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#PoeticThursday . . . A Pilgrim’s Progress.

 

A Pilgrim’s Progress

I do not have to go
To Sacred Places
In far-off lands.
The ground I stand on
Is holy

Here in this little garden
I tend
My pilgrimage ends.
The wild honeybees
The hummingbird moths
The flickering fireflies at dusk
Are a microcosm
Of the Universe.
Each seed that grows
Each spade of soil
Is full of miracles.

And I toil and sweat
And watch and wonder
And am full of love.
Living in this place.
For truth and beauty
Dwell here.

~ Mary de La Valette

 

 

 

Text and image source: Jamberoo Abbey https://www.facebook.com/1567391160191012/posts/2803549206575195/

#PoeticThursday . . . . White-Eyes






In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird

with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,
but he’s restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.

So, it’s over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he’s done all he can.

I don’t know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—

which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.

By Mary Oliver










Artist Unknown
Text & image source: Snowwolfs Woodland Nook https://www.facebook.com/Snowwolfswoodlandnook/











#PoeticThursday . . . . The Carol Singers




The Carol Singers

Last night the carol-singers came
When I had gone to bed,
Upon the crisp white path outside
I heard them softly tread.

I sat upright to listen, for
I knew they came to tell,
Of all the things that happened on
The very first Noel.

Upon my ceiling flickering
I saw their lantern glow,
And then they sang their carols sweet
Of Christmas long ago.

And when at last they went away,
Their carol-singing done,
There was a little boy who wished
They’d only just begun.


by Margaret G. Rhodes.











Artist Frances Tyrrell
Text & image source: Snowwolfs Woodland Nook https://www.facebook.com/Snowwolfswoodlandnook/











#PoeticThursday . . . . A Little Wren in Winter




A Little Wren in Winter

She flits among the holly leaves,
a tiny dappled short-winged wren;
she sings with joy above the eaves,
announcing hope throughout the glen.

Her songs now tell of longer days,
of glistening snow and evenings,
replete with vibrant trills that raise
a zest for feasts and frolickings.

While winter’s razor teeth can bite
frail birds aloft in freezing zones,
bel canto saves the wren tonight;
her chest beats warm as she intones…

refrains that ring of golden skies,
of warmth that balmy springtime brings.
A little wren in winter flies
among the holly leaves and sings.

By Barbara Gaye Wood.










Artist Mike Stinnett
Text & image source: Snowwolfs Woodland Nook https://www.facebook.com/Snowwolfswoodlandnook/











#PoeticThursday . . . . The Beech Tree.




The Beech Tree.

This beauty that stands before me
Unchallenged by the light of day
Or the four winds that surround her
For she has stood her own for so long
Offered her strength and shelter
For so long,
Become part, yet set within the
Ever changing feilds of time
This beauty that stands before me
She has grown through the ages
Held secrets never to be told and
Yet her wisdom seems to seep through
Every heartfelt hue,
Roots set deep and spreading
Branches that stretchout like hands
A comforting sight for onlookers
Who smile as they
Understand

Duncan Wyllie










Artist Jenny Urquhart
Text & image source: Snowwolfs Woodland Nook https://www.facebook.com/Snowwolfswoodlandnook/