Well What a weekend we had here in Ireland SUN on SUN , just perfect 🙂 🙂
Its hard to believe its Monday already, my post and included Poem this Morning is just a reminder that while your getting your week going , don’t forget to take the odd moment to slow down and take a look at the world around you, it’s Spring-time so take just a few moments and check out what’s really happening in the world – your meeting / phone call or email can wait for a while 🙂 🙂
Donkey of brown
By : Patricia Higgins
Please let me know
Why is it that you go so slow?
He turned round gently and to me said
I have some sense in my little brown head.
By hurrying so as you go by
You miss the beauty in earth and sky.
So I took his advice and looked around,
And I saw diamonds in dew drops on the ground.
Daises that dance in the sun’s golden ray,
Things I missed as I hurried each day.
Gold in the buttercups, clouds in the blue,
What the donkey had said was perfectly true.
Only the Country Lane Will Weep
I wander down the country lane
my old dog by my side
and I whistle merrily a tune
of how the view is wide
There are no hedgerows to crowd me in
or branches to block the sky
they’d have to use machinery
to bury me when I die
So don’t bother breaking your backs for me
I’d rather blow around with ease
just add what little goodness left
across the land upon the breeze
For this is where my heart is
this is my back yard
I’ve roamed it all my adult life
to leave it would be hard
No city house and airs for me
my graces rough and ready made
So lay me not in a neat little row
let my spirit fly and fade
I hitch my swag a little easier
and hunker to scratch his head
the billy boils as I wait with him
and then we both to bed
The stars sing lullaby’s to us
the wind sweeps us softly as we sleep
No debts no bills to leave behind
only the country lane will weep
Tell it to the lighthouse boy
By : Maddie
Tell it to the lighthouse boy
the sleepy-eyed resounding boy,
tell it to the lighthouse boy,
who wakes his days away.
Sing it to the lighthouse boy
the bright-mouthed smiling smart-ass boy,
sing it to the lighthouse boy,
solemn, sweet, and still.
Cry it to the lighthouse boy,
the hold you close and call-out boy,
cry it to the lighthouse boy,
who thinks his thoughts alone.
Fling it to the lighthouse boy,
the bending low and catch it boy,
fling it to the lighthouse boy,
to carry on his own.
did you ever see eyes so sad?
blue-green as the foaming sea they watch,
stiller than still and deeper than you can imagine,
gazing to your depths and
speaking nothing of them.
so tell it to the lighthouse boy,
the sleepy-eyed resounding boy.
Tell it to the lighthouse boy,
who casts it out to sea.
Sunday evening and the last light of the weekend is fading once more, I love this time of the week. Everything that happened last week is in the past and we have a new start for our week ahead.
So then a Poem :
Evening Without Angels
the great interests of man: air and light,
the joy of having a body, the voluptuousness
Why seraphim are arranged
Above the trees?
Air is air,
Its vacancy glitters round us everywhere.
Its sounds are not angelic syllables
But our unfashioned spirits realized
More sharply in more furious selves.
That fosters seraphim and is to them
Coiffeur of haloes, fecund jeweller—
Was the sun concoct for angels or for men?
Sad men made angels of the sun, and of
The moon they made their own attendant ghosts,
Which led them back to angels, after death.
Let this be clear that we are men of sun
And men of day and never of pointed night,
Men that repeat antiquest sounds of air
In an accord of repetitions. Yet,
If we repeat, it is because the wind
Encircling us, speaks always with our speech.
Light, too, encrusts us making visible
The motions of the mind and giving form
To moodiest nothings, as, desire for day
Accomplished in the immensely flashing East,
Desire for rest, in that descending sea
Of dark, which in its very darkening
Is rest and silence spreading into sleep.
…Evening, when the measure skips a beat
And then another, one by one, and all
To a seething minor swiftly modulate.
Bare night is best. Bare earth is best. Bare, bare,
Except for our own houses, huddled low
Beneath the arches and their spangled air,
Beneath the rhapsodies of fire and fire,
Where the voice that is in us makes a true response,
Where the voice that is great within us rises up,
As we stand gazing at the rounded moon.