommon Sense...


Yet, are they...

"MAKING IT UP
AS THEY GO ALONG"?
"WITH MID-COURSE CORRECTIONS ? "
***********
Oh! CDC, please don't ever
do that !!!

( as one commentator suggested)

L.P.-G., M.D.
Still, my utmost kudos to Doctors Without Borders:

“I don't want to live in the kind of world where we don't look out for each other. Not just the people that are close to us, but anybody who needs a helping hand. I can't change the way anybody else thinks, or what they choose to do, but I can do my bit.” 

 Charles de Lint



Monday, October 13, 2014

AUTUMN AS EARTH'S SORROWING SPRING


[G.M. Hopkins'] MARGARET'S AUTUMN REPRISAL

"Margaret, are you grieving...over goldengrove unleaving?"








Margaret, "child,
of cadenced grieving":
Blame not, Autumn,
for un-leaving;


Fall stands master,
toiled and treasured;
Limber winds breed
seasons...measured.






















Balm of  saints
and scripted sorrows;
Tempered fate spurs
Warm tomorrows.


What, then, if thy
veil descendeth ?
Reaping ghosts whose
pasts have endeth ?
Seeds of scorn
In search of mending,
Worn of tinctured
Trials, unending...


Soul of Autumn !
Sun-drenched crimson!
Baring  truths,
For winter, winsome:

Such are lessons learned
by four-score;
(Still, it's Margaret whom
you mourn for...).


above poem written by: L.P.-Grenn


Though, here's what forever inspires me...

Spring and Fall
to a young child
Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre [all]the same.
Nor mouth had; no, nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost [had] guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret [who] you mourn for.