e e cummings
the first of all my dreams was of
a lover and his only love,
strolling slowly(mind in mind)
through some green mysterious land
until my second dream begins~
the sky is wild with leaves; which dance
and dancing swoop(and swooping whirl
over a frightened boy and girl)
but that mere fury soon became
silence: in huger always whom
two tiny selves sleep(doll by doll)
motionless under magical
foreverfully falling snow.
And then this dreamer wept: and so
She quickly dreamed a dream of spring
~how you and I are blossoming
Please Call Me By My True Names
By Thich Nhat Hanh
Don't say
that I will depart tomorrow-
even today I
am still arriving.
Look deeply:
every second I am arriving
to be a bud
on a Spring branch,
to be a tiny
bird, with still-fragile wings,
learning to sing in my new
nest,
to be a
caterpillar in the heart of a flower,
to be a jewel
hiding itself in a stone.
I still
arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,
to fear and
to hope.
The rhythm of
my heart is the birth and death
of all that
is alive.
I am a mayfly metamorphosing
on the
surface of the river.
And I am the
bird
that swoops
down to swallow the mayfly.
I am a frog swimming happily
in the clear
water of a pond.
And I am the
grass-snake
that silently
feeds itself on the frog.
I am the child in Uganda
my legs as
thin a bamboo sticks.
And I am the
arms merchant,
selling
deadly weapons to Uganda
I am the
twelve-year-old girl,
refugee on a
small boat,
who throws
herself into the ocean
after being
raped by a sea pirate.
And I am the
pirate,
my heart not
yet capable
of seeing and
loving.
My joy is
like Spring, so warm
it makes
flowers bloom all over the Earth.
My pain is
like a river of tears,
so vast it
fills the four oceans.
Please call
me by my true names,
so I can hear
all my cries and laughter at once,
so I can see
that my joy and pain are one.
Please call
me by my true names,
so I can wake
up
and the door
of my heart
could be left
open,
the door of
compassion.
KINDNESS
by
Naomi
Shihab Nye.
Before you know what
kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
 |
| "Sacred Time" |
It is almost time.
As always,
There has been
So much to do. But now, before it is too late,
Before this hallowed, gracious hour slips away,
I must pause
And be quiet.
I must think.
I must be
With God.
- Vincent P. McCorry, S.J.
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