Friday, December 19, 2014
Saturday, December 6, 2014
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)