Everything Forgiven

Baby Born on Christmas

by Mary Campbell

A Joyous Alleluia

Mrs. Arthur's Christmas Party

by Mary Campbell

Gratitude Galore

Random Cards of Kindness and Gratitude

by Mary Campbell

INSPIRATION GRATITUDE

The odd stray thought, the cockamamie scheme...

an impulse to make songs, or birthday cakes,

or sculptures out of bits of string... could be

the universe’s way of saying, “Pay

attention, kid; you just might change the world.”

--by Mary Campbell

Gratitude poem #8, iambic pentameter, 12-2-2015

Giving Thanks 5 Lines at a Time

THANK GOD! Gratitude poem #5, iambic pentameter, 11-28-2015

GOD GRATITUDE 

It doesn't seem to matter what I call
the Force Divine, the Source of Love, the Guy
or Gal Upstairs, Allah, or Adonai. 
It doesn't matter, when I pray, what Name
I use; it matters only that I do.

*****

THANKFUL FOR VOWELS! Gratitude poem #6, iambic pentameter, 11-29-2015

O GRATITUDE

Thank heaven for the letter O--so that
the Widow Lennon doesn’t have to be
YK N, the play’s not THELL, those trees aren’t AKS... 
and as for me, I’d rather greet a friend
with less extravagance of warmth than “HELL.”

*****


THANKS, MOM AND DAD. Gratitude poem #7, iambic pentameter, 11-30-2015

ETERNAL GRATITUDE

The picture hung above the fireplace
at Mom and Dad's. My grandpa made the frame. 
No fireplace today, no Mom and Dad,
except in the occasional refrain
that echoes, "Wear a hat; it's going to rain."

Gut-Flora Gratitude

Source: Physicians' Committee for Responsible Medicine

Gratitude poem of the day #4, five lines in iambic pentameter, 11/27/2015

GUT-FLORA GRATITUDE

Intestinal bacteria are not

the enemy I thought. Some types, it seems,

are friendly to digestion, some protect

immunity, and some make vitamins.

Reminder: Eat bananas, beans, and kraut.

--by Mary Campbell

Caffeine Gratitude

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE! This week I'm challenging myself to write each morning a gratitude poem of five lines in iambic pentameter. 

Here's no. 1, for 11/23/2015:

------------------------------

CAFFEINE GRATITUDE

My morning coffee—yesterday’s, I must 

confess, reheated in the microwave—

is less a beverage than a simple, cheap

indulgence, plus a timely tweet from God:

“A brief reminder: Bitter can be sweet.”

—Mary Campbell

Sisterhood

 

The thing I feared the most was done, and there

was no one near, no one to carry me to somewhere I

might sleep away the pain. But when I raised my head

again− a reflex, really, not anticipating anything around

my patch of ground to stir my interest, certainly no object

worth the energy of creeping toward − I found myself

the center of a circle keeping me between the earth and

sky, defying gravity, without my straining, straining not to

disappear. I wondered fleetingly if it might be a sort of

birth, this unfamiliar fearless laxity. Oh, well. They had

of course mistaken me for someone else. But no, I couldn't

make it stick. They knew me perfectly, I was convinced, and

they had taken me in spite of it, or maybe it was why... for

pity's sake. I wasn't capable of pride nor could I then have

put a name to such a mystery of grace, such generosity of

spirit that was meant to never slip away. I hadn't the

vocabulary, till I recognized the thing I’d always known,

the fallow way you know that there are other suns and

galaxies: the ancient, great, and silent sisterhood that

gathers in its own, just as the full moon summons to itself

the tides, as I had come, as I was lifted, given wings.

There was a momentary quivering, the air around me,

sparrow on a wire, delivering the final spasms of a storm

whose center has been spent. A flash, a surge-- then even

memories of love betrayed were burned away, and what

remained was new and clean, anticipating, like an April

morning after rain. Because I could, I flew, light as a

thistle seed, for I was going home as to a mother who has

prayed, has wished, has ever waited, nearer than I knew

and patient, as the venerable oak waits for the weary to

require its shade.

My Life Is Beauty

Summer Afternoon, Shinnecock, by Julien Alden Weir

Meditation on a Summer Afternoon

All the riches of the world exist in shadows

of a walnut tree on sunny summer

afternoons: the small, arresting flutter of

a leaf in a listless breeze; the cleaving

scent of earth and pine and grass and

honeysuckle heavy on the vine; the

rough-and-tumble scratching of a

dozen squirrels in a frantic scramble

branch to branch, and suddenly

they’re statues munching fat, firm

nutmeats, littering with shards of

shell my cluttered yard that I shall

rake another day; plump robins, in

shy trepidation, venturing to search

for succulent gourmet delights, then,

frightened off by someone’s slamming

of a door, they dash away on wing

and call a warning to their mates.

Nearby a brash woodpecker hammers,

hammers more, persists in hammering

upon a maple tree. I clap my hands,

applauding, and to see what he will

do. He quits, and then resumes.

A book of poetry sits idly on my lap,

unlooked at. Pages turn upon a

breath of air; perhaps, I fancy, there’s a

spirit there, enjoying Blake. I listen to my

children at the neighbor’s, splashing in a

plastic pool and laughing with the

unrestraint that grace bestows on

childhood; and down the street, somebody

mows a tidy lawn that’s lined by rows of

peonies, exuberant and lush, absurdly

pink or deep merlot.

Pink peonies (photo by Fanghong)

Something sighs contentedly. Perhaps it’s

I, or else a pixie living in a tribe beneath

the shrubbery. Nothing weighs on me. I

feel so light that I’m surprised to find

myself still sitting on my tattered quilt upon

the grass instead of simply rising, chasing

birds or playing tag with bees. But I am

earthen still, and glad of it, delighted to

be wrapped in humid air; it moves

sufficiently to cool my skin and curl my

hair. The ground is warm, a comfort, womb

of seed and tiny creature curled in sleep,

awaiting dusk.

As shadows must, they lengthen and the

laughter shrills. The time has come. I will

collect the children and go in. I brush away

the thought, just for another minute’s

taste of pure serenity, but also fond

anticipation of the dinner hour—cheddar

cheese and melon salad, I decide, and

lemon pie, and then the bedtime stories

that transport us to exotic climes. The

time has come, but I have evening yet to

savor. Summer comes in such abundant

flavors—warmth and coolness,

thunderstorm, forsythia and clover, early

sunrise, tall and motley hollyhocks—I feast

upon them all.

Assignment 35.1

Every day if you can — but at least twice a week — choose a moment out of the day you have just experienced and write about it metaphorically in the poetic form of your choice. I hope you will do this for the rest of your life. It will prevent your “running on empty,” á la Jackson Browne … or, perhaps even worse, running on autopilot. Entire spans of years of my life, when I was not living poetically or contemplating things by writing poetry, are a blur to me now, and sometimes I go back and try to recapture those lost moments, as in “Meditation on a Summer Afternoon,” above.

Excerpted from the online course How to Write Poetry and Live Poetically at http://preview.tinyurl.com/o5tjeah
See also http://www.hayhouseradio.com and http://www.soniachoquette.com.

The morning stars before they fade

Venus rising over the Pacific Ocean, by Japanese photographer Sho Endo

ON THIS SIDE

Over on the other side, there is a quiet cottage on a

grassy slope, where trees protect and decorate and

cast their pleasing shadows on the water; and where

children, hyacinths, and roses, cucumbers, and peppers

grow, and snowy linens hung to dry are blowing in the

breeze. Inside, bread rises in the oven, herbs depend from

oaken beams, and last night’s chicken in its steaming broth

becomes this evening’s stew, tomorrow’s casserole. An old

man and a young man and a boy are sharing rituals and

mending fences, while a woman, unaccountably serene,

sips coffee, shuts her eyes, and says a prayer of thanks for all

that grace provides.

But on this side are broken shutters, dusty shelves,

unanswered letters, leaves in piles, and moldy flower beds;

and seams half-sewn on half-done dresses; half-forgotten

words in half-read books; and pressing obligations half-

remembered, half despaired of. Morning struggles through

the cloudy panes of windows — gray and half-neglected or,

perhaps, defied. A pallid beam succeeds at last and penetrates

the barrier. It comes to rest upon the drooping pothos, which

persists in barely living, never mind the diffidence its garden is.

The ray of sullen light turns motes of dust to fireflies. At first

they float at random; then they glide; then, whimsical, they

dance as if to challenge gravity or chance; as if they will

their time aloft, to have an audience, to shine like stars.

They catch the sun and flicker. They have won a moment’s

glory. Soon it ends, but they have shone.

On the other side are peace and order; on this side is eagerness

to cross the wide, intimidating border, to be purposeful and more,

to yet achieve, to meet and to exceed an expectation, even one—

to finish what’s begun; half-perfection wishing to be whole, to be

forgiven for attaining less than paradise. But for all that, this side is

painted with the brush that, dipped in heaven’s glory, must in time

adorn the swale with yellow clover and, today, in dust makes

manifest the morning stars before they fade.

-----------------------------------------

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