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"The true measure of an individual is how he treats a person who can do him absolutely no good."
~Ann Landers
"Ethics is knowing the difference between what you have a right to do and what is right to do."
~ Potter Stewart
"Before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience.
~ Harper Lee
"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed." ~Albert Einstein
"Trust that little voice in your head that says "Wouldn't it be interesting if..." And then do it." ~Duane Michals, "More Joy of Photography"
"The hardest thing about reality is returning to it after an hour inside your child's mind." ~Robert Brault, www.robertbrault.com
How do we say goodbye
to one teetering on the brink of life,
childhood behind, striding towards adulthood,
with unseen tears closeted behind a façade
that excluded everyone, hiding his pain, his fears,
his belief that solace would be found
by departing this world?
Now that pain is riven, shattered
like the souls he left behind, shared
amongst the survivors of the war within him,
who trudge through each day wondering
what they could have done, why didn’t they see,
why didn’t they hear his voice wailing
in the silence of his lonely fortress?
His toddling steps still echo in his parents’ ears,
the smile that once illuminated their life
now extinguished, his laughter, a memory
to be replayed in the night, his name quivering
upon friends’ lips who look, then realize there’s
no one there, just remnants of a lost soul,
an unfulfilled promise who’s time is past.
How do we say goodbye? We sing
a song of love and loss, share memories of a life
too soon ended, give thanks for the joy his presence
bestowed, embrace him within our hearts, love him
as he was, so human and frail; light a candle to guide
his way onward, remind ourselves that we can’t
control the hand of fate, and say,
“Until we meet again.”
The Quote for Today is about imagination - inspiration - creativity; wonderful words from a range of individuals. I hope you enjoy them as much as I.
"They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night."
~Edgar Allan Poe, "Eleonora"
"Trust that little voice in your head that says "Wouldn't it be interesting if..." And then do it."
~Duane Michals, "More Joy of Photography"
"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed." ~Albert Einstein
"There is a vitality, a life-force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost." ~Martha Graham
“Write what should not be forgotten.” ~ Isabele Allende
"To create one's own world, in any of the arts, takes courage." ~ Georgia O’Keeffe
If it's April, it's National Poetry Month again. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing again. So, here's a little poem dashed off for one of the prompts - a postcard poem.
Smoke-filled cerulean skies rain ash down
onto wind-swept plains, summer heats the spring,
dry days crinkle skin and earth, garden hoses soak
winter’s leavings, a small protection from raging
wildfires, and each drizzle is greeted with joyful
dance and a heartfelt prayer for just a little more.
I guess I should have missed my father since he was dead. He’d been dead for several years then, but as I recall I was more concerned with the damp chill, the spitting rain that covered the day like a soggy blanket so that I wasn’t sure if it was day or night.
I remember the puddle of cold, cold water at my feet, my black patent leather Mary Janes mud-spattered, my once-white Buster-Brown socks soaked, clinging and iced against my feet, the trickle of water from the umbrella overhead that always seemed to drain down the back of my neck – icy fingers against my spine. The only warm spot was the hand my mother held tightly in hers.
Taller than my head, a dark grey stone marked where my father lay. I remember wondering why anyone wanted to spend eternity in the dank ground suffocated by soil and covered with bugs and things. But like most young children, my attention soon wandered away from the stone to the churchyard. The cemetery was attached to a church dating from long, long before even my parent’s births. The rain-drenched trees lining the outside of the cemetery morphed into unnamed monsters from nightmare worlds when seen from the corner of my eye – when I looked directly, they once more became innocent trees draped with sodden leaves that faded into that misty time.
My brother stood on the other side of my mom and when I peaked around her crinoline dress skirt, he would scowl and stick his tongue out at me. At nearly five years older than I, he was as he continually reminded everyone, the man of the family now that daddy had died.
It’s hard to miss someone you never really knew at least, until someone else tells you, shows you, you’re somehow less for not having one.
(Just a bit of memoir - not sure what, if anything, I'm going to do with it.)
"I believe that the act of writing is itself the muse."
~Bret Anthony Johnston
"I don't know what inspiration is. But when it comes I hope it finds me working."
~ Pablo Picasso
"This is where I place myself when I write. I am the Fool about to set off the edge of the world, unafraid of the fall."
~ Susan Power
"A writer stays alive because he or she is writing, or may write: the elusive divine exists."
~Jayne Anne Phillips
"There are two kinds of writer: those who make you think, and those who make you wonder."
~Brian Aldiss
"I often think of a poem as a door that opens into a room where I want to go."
~Minnie Bruce Pratt
Abandoned,
only the ghosts
of long ago remain
within the battered board and tin
now fallen to ruin;
staggering,
hunched downward,
encompassed by leaf flotsam,
returning to wilderness,
primeval.
Gaia encircles this detritus
of human habitation with loving arms,
lonely sentinels standing guard
against the march of populace,
wild grasses weave
a tattered refrain
within the broken walls, tufting
through the windows, waltzing
in the breeze that flows
around and about, whispering
and singing songs
of the departed . . .
from whence we came
so we return . . .
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