I suppose everyone has their own Emily. This beautiful drawing is Colleen’s response to Why do they shut me out of heaven? Where I see spiritual despair, spiritual starvation, she sees Emily Rising, Emily Fulfilled, Emily the Beautiful. Go figure!
Archive for January, 2010
Emily Again
Saturday, January 30th, 2010State Of The Union Sale
Thursday, January 28th, 2010
We’re having a special Buy any two Senators and get a free Congressman.
Branches Of Government
Thursday, January 28th, 2010Know your government!
Horace’s Dream
Sunday, January 24th, 2010
Horace writes:
I dreamt, after reading an interesting book about dinosaurs, that a t-rex asked me (in perfect English) for help after it had gotten stuck while trying to climb the stairs in my apartment.
Obama
Saturday, January 23rd, 2010
Let’s see if I understand this. With all the honk and jive about passing health care reform, with the disaster in Massachusetts, with the evil supreme court decision kissing the corporate ass, with the official unemployment rate at 10% and no slowdown in home foreclosures, what does Obama pull out the stops to lobby for? Making sure Bernanke is re-appointed to the Fed.
Oh, did I mention? They actually came out and said, “We’ve got 50 people we can’t try, so we’re just going to keep them locked up without trial.”
Emily Dickinson
Tuesday, January 19th, 2010
And so, we come to Emily Dickinson, Queen of the Neurotic Chicks. When life has been empty so many times it’s a so what, when every detail of daily life prosecutes and convicts, when your suffering is utterly uncaused, and therefore irredeemable, why then it’s time for Emily Dickinson. With Emily, no moment may be unremarkable. It is either a moment of ecstasy, a moment of rapturous communion with the immanent, transcendent and ineffable Presence, or it is a soul-searing indictment of one’s complete and utter failure. Anything else is unthinkable.
We will sojourn with her again. But for now, the poem illustrated above. Or listen to Aaron Copland’s setting.
Why—do they shut Me out of Heaven?
Did I sing—too loud?
But—I can say a little “Minor”
Timid as a Bird!
Wouldn’t the Angels try me—
Just—once—more—
Just—see—if I troubled them—
But don’t—shut the door!
Oh, if I—were the Gentleman
In the “White Robe”—
And they—were the little Hand—that knocked—
Could—I—forbid?
Rev Etc, Wheelwright
Monday, January 18th, 2010
Our Far-flung Correspondents
Sunday, January 17th, 2010Krassimir reports from Eastern Europe:
The Future Of Meditation
Thursday, January 14th, 2010
A Poem With A Mutant Snow Flake
Wednesday, January 13th, 2010
Colleen sends a poem and a do-it-yourself mutant snowflake.
Ode To Snow…
Pristine white there is no sun
No golden photon to emblazen
Absolute all color pure reflection
It blinds my every rod and cone
Blue cup clutched I step into that light
Crunched beneath the waver of my boot
Leaving broken edges no less bright
Behind me
Rustling snow from every branch
Hardly waiting for my retreat
The brave ones take the chance
Cardinal red splashed
Black grey junco
Cluster at the feeder
Shards of yellow bill
Eagerly pecked between snowflakes
I stand, breath white on white
As
Seed hulls scatter at my feet
I ponder thus:
St. Francis never had a plastic cup
Nor plastic sack of seed
Nor heated room to venture forth from
Still – when I fill the feeder
No less wonder makes my moment
Free from that disgust
That drains the living not connected
By the bridge of life
To Life
L’Chaim