Saturday, July 25


2059 ©2009 RosebudPenfold

he sang

He sang the brightness of mornings and green rivers,
He sang of smoking water in the rose-colored daybreaks,
Of colors: cinnabar, carmine, burnt sienna, blue,
Of the delight of swimming in the sea under marble cliffs,
Of feasting on a terrace above the tumult of a fishing port,
Of the tastes of wine, olive oil, almonds, mustard, salt.
Of the flight of the swallow, the falcon,
Of a dignified flock of pelicans above a bay,
Of the scent of an armful of lilacs in summer rain,
Of his having composed his words always against death
And of having made no rhyme in praise of nothingness.

-- Czeslaw Milosz, lines from "Orpheus and Eurydice" second space

Saturday, July 11


3935 ©2009 RosebudPenfold

And builds, within, a tower that is not stone
(Not stone can jacket heaven)–but slip
Of pebbles,–visible wings of silence sown
In azure circles, widening as they dip

-- Hart Crane, lines from "The Broken Tower"

The Broken Tower

Saturday, July 4


1488 ©2009 RosebudPenfold

When It Comes

Any time. Now. The next minute.
Years from today. You lean forward
and wait. You relax, but you don't forget.

Someone plans an elaborate party
with a banquet, dancing, even fireworks
when feasting is over. You look at them:–

All those years when you searched the world
like a ferret, these never happened–your marriage,
your family, prayers, curses. Only dreams.

A vacuum has opened everywhere. Cities,
armies, those chairs ranked in the great
hall for the audience–there isn't anyone.

Like a shutter the sky opens and closes
and the show is over. The next act
will deny that anything ever happened.

Your hand falls open. It is empty. It never
held a knife, a flower, gold,
or love, or now. Lean closer–

Listen to me: there isn't any hand.

-- William Stafford, from The Answers Are Inside the Mountains