your green eyes and
the way the sun shone through the pink petals—
Rita’s painted egg and two sand dollars on the toy chest,
Queen Anne’s Lace in the wild lane
where I walked alone on a late summer’s day
Bringing Joy
Tag Archives: writing
Excerpt from Thoreau
August 1850
As my eye rested on the blossom of the meadow–sweet in a hedge, I heard the note of an autumnal cricket, and was penetrated with the sense of autumn. Was it sound? or was it form? or was it scent? or was it flavor? It is now the royal month of August.
The question is not what you look at, but what you see.
Excerpt from the book: The Journal 1837-1861 by Henry David Thoreau
Things that Fly
butterflies and dragonflies and dragons (admittedly not far since their wings are often smaller than their bodies)
insects and bats and some squirrels (although in a mostly coasting fashion)
planes and helicopters and some pigs (almost never, but who am I to say?)
imagination and time (not exclusively when having fun) and excuses (some are said to not fly, but the best ones often try)
Time
time falls and drifts
like rain that mists
on a hot summer day,
evaporating before our very eyes–
slanting sideways into the future
Excerpt from: This Side of Paradise
“I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses.”
from the book, This Side of Paradise, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1920
Excerpt from the book: Vanessa Bell
Here, where the artist strives to shape, condense and order thoughts and sensations until they take on a form that communicates, is the promise of continuity as opposed to decay, of meaning as opposed to senselessness, of value as opposed to waste. Vanessa painted, not in order to forget anxiety and pain, but in order to transform them into the permanence of art.
Excerpt from the book, Vanessa Bell by Frances Spalding, 1983
The Details
beauty in a dying tulip
synchronicity of color
ferns stretching, unfurling
old metal jugs against wood grain
early morning sun on the curtain
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Broken Wings
Lilacs
when you visit my dreams, it’s eternally spring time and you walk around with your arms full of lilacs; from room to room you go, trailing their smell in long ribbons of sleepy memory that cling and linger long after awakening
Alley Cat
she was a feral creature—
wild and fierce and city-smart–
a force to be reckoned with,
a weary spirit of hardship,
a survivor of many lives
spanishwoods 