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Poems for Healing


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On the brink of my favorite season, a treasured poem.

I wish I understood the beauty
in leaves falling. To whom
are we beautiful
as we go?
~David Ignatov2014-09-11-fall-for-feedback-Autumn-Fall-Leaves-HD-Wallpaper
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Wendell Barry’s words leave me speechless and grateful for the reminder of aliveness in this “the only moment” of our lives.

Warbler

Sabbaths VI

(for Jonathan Williams)

The yellow-throated, the highest remotest voice

of this place, sings in the tops of the tallest sycamores,

but one day he came twice to the railing of my porch

where I sat at work above the river. He was too close

to see with binoculars. Only the naked eye could take him in,

a bird more beautiful than every picture of himself,

more beautiful than himself killed and preserved

by the most skilled taxidermist, more beautiful

than any human mind, so small and inexact

could hope to remember. My mind became

beautiful by the sight of him. He had the beauty only

of himself alive in the only moment of his life.

He had upon him like a light the whole

beauty of the living world that never dies.

– Wendell Berry

Thank you for this today, Larry Robinson!

 

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I pray to the birds…..

“I pray to the birds. I pray to the birds because I believe they will carry the messages of my heart upward. I pray to them because I believe in their existence, the way their songs begin and end each day—the invocations and benedictions of Earth. I pray to the birds because they remind me of what I love rather than what I fear. And at the end of my prayers, they teach me how to listen.”
— Terry Tempest Williams, Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place

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I never knew Jack London wrote poetry!

I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.
I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.

Jack London

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Something in this poem stirs a sense of wildness that I love!

Hawks
 
Surely, you too have longed for this —
to pour yourself out
on the rising circles of the air
to ride, unthinking,
on the flesh of emptiness.

 

 
Can you claim, in your civilized life,
that you have never leaned toward
the headlong dive, the snap of bones,
the chance to be so terrible,
so free from evil, beyond choice?

 

 
The air that they are riding
is the same breath as your own.
How could you not remember?
That same swift stillness binds
your cells in balance, rushes
through the pulsing circles of your blood.

 

 
Each breath proclaims it —
the flash of feathers, the chance to rest
on such a muscled quietness,
to be in that fierce presence,
wholly wind, wholly wild.

 

 
 – Lynn Ungar aad1f87da3b7c42261ffbd17c7136b29
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Awakening Now by Danna Faulds

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Why wait for your awakening?

The moment your eyes are open, seize the day.

Would you hold back when the Beloved beckons?

Would you deliver your litany of sins like a child’s collection of sea shells, prized and labeled?

“No, I can’t step across the threshold,” you say, eyes downcast.

“I’m not worthy” I’m afraid, and my motives aren’t pure.

I’m not perfect, and surely I haven’t practiced nearly enough.

My meditation isn’t deep, and my prayers are sometimes insincere.

I still chew my fingernails, and the refrigerator isn’t clean.

“Do you value your reasons for staying small more than the light shining through the open door?

Forgive yourself.

Now is the only time you have to be whole.

Now is the sole moment that exists to live in the light of your true Self.
Perfection is not a prerequisite for anything but pain.

Please, oh please, don’t continue to believe in your disbelief.

This is the day of your awakening


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I know it’s not pear season but…

….the pear blossoms brought these beloved words to my mind.

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Comice by Joseph Stroud

I think of Issa often these days, his poems about the loneliness

of fleas, watermelons becoming frogs to escape from thieves.

Moon in solstice, snowfall under the earth, I dream of a pure life.

Issa said of his child, She smooths the wrinkles from my heart.

Yes, it’s a dewdrop world. Inside the pear there’s a paradise

we will never know, our only hint the sweetness of its taste.

From “The Poet’s Child,” edited by Michael Wiegers

 

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