“Count Your Blessings”

A Josh Groban medley of lyrics made into a “found” poem written to reflect the fear and anxiety about loosing our home – of course it helps if you love Josh!  “Count your blessings” was the last advice my grandfather gave me our last night together before he died of lymphoma.  If he could count his blessings fighting cancer, I can count mine no matter what is happening in my life.
 
“Count Your Blessings…”
 
My forever Love 
Weeping
Fly me up to where you are beyond the distant star
A Secret Place
Don’t Give Up
Because you want to be heard
A Splendor in the light,
The sun on your skin, (my child)
Rest your wings my butterfly
Everybody wants to be understood
Everybody wants to be loved
I feel you all around me
Believe
It’s Now or Never
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
We were Dreamers not so long ago
Magic slipped away
Believe in what your heart is telling
Isn’t Faith believing all power can’t be seen?
Somedays we forget to look around us
Somedays we can’t see the joy that surrounds us
For tonight we pray for what we know can be –
It’s up to us to be the change
There’s so much to be thankful for
Each of us must find our truth
 
“Count you blessings”
Compiled by Mel

Poetry to think on…

in honor of Mother  Poem A Day: from Poets.org

Academy of American Poets <poetnews@poets.org>

I found the poem to at first turn me off, not what I expected to something truly thought provoking and intriguing.  I love the last stanza especially.Mother
by Herman de Coninck
translated by Kurt Brown & Laure-Anne Bosselaar

What you do with time
is what a grandmother clock
does with it: strike twelve
and take its time doing it.
You’re the clock: time passes,
you remain. And wait.

Waiting is what happens to
a snow-covered garden,
a trunk under moss,
hope for better times
in the nineteenth century,
or words in a poem.

For poetry is about letting things
grow moldy together, like grapes
turning into wine, reality into preserves,
and hoarding words
in the cellar of yourself.

A Moment of Brilliance…

…as I was reading John Connolly’s, Dark Hollow:

“An Old Man walks through the lush August grass with wood in his arms, brushing away loose bark with a gloved hand; an old man, tall unbowed, with a halo of white hair like an ancient angel, a dog stepping slowly beside him, older, in its way, than the man himself, its grey-beard muzzle flecked with foam, its tongue lolling, its tail swinging gently through the warm evening air.  The first patches of red are showing in the trees, and the clamor of the insects has begun to subside.  The ash trees, the last to unfurl their leaves in spring, are now the first to let them fall to the ground.  Pine needles decay on the forest floor and the black berries are ripe and dense as the old man passes by , at one with the rhythms of the world around him…” 

The next paragraph describing the ax in his hands, splitting wood, and I was there wishing for when that rhythm will resonate with us as people from away learning to be of Maine.

Happy Birthday William Shakespeare!

William Shakespeare (approx. April 23)
 1564-1616 

Some of my favorite  words to live by:
“My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.”

Hamlet (III, iii)

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
 

Consider the Hands..

…begins the poem Consider the Hands that Write This Letter
by Aracelis Girmay (poetnews@poets.org)

Which leads to all sorts of stories.  I always liked the country song about Daddy’s hands because it made me think of my grandfather’s big gnarled hands that so gently held my hand, taught me to drive the tractor, and made such beautiful pieces of furniture.  Arthritis had made them nearly immobile in many ways but it never stopped him from participating in life to the fullest.  He taught me to always count my blessings and I do as I consider his hands…

National Poetry Month

Some quotes for any and everyday from two of my favorite poets, Langston Hughes and Emily Dickinson.  Each is from previous National Poetry Month posters. 

http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/98

Poetry is…

the human soul entire,

squeezed like a lemon or a lime,

drop by drop,

into atomic words.”

– Langston Hughes

“To You”

To sit and dream, to sit and read,
To sit and learn about the world
Outside our world of here and now—
Our problem world—
To dream of vast horizons of the soul
Through dreams made whole,
Unfettered, free— help me!
All you who are dreamers too,
Help me to make
Our world anew.
I reach out my dreams to you.

– Langston Hughes

And finally,

The 2005 poster (National Poetry Month) features Emily Dickinson’s dress and a quote from her letters: “Nature is a haunted house—but Art—is a house that tries to be haunted.”

Big Sigh…