Give Us Your Tired, Your Poor

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door! @emma lazarus/statue of liberty

Of History and Hope by Miller Williams

We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,
to keep on going where we meant to go.

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?
The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?
With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row—
and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.

Who were many people coming together
cannot become one people falling apart.
Who dreamed for every child an even chance
cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.
Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head
cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.
Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child
cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.
We know what we have done and what we have said,
and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,
believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become—
just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.

All this in the hands of children, eyes already set
on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet—
but looking through their eyes, we can see
what our long gift to them may come to be.
If we can truly remember, they will not forget.

Naturalist Christmas

 

 

No way to know these woods well, to assume, they are my friends.

No way to examine sacrificed buildings,

to know if they have a hand to lend.

While routine holds fast to my wandering eye.

The purist in me believes, it is my love for recanted beauty that will get me by.

Long lasting and languid, as a lover’s kiss.

A slumbering, lumbering, shine.

Such as coffee, in my morning cup.

So, what of devotion offering a look up?

Freedom of thought.

Offerings mature in shredded leaf.

Matted frost prints, two feet, several precious paws.

Hints of frankincense from a misguided thaw.

There is no ambiguity between the rock and dust that is chilled in a worn path.

The floating heavens did not force my hand.

It is but grace that brought me here.

It is with grace I hope to hold that affinity dear.

 

 

 

 

 

Once and Again!

Once again, warm the climate.  Once again, chaste to human contour.  Once again, we are a forgotten race.  Those of us who choose to live without haste!

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I have found and/or rediscovered the most fascinating book.  Its revelations, as important now, as it had been in 1926.

To be happy?  To be content?

Perhaps, in the simplest of scientific notions:

Even now, with the limited knowledge at our command, we can control circumstances to the point of making the world without an expression of our own world within, where the real thoughts, the real power, resides.  Through this world within you can find the solution of every problem, the cause for every effect.

Discover it- and all power, all possession is within our control.

Simply put…

the world without is but a reflection of the world within.  Think happiness, feel happiness.  But let fear and worry be our mantra?  Fear and worry will be our constant companion.

Today…step out of the box!

‘The virtue in most requests is conformity.  Self-reliance is its aversion.  It loves not realities and creators, but names and customs!’

secret-1
-“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

 

Where the Light and Dark Meet

broken trail 1

Where the light and dark meet…

a hidden trail.

And, it is there, I believe I am free.

My notions and ideals enhance under the ambiance of flowing greenery.

Life is embellished in…sights unseen.

But of course, I am not a consultant to nature.

An adviser to the woods, I will never be.

Still for a fleeting moment…I am free.

broken trail 2
Freedoms just another word for nothing left to lose…J. Joplin