In A Sunlit Room

The colour of poetry tingles because of

the movement of a few words.

. . . . .

Hello, sun in my face. 
Hello you who made the morning 
and spread it over the fields…

– Mary Oliver

. . . . .

And that is just the point... how the world, moist and beautiful, calls to each of us to
make a new and serious response. That's the big question, the one the world throws
at you every morning. Here you are, alive. Would you like to make a comment?

– Mary Oliver

. . . . .

For poems are not words, after all, 
but fires for the cold, ropes let down 
to the lost, something as necessary
as bread in the pockets of the hungry.

– Mary Oliver

Spare A Moment

Because it is.

Something holy. 

Something useful.

. . . . .

Brought out of silence, try to follow its rhythm –
the undeniable beauty of your soul rising.

. . . . .

Whether in the intellectual pursuits of science or in the mystical pursuits of the spirit, 
the light beckons ahead, and the purpose surging in our nature responds.


– Arthur Stanley Eddington

Part In Shade, Part In Light

Red at its most essential

breeding a pulse in

its process of growth,

brushing our being

in its passing.


Memory lengthens…

. . . . .

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VGEWQRL2sJk&feature=related

. . . . .

I sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed! 

The flower of Mercy! that within its heart 

Doth keep “a drop serene” for human need, 

A drowsy balm for every bitter smart. 

For happy hours the Rose will idly blow

The Poppy hath a charm for pain and woe.


– Mary A. Barr

At Any Given Point

If you hear a voice

within you say, 

You 

cannot 

paint,

then by all means paint, 

and that voice will be silenced

 – Vincent Van Gogh

The Things It Carries

Over time and its broad landscape compressed experiences, thoughts and emotions lend cohesion to life by connecting lessons of courage, strength of mind, perseverance, joy, sorrow and love by power of association. Through our words we have the opportunity to weave together certain elements of our memory – to be present as its painter, paying attention to its detail and design. In the end, its immortality, embodied with truth, becomes our legacy. 

. . . . .

The beauty of memory’s flame lies in the renewed light of its

subtle flare, flickering somewhere within life's cycle of precious time.