Thursday, October 17, 2013

Magic of Colors by Hermann Hesse

Magic of Colors by Hermann Hesse

God's breath, here and there,
Heaven above, heaven below,
Light sings its songs a thousand times,
God becomes the world in so many colors.

White to black, warm to cool
Feel themselves newly drawn,
And forever out of the whirling chaos
The rainbow rises.

And so God's light
Wanders in a thousand forms,
Created and shaped together.
And we cherish Him as the sun.

Monday, July 15, 2013


                       The Layers

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind ,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and  my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
in a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of tranformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
                               -Stanley Kunitz

Thursday, July 11, 2013

My heart

I can see you staring at my heart.

And wondering how does it work
Don't be afraid
It's safe from the rain
After these long hours
You keep breaking the silence

By Amelia

Friday, June 7, 2013

There is no guarantee in the world.  Oh your needs are guaranteed, your needs are absolutely guaranteed by the most stringent of warranties, in the plainest, truest words: knock; seek; ask.  But you must read the fine print.  "Not as the word giveth, give I unto you."  That's the catch.  If you can catch it it will catch you up, aloft, up to any gap at all, and you'll come back, for you will come back, transformed in a way you may not have bargained for--dribbling and crazed.         -Annie Dillard

Friday, May 24, 2013

The rain and the rhinoceros by Thomas Merton (excerpt)

But I am also going to sleep, because here in this wilderness I have learned how to sleep again. Here I am not alien. The trees I know, the night I know, the rain I know. I close my eyes and instantly sink into the whole rainy world of which I am a part, and the world goes on with me in it, for I am not alien to it I am alien to the noises of cities, of people, to the greed of machinery that does not sleep, the hum of power that eats up the night. Where rain, sunlight and darkness are contemned, I cannot sleep. I do not trust anything that has been fabricated to replace the climate of woods or prairies. I can have no confidence in places where the air is first fouled and then cleansed, where the water is first made deadly and then made safe with other poisons. There is nothing in the world of buildings that is not fabricated, and if a tree gets in among the apartment houses by mistake it is taught to grow chemically. It is given a precise reason for existing. They put a sign on it saying it is for health, beauty, perspective; that it is for peace, for prosperity; that it was planted by the mayor’s daughter. All of this is mystification. The city itself lies on its own myth. Instead of waking up and silently existing, the city people prefer a stubborn and fabricated dream; they do not care to be a part of the night, or to be merely of the world. They have constructed a world outside the world, against the world, a world of mechanical fictions which contemn nature and seek only to use it up, thus preventing it from renewing itself and man.

The rain and the rhinoceros by Thomas Merton

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

I remember coming out upon the northern Great Plains in the late spring.  There were meadows of blue and yellow wildflowers on the slopes, and I could see the still, sunlit plain below, reaching away out of sight.  At first there is no discrimination in the eye, nothing but the land itself, whole and impentrable.  But then the smallest thing begin to stand out of the depths- herds and rivers and groves- and each of these has perfect being in terms of distance and of silence and of age.  Yes, I thought, now I see the earth as it really is; never again will I see things as I saw them yesterday or the day before.                            -The way to rainy mountain by N. Scott Momaday

Monday, April 22, 2013

                 First Happenings

A morning-glory morning with its usual glory,
dawn particurlarly startling with citrons and
mauves, petunias in the garden flashing their
tender signals of gratitude.  The sunflowers
creak in their grass-colored dresses. Cosmos,
the four o'clocks, the sweet alyssum nod to
the roses who so very politely nod back.

And now it is time to go to work.  At my desk
I look out over the fluttering petals, little
fires.  Each one fresh and almost but not quite

Consider wearing such a satisfying body!
Consider being, with your entire self, such
a quiet prayer!

      -Mary Oliver

Friday, March 29, 2013

Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

-Mary Oliver

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Black Elk Speaks

Black Elk Speaks

But if the vision was true and mighty, as I know, it is true and mighty yet; for such things are of the spirit, and it is in the darkness of their eyes that men get lost.

So I know that it is a good thing I am going to do; and because no good thing can be done by any man alone, I will first make an offering and send a voice to the Spirit of the World, that it may help me to be true.  See, I fill this sacred pipe with the bark of the red willow; but before we smoke it, you must see how it is made and what it means.  These four ribbons hanging here on the stem are the four quarters of the universe.

  1. The black one is for the west where the thunder beings live to send us rain;
  2. The white one for the north, whence comes the great white cleaning wind;
  3. The red one for the east, whence springs the light and where the morning star lives to give men wisdom;
  4. The yellow one is the south, whence come the summer and the power to grow.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Fortune's Rocks

This is a photo of Fortune's Rocks at Biddeford Pool, I grew up in that area.  Sunday morning, March 17th, Saint Patrick's day I woke up early and took some pictures of the sunrise.  The pinkish middle line was very striking between the blue sky and gray sea.  I wanted to use the rocks as a visual complement. 

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Judgement by Henry Rivers


People pass judgement
on those who are dying
and those who are just born

and ages that are dying
and those to be born.

And people pass judgement
on those with broken wings
and those with a left foot

and those afraid of night.

Just to make it harder,
just to be all-wise?

just to feel like a hawk,
a boy running in the wind?

And then,

there are those who are silent,
who don't pass judgement

there are those who smile
and take your hand,

these are called by some
the 'outsiders'
and by some
the 'kite runners'.

I met a man once
and he walked in darkness,
and he came slowly down the road
and into the field
where I was listening to the well,

and he said
'I hear the singing -
is it night or day'?

And I told him
it was day,

and he smiled, knowing,
and took my hand
and we talked down the road


Monday, February 18, 2013

Night Flight

Night Flight by Henry Henry Rivers
Art work by Marie Pierce

Across the migration
of winds
and stars
and the city
of the moon,

buoyed by the sea
of darkness
and the warmth of earth -
rising above the hills,
rising above the plains
and the moving streams, -

calling to their fellows,
touching our tree-tops,
singing the ancient
antiphonal of North
and South,
of warmth and cold,

singing the mirror
of sea and tundra,

singing the mirror
of the falling horizon
where land and water -
where dreams and waking

A whisper of wings
and they are gone.

Sunday, February 17, 2013

February 17, 2013

Blue blue windows
Behind the stars
Yellow moon on the rise
Bid birds flying across the sky
Throwing shadows in our eyes
Leave us helpless
      -Neil Young Helpless