Wahsega Valley Farm

The Hummingbird

By Mary Oliver (my favorite poet these days)

It’s morning, and again I am that lucky person who is in it.
And again it is spring,
and there are the apple trees,
and the hummingbird in its branches.
On the green wheel of his wings
he hurries from blossom to blossom,
which is his work, that he might live.

He is a gatherer of the fine honey of promise,
and truly I go in envy
of the ruby fire at his throat,
and his accurate, quick tongue,
and his single-mindedness.

Meanwhile the knives of ambition are stirring
down there in the darkness behind my eyes,
and I should go inside now to my desk and my pages.
But still I stand under the trees, happy and desolate,
wanting for myself such a satisfying coat
and brilliant work.

Purple-Throated Carib Hummingbird by Rosiland Solomon

From ignorance...

When Mike and I were walking around our little town a few weeks ago when checking out the farmers market, we walked into Brad Walkers pottery shop. He didn't have much to sell, but his potters wheel was in the back and so was he. He had a poster on his wall with a quote that I asked him about. He said he wrote it. I asked if he had the poster for sale and he didn't, but he gave me a postcard sized version of it and this is what is says:

From ignorance, greed is born.
From greed, fear is born.
From fear, mistrust and violence arise.
From compassion, understanding is born.
From understanding, forgiveness is born.
From forgiveness, trust is possible.
From trust, peace is set in motion. 

 

- Brad Walker

Kinda nice, isn't it?

Beauty and Love

Beauty and Love
by Andrew Young

Beauty and love are all my dream;
They change not with the changing day;
Love stays forever like a stream
That flows but never flows away.

And beauty is the bright sun-bow
That blossoms on the spray that showers
Where the loud water falls below,
Making a wind among the flowers.

In Winter's Arms

by Hazelmarie Elliot

Winter holds me with his arms of icy white,
and kissed my breath with frost upon the pane.
Subdued by touch of winter's frigid hand,
I pray for spring to find me once again.

O'wind, you whistle to the winter's tune.
Your melody is heard 'pon day and night,
but one day spring will come to rescue me,
and wisk away your song of winter's blight.

O'tree, you're frozen in the winter's dream.
Your leaves have left you 'neath a moon of white,
but when my prayers are answered 'pon spring's dawn,
you'll thaw beneath its sun with warm delight.

O'field, your harvest has been reaped and spent -
and winter blankets you 'neath snowy mounds.
Yet one day soon in sprintime's rising mist
you'll feel the greening of your earth rebound.

Winter holds me with his arms of icy white,
and kissed my breath with frost upon the pane -
but deep within I somehow always know,
that spring will come and find me once again.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I've recently discovered poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, who lived from 1850 to 1919, and whom I find very interesting as a person. The following statement expresses Ella's "unique blending of New Thought, Spiritualism, and a Theosophical belief in reincarnation:"

"As we think, act, and live here today, we built the structures of our homes in spirit realms after we leave earth, and we build karma for future lives, thousands of years to come, on this earth or other planets. Life will assume new dignity, and labor new interest for us, when we come to the knowledge that death is but a continuation of life and labor, in higher planes".

Here is one of her poems I particularly like.

All Roads that Lead to God are Good
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

All roads that lead to God are good.
What matters it, your faith or mine?
Both centre at the goal devine
Of love's eternal Brotherhood.

The kindly life in house or street -
The life of prayer and mystic rite -
The student's search for truth and light -
These paths at one great Junction meet.

Before the oldest book was writ,
Full many a prehistoric soul
Arrived at this unchanging goal,
Through changeless Love, that leads to it.

What matters that one found his Christ
In rising sun, or burning fire?
In faith within him did not tire,
His longing for the Truth sufficed.

Before our modern hell was brought
To edify the modern world,
Full many a hate-filled soul was hurled
in lakes of fire by its own thought.

A thousand creeds have come and gone,
But what is that to you or me?
Creeds are but branches of a tree -
The root of love lives on and on.

Though branch by branch proved withered wood,
The root is warm with precious wine.
Then keep your faith, and leave me mine -
All roads that lead to God are good.

-------

In Wilcox's autobiography, The Worlds and I, the final words she writes are:

"From this mighty storehouse (of God, and the hierarchies of Spiritual Beings) we may gather wisdom and knowledge, and receive light and power, as we pass through this preparatory room of earth, which is only one of the innumerable mansions in our Father's house. Think of these things".

-------

And, on a much lighter note, is that a hair fork I see in her hair?

Winter

My Thanksgiving week-long vacation is almost over and I've had a wonderful, multi-dimensional week. Today will be spent tying up loose ends and getting geared to go back to work tomorrow. I have emails to respond to, laundry to finish up, a bathroom to clean and maybe some bath melts and bombs to make if I have time - and turkey to put in the freezer since we'll never eat it all during the next couple of days. We had a wonderful Thanksgiving and it was over way too quickly. Time moves on...

And winter is here. Not officially, but it has settled in. Most all the leaves are off the trees now and it's been raining a chilly, constant drizzle the past three days. Cozy inside. We get snow here, but not on a regular basis. It's special when it snows; the whole city takes off and celebrates. That's because we don't have snow moving equipment and are forced to stay where we are unless we want to walk. The world so quiet then... no traffic, just people out in the snow playing. I love it.

Before going to bed
after a fall of snow
I look out on the field
shining there in the moonlight
so calm, untouched and white -
snow silence fills my head
after I leave the window.

Hours later near dawn
when I look down again
the whole landscape has changed -
the perfect surface gone
criss-crossed and written on
where the wild creatures ranged
while the moon rose and shone.

Why did my dog not bark?
Why did I hear no sound
there on the snow-locked ground
in the tumultuous dark?
How much can come, how much can go
when the December moon is bright,
what worlds of play we'll never know
sleeping away the cold night
after a fall of snow.

- May Sarton, December Moon

Guess what?

Autumn has arrived! (close enough for me anyway)

Autumn
by Abhinabha

O season of ripe beauty, you I greet!
Whose heart is love's calm wisdom at its throbbing core;
Your deep hues and myriad colors make the soul's wings beat
And lift a lover like me to your ambrosial shore.

Through you Nature weeps its precious gold tears,
In you a mortal eye could glimpse its native Immortality,
O endless fount of inspiration to the poet seers
To be bound by your embrace is to be truly free!

A glad earth bathes in your benign and lustrous smile
And man's heart thrills with an unknown rapture and delight
By your whispers and footfalls and flute-call beguiled,
An ancient kinship links him to your celestial height.

A brimming of golden sweetness in your dreaming eyes
Fills the world with the beauty of a realm divine,
The sun's last rays serenely trickle from your purple skies:
I send my love and song and call your blessings mine.

Silent promise

It is better to light candles
than to curse the darkness.
It is better to plant seeds
than to accuse the earth.
The world needs all of our power
and love and energy,
and each of us has something that we can give.
The trick is to find it and use it,
to find it and give it away.
So there will always be more.
We can be lights for each other,
and through each others' illumination
we will see the way.
Each of us is a seed,
a silent promise
and it is always spring.

- Merle Shain

Mindful

by Mary Oliver

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look to listen,
to lose myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

1967

Here is the poem I discovered recently in my attic that I mentioned yesterday, written to me by my first love, Allen, in 1967. I was sixteen and he was eighteen. We were both in love for the very first time and it was the perfect first love - filled with innocence, romance and sweetness. We had barely even kissed when this was written; we were both so shy - and things were just different back then. Life was much slower. Allen died awhile back, but I think he wouldn't mind at all that his poem is here. He was a poet at heart. And very different from my current love, Mike, who isn't a poet at all, but is my last and best love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A Poem to Me from Allen, 1967
by Allen Atchison

You came into my mind
today,
captured my spleen
or something;
or maybe you were simply
a mellow dream
soaking in the imaginative fantasy
of my unreality:
Anyway, your magical
presence
was overpowering and wonderful -
I looked through your long strands
of brown hair
and saw your motionless lips gleaming
on the green hillside...
In the darkness I felt you pressing
against me
and clinging to me expressing
silent feelings...
You were happy and smiling
and very near;
for in the dim light I saw the softness
of your shoulder...
And you were more beautiful
that a fairytale,
for though your nearness was an illusion,
I knew our love was real.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Me at North DeKalb Mall, Decatur, Georgia, 1967

Forty one years ago the words in that poem were the most beautiful words in the world to me. Things have changed so since then and poems - though I love them still - don't mean near as much to me as they used to. While Mike is about as far from a poet as a man can be, he expresses himself in many other ways that mean as much, if not more. Together we are like poetry in motion, living the ins and outs of life and creating our own rhyme.