my morning poem,,,

the spirit medium,
w.b.yeats.

POETRY, music, I have loved, and yet
Because of those new dead
That come into my soul and escape
Confusion of the bed,
Or those begotten or unbegotten
Perning in a band,

I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.

Or those begotten or unbegotten,
For I would not recall
Some that being unbegotten
Are not individual,
But copy some one action,
Moulding it of dust or sand,

I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.

An old ghost's thoughts are lightning,
To follow is to die;
Poetry and music I have banished,
But the stupidity
Of root, shoot, blossom or clay
Makes no demand.

I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.

William Butler Yeats

War/No More Trouble | Playing for Change | Song Around The World

What a Wonderful World | Playing For Change

Redemption Song | Playing For Change

One Love | Playing For Change | Song Around the World

my morning poem,,,

Your Laughter - Poem by Pablo Neruda.

Take bread away from me, if you wish,
take air away, but
do not take from me your laughter.

Do not take away the rose,
the lance flower that you pluck,
the water that suddenly
bursts forth in joy,
the sudden wave
of silver born in you.

My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth,
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky seeking me
and it opens for me all
the doors of life.

My love, in the darkest
hour your laughter
opens, and if suddenly
you see my blood staining
the stones of the street,
laugh, because your laughter
will be for my hands
like a fresh sword.

Next to the sea in the autumn,
your laughter must raise
its foamy cascade,
and in the spring, love,
I want your laughter like
the flower I was waiting for,
the blue flower, the rose
of my echoing country.

Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.

Pablo Neruda

Darius Simpson & Scout Bostley - "Lost Voices" (CUPSI 2015)

Bob Marley - No woman No cry

Richard Hawley - Remorse Code

my morning poem,,,

a grain of sand
by robert william service,

If starry space no limit knows
And sun succeeds to sun,
There is no reason to suppose
Our earth the only one.
'Mid countless constellations cast
A million worlds may be,
With each a God to bless or blast
And steer to destiny.

Just think! A million gods or so
To guide each vital stream,
With over all to boss the show
A Deity supreme.
Such magnitudes oppress my mind;
From cosmic space it swings;
So ultimately glad to find
Relief in little things.

For look! Within my hollow hand,
While round the earth careens,
I hold a single grain of sand
And wonder what it means.
Ah! If I had the eyes to see,
And brain to understand,
I think Life's mystery might be
Solved in this grain of sand.

Robert William Service

Ted Hawkins - Bring It on Home to Me

Hurricane

Ram Jam "Black Betty"

my morning poem,,,

the lost glove is happy,
nuala archer,

Is it in the terminal I left
the brown, rabbit-fur-lined gloves
made in Taiwan? Gloves
I've worn in Ireland.
Gloves that kept my fingers
warm walking the bitter cold
coastline of Bull Island
with Howth and her necklace
of lights in the background.
Gloves lost now between Stillwater,
Oklahoma and Lubbock,Texas
on the way to see my mother

Come, she said, I'm in
the midst of desolation. Come.
Take Southwest Airlines, past
Love Field. I'll be waiting
for you. I'll be waiting.

And in the mall, when I got
to Lubbock, arrived to embrace
my mother in desolation, she had
me strip, try on outfit
after outfit-sweaters, trousers,
skirts, shirts, shorts, slips
and blouses-to see like
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
how does your garden, my garden,
grow? She in her mid-fifties
and I at the cliff-edge of
twenty-nine. My mother had me
fly to Lubbock and on the way
I lost my rabbit-fur-
lined gloves. When I got
there, when I arrived, when
I reached desolation, my mother
alone, in the middle of crazy
cottonfields, my mother in
desolation, I reached her,
I travelled to her,
to desolation, and in desolation
we were as lost as any
two mismatched gloves and
for a few moments we relaxed, lost
and strangely happy,
in the Lubbock Mall, without
labels stripped to our bones.

Victoria Morgan - "How to Succeed in Heartbreak" (CUPSI 2015)

my morning poem,,,

by sylvia plath.

family reunion

Outside in the street I hear
A car door slam; voices coming near;
Incoherent scraps of talk
And high heels clicking up the walk;
The doorbell rends the noonday heat
With copper claws;
A second's pause.
The dull drums of my pulses beat
Against a silence wearing thin.
The door now opens from within.
Oh, hear the clash of people meeting —-
The laughter and the screams of greeting :

Fat always, and out of breath,
A greasy smack on every cheek
From Aunt Elizabeth;
There, that's the pink, pleased squeak
Of Cousin Jane, out spinster with
The faded eyes
And hands like nervous butterflies;
While rough as splintered wood
Across them all
Rasps the jarring baritone of Uncle Paul;
The youngest nephew gives a fretful whine
And drools at the reception line.

Like a diver on a lofty spar of land
Atop the flight of stairs I stand.
A whirlpool leers at me,
I cast off my identity
And make the fatal plunge.

Sylvia Plath

Two Steps From Hell - To Glory

"Now We Are Free" - Gladiator theme -

The Godfather Theme Song

my morning poem,,,

I wish you enough love

At an airport I overheard a father and daughter in their last moments together. They had announced her plane's departure and standing near the door, he said to his daughter, "I love you, I wish you enough."
She said, "Daddy, our life together has been more than enough. Your love is all I ever needed. I wish you enough, too, Daddy."

They kissed good-bye and she left.

He walked over toward the window where I was seated. Standing there I could see he wanted and needed to cry. I tried not to intrude on his
privacy, but he welcomed me in by asking, "Did you ever say good-bye to someone knowing it would be forever?" "

Yes, I have," I replied. Saying that brought back memories I had of expressing my love and appreciation for all my Dad had done for me.
Recognizing that his days were limited, I took the time to tell him face to face how much he meant to me.

So I knew what this man was experiencing.
"Forgive me for asking, but why is this a forever good-bye?" I asked.

"I am old and she lives much too far away. I have challenges ahead and
the reality is, her next trip back will be for my funeral, " he said.

"When you were saying good-bye I heard you say, 'I wish you enough.'
May I ask what that means?" He began to smile. "That's a wish that has been handed down from other generations. My parents used to say it to everyone."

He paused for a moment and looking up as if trying to remember it in detail, he smiled even more. "When we said 'I wish you enough,' we were
wanting the other person to have a life filled with enough good things to sustain them," he continued and then turning toward me he shared the following as if he were reciting it from memory.

"I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish enough "Hello's" to get you through the final "Good-bye.."

written by Bob Perks

The Prayer with Lyrics - Sung by Rhema Marvanne

Heaven Got Another Angel - Original Song (Gordon True)

Go Rest High On That Mountain-Vince Gill

Go Rest High On That Mountain-Vince Gill

Arthur Alexander - You better move on

The Wire: Solomon Burke- Fast Train

Solomon Burke ~ Cry To Me

my morning poem,,,

Aubade

BY PHILIP LARKIN

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.  
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.  
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.  
Till then I see what’s really always there:  
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,  
Making all thought impossible but how  
And where and when I shall myself die.  
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse  
—The good not done, the love not given, time  
Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because  
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;  
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,  
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,  
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,  
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,  
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill  
That slows each impulse down to indecision.  
Most things may never happen: this one will,  
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without  
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave  
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.  
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,  
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,  
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring  
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Eagles - Doolin Dalton -HD

Tom Jones-Robert Plant-Salomon Burke-Jeff Beck

Solomon Burke & Gillian Welch - Valley Of Tears

my morning poem,,,

from our own president

THE BETRAYAL.

a poem for my father.

This man is seriously ill
the doctor had said a week before,
calling for a wheelchair.
It was
after they rang me
to come down
and persuade you
to go in
condemned to remember your eyes
as they met mine in that moment
before they wheeled you away.
It was one of my final tasks
to persuade you to go in,
a Judas chosen not by Apostles
but by others more broken;
and I was, in part,
relieved when they wheeled you from me,
down that corridor, confused,
without a backward glance.
And when I had done it,
I cried, out on the road,
hitching a lift to Galway and away
from the trouble
of your cantankerous old age
and rage too,
at all that had in recent years
befallen you.

All week I waited to visit you
but when I called, you had been moved
to where those dying too slowly
were sent,
a poorhouse, no longer known by that name,
but, in the liberated era of Lemass,
given a saint’s name, ‘St Joseph’s’.
Was he Christ’s father,
patron saint of the Worker,
the mad choice of some pietistic politician?
You never cared.

Nor did you speak too much.
You had broken an attendant’s glasses,
the holy nurse told me,
when you were admitted.
Your father is a very difficult man,
as you must know. And Social Welfare is slow
and if you would pay for the glasses,
I would appreciate it.
It was 1964, just after optical benefit
was rejected by de Valera for poorer classes
in his Republic, who could not afford,
as he did
to travel to Zurich
for there regular tests and their
rimless glasses.

It was decades earlier
you had brought me to see him
pass through Newmarket-on-Fergus
as the brass and reed bank struck up,
cheeks red and distended to the point
where a child wondered whether
they would burst as they blew
their trombones.
The Sacred Heart Procession and de Valera,
you told me, were the only occasions
when their instruments were taken
from the rusting, galvinised shed
where they stored them in anticipation
of the requirements of Church and State.

Long before that, you had slept
in ditches and dug-outs,
prayed in terror at ambushes
with others who later debated
whether de Valera was lucky or brilliant
in getting the British to remember
that he was an American.
And that debate had not lasted long
in concentration camps in Newbridge
and the Curragh, where mattresses were burned,
as the gombeens decided that the new State
was a good thing,
even for business.

In the dining room of St Joseph’s
the potatoes were left in the middle of the table,
in a dish, toward which
you and many other Republicans
stretched feeble hands that shook.
Your eyes were bent as you peeled
with the long thumbnail I had often watched
scrape a pattern on the leather you had toughened for our shoes.
Your eyes when you looked at me
were a thousand miles away,
now totally broken,
unlike those times even
of rejection, when you went at sixty
for jobs you never got,
too frail to load vans, or manage
the demands of selling.
And I remember
when you came back to me,
your regular companion on such occasions,
and said: ‘They think that I’m too old
for the job. I said that I was fifty-eight
but they knew I was past sixty.’

A body ready for transportation
fit only for a coffin, that made you
too awkward
for death at home.
The shame of a coffin exit
through a window sent you here,
where my mother told me you asked
only for her to place her cool hand
under your neck.
And I was there when they asked
would they give you a Republican funeral,
in that month when you died,
between the end of the First Programme for Economic Expansion
and the Second.

I look at your photo now,
taken in the beginning of bad days,
with your surviving mates
in Limerick.
Your face haunts me, as do these memories;
and all these things have been scraped
in my heart,
and I can never hope to forget
what was, after all,
a betrayal.

© 1990, Michael D. Higgins
From: The Betrayal
Publisher: Salmon, Galway, 1990

Bryan Adams - Summer of 69

Stuck In The Middle With You - Stealers Wheel

my morning, or afternoon poem,,,

a smile to remember,

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!'
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?'

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled

Charles Bukowski

Creedence Clearwater Revival - Have you ever seen the rain?

Creedence Clearwater Revival - Have you ever seen the rain?

Kansas - Dust in the Wind (Official Video)

my morning poems,,,

tonight i can write the saddest lines,
pablo neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Pablo Neruda

ohio- neil young

Eagles - Tequila Sunrise

The Endless Tributes (The Sandman Chronicles): Dream

my morning poem,,,

glad our 2 countries are and have reached out too one another,
i am not that political,, so no offence meant to any of my facebook friends


 THE RHYTHM OF TIME.

There's an inner thing in every man,
Do you know this thing my friend?
It has withstood the blows of a million years,
And will do so to the end.

It was born when time did not exist,
And it grew up out of life,
It cut down evil's strangling vines,
Like a slashing searing knife.

It lit fires when fires were not,
And burnt the mind of man,
Tempering leandened hearts to steel,
From the time that time began.

It wept by the waters of Babylon,
And when all men were a loss,
It screeched in writhing agony,
And it hung bleeding from the Cross.

It died in Rome by lion and sword,
And in defiant cruel array,
When the deathly word was 'Spartacus'
Along with Appian Way.

It marched with Wat the Tyler's poor,
And frightened lord and king,
And it was emblazoned in their deathly stare,
As e'er a living thing.

It smiled in holy innocence,
Before conquistadors of old,
So meek and tame and unaware,
Of the deathly power of gold.

It burst forth through pitiful Paris streets,
And stormed the old Bastille,
And marched upon the serpent's head,
And crushed it 'neath its heel.

It died in blood on Buffalo Plains,
And starved by moons of rain,
Its heart was buried in Wounded Knee,
But it will come to rise again.

It screamed aloud by Kerry lakes,
As it was knelt upon the ground,
And it died in great defiance,
As they coldly shot it down.

It is found in every light of hope,
It knows no bounds nor space
It has risen in red and black and white,
It is there in every race.

It lies in the hearts of heroes dead,
It screams in tyrants' eyes,
It has reached the peak of mountains high,
It comes searing 'cross the skies.

It lights the dark of this prison cell,
It thunders forth its might,
It is 'the undauntable thought', my friend,
That thought that says 'I'm right! '



BOBBY SANDS was twenty seven years old when he died on the sixty sixth day of hunger-strike in the H-Block prison hospital, Long Kesh, on the 5th May 1981. The young IRA Volunteer who had spent almost the last nine years of his short life in prison as a result of his Irish republican activities was, by the time of his death, world-famous having been elected to the british parliament and having withstood pressures, political and moral (including an emissary from Pope John Paul II) , for him to abandon his fast which was aimed at countering a criminalisation policy by the british government. His name became a household word in Ireland, and his sacrifice (as did that of those who followed him) overturned british propaganda on Ireland and had a real effect in advancing the cause of Irish freedom.

Bobby Sands

Billy Joel - Piano Man

Tom Petty - Free Fallin'

Boston- More than A Feeling

Eagles - I Can't Tell You Why -HD

my morning poem,,,

we wear the smile.

We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,--
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be overwise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

Paul Laurence Dunbar

my morning poem,,,

acquainted with the night,

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

Fleet Foxes - Helplessness Blues (Full Album)

Band Of Horses - The Funeral (2006)

LORDE - Everybody Wants To Rule The World

Snow White and the Huntsman - Florence + The Machine: "Breath of Life" M...

【horizon】 Gone 「a capella cover」【Snow White and the Huntsman】

my morning poem,,,

forgive if i have posted before,,
last lines somehow remind me of our inapt goverment and the fools who voted them in,the nation

a model for the laureate,

ON thrones from China to Peru
All sorts of kings have sat
That men and women of all sorts
proclaimed both good and great;
And what's the odds if such as these
For reason of the State
Should keep their lovers waiting,

Keep their lovers waiting?
Some boast of beggar-kings and kings
Of rascals black and white
That rule because a strong right arm
Puts all men in a fright,
And drunk or sober live at ease
Where none gainsay their right,
And keep their lovers waiting,
Keep their lovers waiting.

The Muse is mute when public men
Applaud a modern throne:
Those cheers that can be bought or sold,
That office fools have run,
That waxen seal, that signature.
For things like these what decent man
Would keep his lover waiting,
Keep his lover waiting?

William Butler Yeats

my morning poem,,,

loved this poem when i read it this morning,
have sara, home from australia,for another week,
and when i read this, i thought how true these words ring thru.

home and love,

Just Home and Love! the words are small
Four little letters unto each;
And yet you will not find in all
The wide and gracious range of speech
Two more so tenderly complete:
When angels talk in Heaven above,
I'm sure they have no words more sweet
Than Home and Love.

Just Home and Love! it's hard to guess
Which of the two were best to gain;
Home without Love is bitterness;
Love without Home is often pain.
No! each alone will seldom do;
Somehow they travel hand and glove:
If you win one you must have two,
Both Home and Love.

And if you've both, well then I'm sure
You ought to sing the whole day long;
It doesn't matter if you're poor
With these to make divine your song.
And so I praisefully repeat,
When angels talk in Heaven above,
There are no words more simply sweet
Than Home and Love.

Robert William service,

first poem for a few days,,

a dream,
by edgar allen poe,

In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed-
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream- that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?

Edgar Allan Poe

Soggy Bottom Boys - I'm A Man Of Constant Sorrow

Cats In The Cradle-Harry Chapin

-America- A Horse with No Name

Kate Bush Wuthering Heights.

the rose tree,

'O WORDS are lightly spoken,'
Said Pearse to Connolly,
'Maybe a breath of politic words
Has withered our Rose Tree;
Or maybe but a wind that blows
Across the bitter sea.'

'It needs to be but watered,'
James Connolly replied,
'To make the green come out again
And spread on every side,
And shake the blossom from the bud
To be the garden's pride.'

'But where can we draw water,'
Said Pearse to Connolly,
'When all the wells are parched away?
O plain as plain can be
There's nothing but our own red blood
Can make a right Rose Tree.'



William Butler Yeats


the moods,

TIME drops in decay,
Like a candle burnt out,
And the mountains and woods
Have their day, have their day;
What one in the rout
Of the fire-born moods
Has fallen away?

William Butler Yeats

The Chain - Fleetwood Mac

Poco-Rose of Cimarron

The Load Out

my morning poem,,,

The Passing Of The Year

 My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
 My den is all a cosy glow;
And snug before the fire I sit,
 And wait to feel the old year go.

I dedicate to solemn thought
 Amid my too-unthinking days,
This sober moment, sadly fraught
 With much of blame, with little praise.


Old Year! upon the Stage of Time
 You stand to bow your last adieu;
A moment, and the prompter's chime
 Will ring the curtain down on you.

Your mien is sad, your step is slow;
 You falter as a Sage in pain;
Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,
 And face your audience again.


That sphinx-like face, remote, austere,
 Let us all read, whate'er the cost:
O Maiden! why that bitter tear?
 Is it for dear one you have lost?
Is it for fond illusion gone?
 For trusted lover proved untrue?
O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan
 What hath the Old Year meant to you?

And you, O neighbour on my right
 So sleek, so prosperously clad!
What see you in that aged wight
 That makes your smile so gay and glad?
What opportunity unmissed?
 What golden gain, what pride of place?
What splendid hope? O Optimist!
 What read you in that withered face?

And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,
 What find you in that filmy gaze?
What menace of a tragic doom?
 What dark, condemning yesterdays?
What urge to crime, what evil done?
 What cold, confronting shape of fear?
O haggard, haunted, hidden One
 What see you in the dying year?

And so from face to face I flit,
 The countless eyes that stare and stare;
Some are with approbation lit,
 And some are shadowed with despair.

Some show a smile and some a frown;
 Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:
Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down!
 Old weary year! it's time to go.


My pipe is out, my glass is dry;
 My fire is almost ashes too;
But once again, before you go,
 And I prepare to meet the New:
Old Year! a parting word that's true,
 For we've been comrades, you and I --
I thank God for each day of you;
 There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!

Neil Young - Unknown Legend

Jeff Beck;Rod Stewart - People Get Ready

Love will keep us alive - The EAGLES (With lyrics)

my morning poem,,,

We Share the Same Skin
© By Ruth Carr



For my mother

We shared the same skin, your touch
Home to my body. To grow up
I built walls, defining
Where you ended and I began.

It was a child sulking to shut
You out. You waited, a quiet
Stream for me to surface in.
That’s where to find you now –

Hunkered down on a river bank
Needle or pencil in hand, sometimes
Pins in your mouth, sometimes humming,
Or leant against some stubborn

Wind-spend tree. You showed me that
Obvious thing – that under the skin
There’s human, that dressing up is
A game fit only for children.

That obvious thing that nobody does –
You did it most times,
Shared your skin with so many,
I needed to know you loved

Me more than any old refugee.
I walled up inside, let my body
Go begging for crumbs like poor Tom,
A craving that couldn’t find centre.

But we shared the same skin
And when yours grew too tired
And too yellow to care –
With a child of my own but still

Not grown up, I couldn’t let go
Until prodigal waters burst
Mortar from brick, I broke through
To your salt-bedded river.

We share the same skin, my daughter
And me. She’s building walls
To define where I end
And she can make a beginning.

Damien Rice - The Blower's Daughter - Official Video

Nick Drake - Pink Moon

Nick Drake - Northern sky (1970)

my morning poem,,,
for james.

 What Is So Rare As A Day in June

AND what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For our couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-
And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,-
'Tis for the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

James Russell Lowell

Eagles - How Long

03/03 HUSHABYE MOUNTAIN - HD - RICHARD HAWLEY - LIVE TEDDY BOY'S PICNIC ...

Richard Hawley - Open up your door

Tom Waits - Hope I don't fall in love with you

2 poems this morning,,,

O Lord, we praise Thee, bless Thee, and adore Thee,

O Lord, we praise Thee, bless Thee, and adore Thee,
In thanksgiving bow before Thee.
Thou with Thy body and Thy blood didst nourish
Our weak souls that they may flourish.
O Lord, have mercy!
May Thy body, Lord, born of Mary
That our sins and sorrow did carry,
And Thy blood for us plead in all trial, fear and need:
O Lord, have mercy!

Thy holy body into death was given,
Life to win for us in heaven.
No greater love than this to Thee could bind us;
May this feast thereof remind us!
O Lord, have mercy!
Lord, Thy kindness did so constrain Thee
That Thy blood should bless and sustain me.
All our debt Thou hast paid; peace with God once more is made:
O Lord, have mercy!

May God bestow on us His grace and favor
To please Him with our behavior
And live as brethren here in love and union
Nor repent this blessed Communion!
O Lord, have mercy!
Let not Thy good Spirit forsake us;
Grant that heavenly minded He make us;
Give Thy church, Lord, to see days of peace and unity;
O Lord, have mercy!

Martin Luther

and just had to post this one,,
the other side of priesthood,,,
seeing other die and blessing them,,,

The Ballad Of Father Gilligan,


The old priest Peter Gilligan
 Was weary night and day
 For half his flock were in their beds
 Or under green sods lay.

 Once, while he nodded in a chair
 At the moth-hour of the eve
 Another poor man sent for him,
 And he began to grieve.

 'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
 For people die and die;
 And after cried he, 'God forgive!
 My body spake not I!'

 He knelt, and leaning on the chair
 He prayed and fell asleep;
 And the moth-hour went from the fields,
 And stars began to peep.

 They slowly into millions grew,
 And leaves shook in the wind
 And God covered the world with shade
 And whispered to mankind.

 Upon the time of sparrow chirp
 When the moths came once more,
 The old priest Peter Gilligan
 Stood upright on the floor.

 'Mavrone, mavrone! The man has died
 While I slept in the chair.'
 He roused his horse out of its sleep
 And rode with little care.

 He rode now as he never rode,
 By rocky lane and fen;
 The sick man's wife opened the door,
 'Father! you come again!'

 'And is the poor man dead?' he cried
 'He died an hour ago.'
 The old priest Peter Gilligan
 In grief swayed to and fro.

 'When you were gone, he turned and died,
 As merry as a bird.'
 The old priest Peter Gilligan
 He knelt him at that word.

 'He Who hath made the night of stars
 For souls who tire and bleed,
 Sent one of this great angels down,
 To help me in my need.

 'He Who is wrapped in purple robes,
 With planets in His care
 Had pity on the least of things
 Asleep upon a chair.'

william butler yeats,

my morning poem,,,

sad day for the parish, on a day when the lord called
one of his own home,
fr fingelton, has done more for this town, and this parish
that can never be equaled,,
a truly wonderful ,beautiful and friendly man.
may you rest in peace,
he was a great man for reciting poetry.
and if memory serves me right,
this one was one of his favouritets,

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed- and gazed- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth