Children of the Dusty Plums

the tiniest children come for the plums
begging for what they can’t reach
plum brave they ring the bell again and again
I’ve not met these eyes ablaze,
these sweet dreams, these juicy hearts.
asking me to the front lawn
they make themselves understood
pointing to dark hidden gems amongst the leaves
how did I not see these before?
when did fruit blindness set in?
4 for 4 leaves them satisfied
I suggest washing them back home
but it’s too late
and what’s a little dust anyway?
surely a simple and necessary inoculation
against something
probably adult onset fruit blindness

Black & white…

Originally posted on Living with a damaged skull:

                                        

               “Color is everything,

                                          black and white is more.  

      

                                                                    ~`~ Dorninie Rouse

_POP1904-bw copy

                  “To see in color is a delight for the eye    

                          but to see in black and white is a      

           …

View original 859 more words

Messenger by Mary Oliver


My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird--
  equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
  keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
  astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
  and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
  to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
  that we live forever.


From the book Thirst

Act of Union by Seamus Heaney

I

To-night, a first movement, a pulse,
As if the rain in bogland gathered head
To slip and flood: a bog-burst,
A gash breaking open the ferny bed.
Your back is a firm line of eastern coast
And arms and legs are thrown
Beyond your gradual hills. I caress
The heaving province where our past has grown.
I am the tall kingdom over your shoulder
That you would neither cajole nor ignore.
Conquest is a lie. I grow older
Conceding your half-independent shore
Within whose borders now my legacy
Culminates inexorably.

II

And I am still imperially
Male, leaving you with the pain,
The rending process in the colony,
The battering ram, the boom burst from within.
The act sprouted an obstinate fifth column
Whose stance is growing unilateral.
His heart beneath your heart is a wardrum
Mustering force. His parasitical
And ignorant little fists already
Beat at your borders and I know they’re cocked
At me across the water. No treaty
I forsee will salve completely your tracked
And stretchmarked body, the big pain
That leaves you raw, like opened ground, again.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seamus_Heaney