#5189 – “the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.”

Edited by Gloria Lee


slipped a little tremble
out of the triangle
of his mouth

and it hung in the air
until it reached my ear
like a froth or a frill
that Schumann

might have written in a dream.
Dear morning
you come
with so many angels of mercy

so wondrously disguised
in feathers, in leaves,
in the tongues of stones,
in the restless waters,

in the creep and the click
and the rustle
that greet me wherever I go
with their joyful cry: I’m still here, alive!

~ Mary Oliver

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser; Eastern bluebird (Sialia sialis)

Posted on Facebook by Jamie K. Reaser



Everyone Sang
by Siegfried Sassoon

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on—on—and out of sight.

Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away … O, but Everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be

“Everyone Sang” by Siegfried Sassoon, from Collected Poems: 1908-1956.

© Faber & Faber, 1986
For a day,
just for one day,
Talk about that
which disturbs no one
And bring some peace
into your Beautiful eyes.
~ Hafiz
The Subject Tonight Is Love: 60 Wild and Sweet Poems of Hafiz
by Andy Lal on Facebook




Yasar Koc Photography
“There is a road in the hearts of all of us, hidden and seldom traveled,
which leads to an unkown, secret place. The old people came literally to
love the soil, and they sat or reclined on the ground with a feeling of being
close to a mothering power. Their teepees were built upon the earth and
their altars were made of earth. The soil was soothing, strengthening,
cleansing, and healing. That is why the old Indian still sits upon the earth
instead of propping himself up and away from its life giving forces. For him,
to sit or lie upon the ground is to be able to think more deeply and to feel
more keenly. He can see more clearly into the mysteries of life and come
closer in kinship to other lives about him.”
― Luther Standing Bear



Speak, mountain, my feet are listening to the song of your paths.
I don’t need to free-climb sheer cliffs, or find the breathless nothing at the peak.
Mid-way is enough. To saunter upward all day is what I love, a pilgrim with the
bees, toward snow-melt streams that gush through purple penstemon and
columbine, where the alpine aster slow-cooks in the photons of God’s face,
a blue moth folds her pouting wings on the lupine – we all need places to grieve
this brief gift – and I discover again, as if in the beginning, high places where
hummingbirds go.

by Fred LaMotte



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