A Life's True Gift

Eternal Thread 

When twilight whispers secrets to the stars,
And moonlight dances soft upon the sea,
I think of fate, its ever-winding scars,
That led my soul through time to find thee.

Life's winding road, so rugged and unclear,
Held shadows deep, where dreams would fade and fall,
Yet through the dark, your light drew ever near,
A voice of hope, a whisper through it all.

Two hearts once lost now beat in perfect rhyme,
As if the heavens wove our paths as one,
A thread unbroken, stretching out through time,
Bound by the stars, beneath both moon and sun.

For life’s true gift is love we cannot see,
A timeless vow: "You are my destiny." 

Poem by American poet Bryan Taylor  

~ Happy St. Valentine's Day to all ~

 

Image: Eternal Love - Scupture by the Polish sculptor Igor Mitoraj (1944-2014)

Christmas Eve Glow

On Christmas Eve, a peaceful light,
Shines over the world, so soft, so bright.
The stars above, the earth below,
Reflect the love that we all know.

This quiet night, we feel His grace,
As we celebrate His holy place.
A Savior born to bring us peace,
A gift of love that will never cease.

By Catherine Pulsifer 

~ Merry Christmas ~ 

Bluebonnet

 

Bluebonnet, bluebonnet, blooming anew
Proudly and loudly, your entrance you make,
Infant of nature asplash in the dew.

- from a poem "Dayspring Bluebonnet" by Alan S Jeeves

Image: Fragment of the painting "Early Spring - Bluebonnets and Mesquite" by Julian Onderdonk, 1919

Poem source here 

Christmas Bells

 

Christmas Tree Decorated with Lights 

by Rudolf Bernhard Willmann (1868-1919) 

 

Christmas Bells by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

Wishing Merry Christmas to all who celebrate! Happy Holidays to all - Dominique

The Grey of Cold in December

December is a bewitching month.
The grey of cold teases
to explode into something worthwhile,
into a dream of cold,
a starlight shower you can taste,
a cold that does not chill.

 from "A Year of Nature Poems" by Joseph Coelho

 

 Image: Frosted Berries by Dominique Allmon©2024

Lost Dreams

I had grand dreams when I was younger. 

I imagined a life of fame and glory, 

but as real life caught up with me

I had to downsize my dreams. 

Today they are all meaningless. 

Life became small and grey, 

and I am no longer that dreamer...

Image: Lost Dreams by Dominique Allmon©2024 

A Psalm of Life

What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
   "Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
   And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
   And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
   Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
   Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
   Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
   And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
   Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
   In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
   Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
   Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
   Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
   We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
   Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
   Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
   Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
   With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing
   Learn to labor and to wait.
 

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Image: Cemetery Angel by Dominique Allmon©2023

Poem: A Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Source: Public domain.

Persimmons in Season

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose persimmons. This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one
will be fragrant. How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew the skin, suck it,
and swallow. Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
so sweet,
all of it, to the heart.

Fragment of the poem "Persimmons" by Li-Young Lee, 1986

 

Image: Persimmons by Dominique Allmon©2022

For Their Memory - 75th D-Day Anniversary

If you are able
Save for them a place inside of you
And save one backward glance
When you are living
For the place they can no longer go
Be not ashamed to say you love them
Thought you may
Or may not have always
Take what they have left
And what they have taught
With their dying
An keep it with you own
And in that time
When men decide and feel safe
To call the war insane
Take a moment to embrace
Those gentle heroes you left behind

 

By Major Michael Davis O’Donnell 

Poem source here

Image source here

The Names

The Names 

Names etched on

the head of a pin.

One name spanning

a bridge, another

undergoing a tunnel.

A blue name needled

into the skin.

Names of citizens,

workers, mothers,

and fathers,

The bright-eyed

daughter, the quick son.

Alphabet of names in

a green field.

Names in the small tracks of birds.

Names lifted from a hat

Or balanced on

the tip of the tongue.

Names wheeled

into the dim warehouse

of memory. 

So many names, there

is barely room on

 the walls of the heart. 

By Billy Collins, American poet laureate

Fragment from a poem dedicated to the victims of September 11 and to their survivors. 

Ragged Old Flag

I walked through a county courthouse square,

On a park bench an old man was sitting there.

I said, "Your old courthouse is kinda run down."

He said, "Naw, it'll do for our little town."

I said, "Your flagpole has leaned a little bit,

And that's a Ragged Old Flag you got hanging on it.

He said, "Have a seat", and I sat down.

"Is this the first time you've been to our little town?"

I said, "I think it is." He said, "I don't like to brag,

But we're kinda proud of that Ragged Old Flag."

"You see, we got a little hole in that flag there

When Washington took it across the Delaware.

And it got powder-burned the night Francis Scott Key

Sat watching it writing "Oh Say Can You See".

And it got a bad rip in New Orleans

With Packingham and Jackson tuggin' at its seams."

"And it almost fell at the Alamo

Beside the Texas flag, but she waved on through.

She got cut with a sword at Chancellorsville

And she got cut again at Shiloh Hill.

There was Robert E. Lee, Beauregard, and Bragg,

And the south wind blew hard on that Ragged Old Flag."

"On Flanders Field in World War I

She got a big hole from a Bertha gun.

She turned blood red in World War II

She hung limp and low by the time it was through.

She was in Korea and Vietnam.

She went where she was sent by her Uncle Sam."

"She waved from our ships upon the briny foam,

And now they've about quit waving her back here at home.

In her own good land she's been abused -

She's been burned, dishonored, denied and refused."

"And the government for which she stands

Is scandalized throughout the land.

And she's getting threadbare and wearing thin,

But she's in good shape for the shape she's in.

'Cause she's been through the fire before

And I believe she can take a whole lot more."

"So we raise her up every morning,

Take her down every night.

We don't let her touch the ground

And we fold her up right.

On second thought I DO like to brag,

'Cause I'm mighty proud of that Ragged Old Flag."

Written by Johnny Cash

Image source here

The Mistletoe

When winter nights grow long,

And winds without blow cold,

We sit in a ring round the warm wood-fire,

And listen to stories old!

And we try to look grave, as maids should be,

When the men bring in boughs of the Laurel-tree.

O the Laurel, the evergreen tree!

The poets have laurels, and why not we?

How pleasant, when night falls down

And hides the wintry sun,

To see them come in to the blazing fire,

And know that their work is done;

Whilst many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme,

Green branches of Holly for Christmas time!

O the Holly, the bright green Holly,

It tells like a tongue that the times are jolly!

Sometimes in our grave house,

Observe, this happeneth not;

But, at times, the evergreen laurel boughs

And the holly are all forgot!

And then! what then? why, the men laugh low

And hang up a branch of the Mistletoe!

O brave is the Laurel! and brave is the Holly!

But the Mistletoe banisheth melancholy!

Ah, nobody knows, nor ever shall know,

What is done under the Mistletoe.

By Barry Cornwall

Merry Christmas!

November Splendor

When the trees their summer splendor

Change to raiment red and gold,

When the summer moon turns mellow,

And the nights are getting cold;

When the squirrels hide their acorns,

And the woodchucks disappear;

Then we know that it is autumn,

Loveliest season of the year.

By Carol L. Riser, Autumn

Image: Euonymus europaeus or the European Spindle Tree by Dominique Allmon©2016

My Shadow

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, 

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. 

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; 

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. 

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; 

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, 

And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. 

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, 

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. 

He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; 

I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! 

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, 

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; 

But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, 

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. 

By Robert Louis Stevenson

From The Golden Book of Poetry (1974)

Image: Portrait of a Child, 1922

Image source here

Pebbles on the Beach

Those pebbles on the beach.
Each has its own destiny.
Each represents a miracle of creation.
But you are more unique
Because the life force
Has made you more exquisite.
Cherish the pebbles.
But revere Life
Of which you are a custodian and a priest.
Life is religion.
You are a priest.

By Henryk Skolimowski 

Image source here

Summer Day

Colorful chair on Canyon Road  in Santa Fe, New Mexico

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean -
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

By Mary Oliver

A Time Traveller Sends a Postcard

By Israel Weinstein

 

I found this card in ruins of a tourist trap, above a volcano.  

The air reeks of sulfur, but the view -   

storm-gray rocks and lava trails  to violent sea - 

magnificent desolation.  

What year this is, I cannot say,  

those readouts have burned out long ago.  

Once I charted the eons  

by light pollution or the ice caps  

but now I am content to leap  

like a child trusting his father will catch him.  

When will this find you? The day of your birth?  

Double feature at the drive in? 

The night we watched  bombs shed the night’s skin? 

The fall  day when rain finally stopped 

and you said  this is no way to live?  

You were right,  or will be. 

The water’s edge tints red.  

An algal bloom or some chemical morass.   

Rocks melt in the silence.  

I will investigate.  

Yours. 

 

 

Poem source here

Image source here

In the Half-Light of Dusk

In the half-light of dusk 

after the day has prepared 

hard surfaces for inspection 

before the night has plunged 

things back into themselves 

there is a settlement in which 

the external and the internal are 

continuous with the evening air 

if you are alone at the edge 

of shadows you are not alone 

the hours of light shine in you 

with a compacted energy that 

also burns in tree and stone 

partly revealed and partly veiled

By Thomas A. Clark

Image: Dusk in Frankfurt by Dominique Teng©2015

Leaving Santa Fe

 

Snow covered dried chiles, Santa Fe

From a coven of churches ring bells
that stop my thoughts, tender
solace to sinners - so many places
to pray. Tewas and Hopi offer
turquoise and dreams on altar
cloths beneath sacred trees.
I enter their temples. Crow Mother
rests on a branch nearby, gifts me
with corn for my faraway garden.

Leaving behind shops of art
and trinkets, my feet slow as sun
beats a past-noon descent.
Sky is high desert blue.
The air, wrung dry, shimmers
with heat, ancestral stories.
I feel the old ones stir my heart,
their whispers, my pulse.

By Carol Aronoff

Poem source here

Image by Martha Marks

Be Thankful

 

 

Be thankful 

 

That you don’t already have everything you desire,
If you did, what would there be to look forward to? 

Be thankful when you don’t know something
For it gives you the opportunity to learn.

Be thankful for the difficult times.
During those times you grow. 

Be thankful for your limitations
Because they give you  

Opportunities for improvement. 

 Be thankful for each new challenge
Because it will build  

Your strength and character. 

 Be thankful for your mistakes
They will teach you valuable lessons. 

Be thankful when you’re tired and weary
Because it means you’ve made a difference.

It is easy to be thankful for the good things.
A life of rich fulfillment comes to those  

Who are also thankful for the setbacks. 

Gratitude can turn a negative into a positive. 

Find a way to be thankful for your troubles 

and they can become your blessings. 

 

Author Unknown but greatly appreciated 

 

~ Happy Thanksgiving! ~