I hate to seem greedy—I have so much to be thankful for already.
Thankfulness can be a declaration of privilege, of shouting to the heavens, "Look at me and what all I gots." Thankfulness could be like Raymond Carver says, just waiting for the glory of what happens next in a state of wonder. Agog.
This grasshopper, I mean-
Did he who made the swan and the bear make thee? All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful: The Lord God made them all.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
A "one-two" jab, right cross combination to the head. I am down for the count.
what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life
no poem
written in the morning
darkness
is enough to answer
the kind of question
destined to haunt me
for days
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
She waits
for the wind
with patience
and breath
while I worry
the wind
will never arrive
Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper?
Reminds me of William Blake's "The Tyger"
Sing, birds, in every furrow!
I have seen this I have seen these spare birds Sparrows Feasting in a furrow of newly plowed ground then with utter seeming joy lift their heads and thrill and shrill.
I love the repetition.
and re-inspired by Dogtrax.
Inspired-breathed in re-inspired-and again in
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
the thump of this line delivers
shrill
I love what the OED brings to this poem.
shrill, v.
(ʃrɪl)
Also 4 schrille, 4–6 shrille, 5 shrelle, [skrille], 6–7 shril.
[f. shrill a. Cf. G. schrillen.]
1.1 intr. Of a voice, cry: To sound shrilly. Hence of noises, the wind, or the like, or a place echoing with sound.
13‥ K. Alis. 777 Bulsifal neied so loude, That hit schrillith into the cloude! 1582 Stanyhurst Æneis ii. 35 The inner lodgins dyd shrille with clamorus howting. 1591 Spenser Virg. Gnat 518 Their mightie strokes so shrild, As the great clap of thunder. 1647 H. More Song of Soul ii. App. iii, Its tearing noise so terribly did shrill, That it the heavens did shake. 1782 Mickle Proph. Q. Emma iv, When the female scream ascended, Shrilling o'er the crowded lawn. 1811 Scott Don Roderick ii. xix, First shrill'd an unrepeated female shriek! 1842 Tennyson Morte d'Arthur 201 A wind, that shrills All night in a waste land. 1884 L. Wallace Ben-Hur iv. iv. 166 His voice shrilled with passion.
2.2 To speak, cry, or sing with a shrill voice; to make a shrill noise. a.2.a Of persons or animals.
[c 1400 Anturs of Arth. xlviii, Þene his lemmane one loft skrilles and skrikes.] c 1440 Floriz & Bl. (MS. T) 756 Þe mayde, al for drede, Bygan to shrelle [earlier MSS. crie, schrichen] and to grede. 1595 Spenser Epithal. 82 The Ouzell shrills, the Ruddock warbles soft. 1598 Florio, Querulare‥to shril, to‥chirp. 1639 H. Ainsworth Annot. Ps. v. 12 To showt, shrill, or cry aloud for sorrow. 1837 Carlyle Fr. Rev. III. ii. vi. (1872) 81 The Tribune drones,‥the whole Hall shrilling up round it into pretty frequent wrath and provocation. 1896 A. Austin England's Darling i. ii, The misselthrush That shrilled so gleefully.
b.2.b Of an instrument of music, whistle, etc.
1579 Spenser Sheph. Cal. Nov. 71 Breake we our pypes, that shrild as lowde as Larke. 1590 ― F.Q. ii. iii. 20 A horne, that shrilled cleare Throughout the wood. 1710 Philips Pastorals iv. 56 Thro' all the Wood his Pipe is heard to shrill. 1842 Tennyson Sir Galahad 5 The shattering trumpet shrilleth high. 1879 E. Gosse New Poems 100 The first sharp snow is shrilling through the trees. 1903 Kipling Five Nations 114 The whistle shrills to the picket.
3.3 trans. To utter, give forth (a sound, cry, words) in shrill tones; to exclaim or proclaim with a shrill voice. Also with out.
1595 Spenser Epithal. 129 Harke, how the Minstrels gin to shrill aloud Their merry Musick. 1606 Shakes. Tr. & Cr. v. iii. 84 Harke‥How poore Andromache shrils her dolour forth. 1613 Heywood Silver Age iii. i, Through all th' Abysse, I haue shril'd thy daughters losse. 1613 ― Brazen Age ii. ii, What better can describe his shape and terror Then all the pittious clamours shrild through Greece?
1801 Lusignan I. 173 The terror of the feathered tribe, shrilled in the omens of an approaching tempest. 1817 Coleridge Biog. Lit. xxi. (1882) 205 Gnats, beetles, wasps,‥may shrill their tiny pipes‥unchastised and unnoticed. 1837 Carlyle Fr. Rev. I. v. ii, ‘Messieurs’, shrills de Brézé. 1904 M. Hewlett Queen's Quair i. vii, Lethington likened her to Diana on Taygetus shrilling havoc. 1947 A. Ransome Great Northern? i. 16 Roger's voice shrilled out, ‘Sail HO!’ 1975 New Yorker 16 June 97/3 It was a lapse on Miss Sills' part to shrill out a high E flat at the end of the first finale, but otherwise she was tender, touching, and sensitive.
4.4 To render shrill. rare—1.
1772 Foote Nabob Prol. Wks. 1799 II. 285 If age contracts my muscles, shrills my tone.
5.5 To summon with a shrill sound. rare—1.
1859 Masson Brit. Novelists iii. 204 The pibroch shrills them to the work they do.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
wings...wind..her mind
Sing my fair Love
Yes, truly,
sing
let the songs
be sung
let your melody
weave this with me
into harmony
yes, love, sing
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
let your voice be heard
even if only notations
on the page,
for out in the world
there are the sounds
of chaos,
and your voice is the balance
of clarity
I long for
With night we banish sorrow
for within the stars
there lies
hope, falling
into our atmosphere
some annotation via #gratefulpoems inspired by Tellio
need to note
I am partial
marks on
this page
Note the ways
I've lingered under
your eraser marks
I am but shadows
of my stories
Poems where words
may yet sleep.
we open our baskets
reach in
indeed
find the things
we no longer
need
berries not by the work of our hands, berries not by the work of our fingers.
gifts
what have you been given today?
is your blood warmth breathing and pulsing?
Is there a solid road under you?
is there a dog adoring you?
is there thick crusted bread?
is there sense being made nearby?
is there a garden feeding you?
is your air, unmediated and pure?
is your water cold and good?
what have you been given?
if that was taken,
what would you still have?
of that,
what would you still need?
I love how the writer bookends the observation: "I wonder what I am, that anyone should note me." with the end of the poem: "Here there are blueberries, there is no need to note me." Problem and solution. Call and response.
bright clouds
blueberry sky quince clouds bread thick with life meadow margins a blanket of "I am" in a meadow of "No need"
wonder
What we are given
in this one sweet life
is what we have already earned
by virtue of being alive.
Do not wonder at that.
Do not sow.
Reap.
And for this, I did nothing, not even wonder.
From Matthew 6:24–33 (King James Version "KJV"): No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon. Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature? And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith? Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed? (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.
the trees have their heads on the blue sky
What do they
think about
when their leaves kiss the sun
and fall to this earth
one final time?
Do they imagine
the rebirth
of another year?
invisible wind
I am here
eyes closed
feeling the way time
moves
but unable
to write it
The heart of the world lies open, leached and ticking with sunlight
I am reminded of Tom Waits' "Heart of a Saturday Night", a song of gratitude. I want this sung at my funeral.
Two ravens circle and twist. On the borders of heaven, the river flows clear a bit longer.
Magix.
Just magix.
Ravens casting their familiar spell.
The margins of heaven responding.
The river clearing, the mind untroubled.
Now and for a little longer.
some sway, some don’t sway.
glad for the delightful ambiguity--the pines, the readers, the poet
evening feed into
love the caesura here. the pause in phrasing aloud and the pause in print as well.
I am grateful to know that matters to the poet. It matters to me.
this God, this laughter of the morning
God=Laughter.
Laughter is spoken.
God speaks Through laughter.
Those whom the gods wish to destroy they first make laugh.
I am reminded of how grateful I am that she lived as long as she did before her suicide. I feel the same feelings toward David Foster Wallace and his Kenyon commencement address. Grateful...then sad, but mostly grateful and glad to be alive to read and share their genius.
The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,dies young.
Every morning we can
My wife and I
on our front porch swing
share
the news that stays news
at the end of our eyes
and ears
and nose
and tongue
and finger tips.
This is not capital
of any kind,
not interest
or dividend earned
or profit plowed back
It is the ante
we pay each other
to play
this infinite game.
though often forget,to give thanks
We are alive
to
nevermind
and to
whatever
but not to
the inscape of God
young
and we remember
the joy of
her laughter
paint a thank-you on my palm
She runs her fingers
down the spine
of my hand
drawing a map
of where I might go
as opposed to
where I have been
All this is God
for what is belief
but the possibility
of change, of hope
of peace
and whether your god
arrives in some other's form
does it really matter?
the outcry from the kettle
steam
calls me
to the kitchen
my wife gone
missing
only for a
moment
There is joyin all
Joy
fills this space
forgotten thoughts
lost
in-between
these paper walls
are full of
cracks, in which we weave
our way
back
Tellio has us thinking of poetic gratitude, by annotating poems, and inviting others in. You are invited. In.
music flared
Music flares
She cares
too much
of that one single note,
shouted off key by
the kid on the saxophone,
while I reveled in
the ambush of the off-kiltering
melody
You've seen the refugees going nowhere
Where will they go ...
these wandering
spirits
of our conscience ...
and who will hold them
when the edge of the world
appears?
Remember June's long days
the way
the rains
arrived,
a bluster
of drops
and then ...
gone,
washed into
summer's coming
days
Try to praise
You must
You should
Praise
the mutilated world
the gentle light that strays and vanishes
https://soundcloud.com/viciousminuteshour/a-vote-for-the-gentle-light-a
returns
the gray feather a thrush lost
nettles
nettles and exiles, nettle because of exiles, mutilated lives, one rising from the other
wild strawberries
the tang of wild blackberries dancing that tango on my tongue.
mutilated world.
I am grateful for memory even though it incomplete, perhaps mutilited.