October 26, 2018 – 4:10 am
What is next Next is what is called New. For everything is patiently awaiting us. – Allow me please, to make you a coat said the craftsman’s wife. And then… She skillfully managed to place inside the stiches all the communions of her life. Elias Polimeneas from Like bridges, 2012 Here in Kardamyli, Greece a […]
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December 22, 2016 – 8:08 pm
Fluent I would love to live Like a river flows, Carried by the surprise Of its own unfolding John O’Donohue from Conemara Blues, HarperCollins, 2001 Short and sweet! This poem! And too short and so sweet: the life of poet who wrote this poem. John O’Donohue (1956-2008), poet, non-fiction writer, philosopher, priest ( who gave […]
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December 6, 2014 – 9:59 am
Everything is Waiting for You Your great mistake is to act the drama as if you were alone. As if life were a progressive and cunning crime with no witness to the tiny hidden transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely, even you, at times, have felt the […]
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A merganser is clucking in front of me in a little bay near our cabin on Cortes Island, B.C. I call it clucking but it sounds also like little honks. So much my ear and mouth cannot translate. Oh! This untranslatable world. Even a wing. A prayer. These mysteries that take flight- impossible the realities […]
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A few days ago I was high up – about 900 feet – on a mountain top overlooking hills and vineyards, stretched along the valley floor, in California’s wine country. I have a glass of Chardonnay in one hand – it would seem heretical not to – in this area that celebrates the ubiquity of […]
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News Of Death For Tom Charlotte Last night they came with news of death not knowing what I would say. I wanted to say, “The green wind is running through the fields making the grass lie flat.” I wanted to say, “The apple blossom flakes like ash, covering the orchard wall.” I wanted to say, […]
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April 19, 2012 – 12:06 am
Weakness Old mare whose eyes are like cracked marbles, drools blood in her mash, shivers in her jute blanket . My father hates weakness worse than hail; in the morning without haste he will shoot her in the ear, once, shovel her under in the north pasture. Tonight leaving the stables, he stands […]
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