Peach Blossoms

Sometimes the only healing modality for all this stress and anxiety is to go outside and work in the garden. Flowers don’t care if democracy is crumbling; there is regenerative rebirth every spring, no matter what or whom is orchestrating our demise.

After the rain, all my fruit trees burst forth with glorious flowers. It’s a small tree, but full of life. I’m continually fascinated with photographing raindrops.

Photo by Enchanted Seashells

Poetic Truth : Pity The Nation

We are living in sad and scary times. Lawrence Ferlinghetti wrote the poem “Pity the Nation” in 2007, drawing inspiration from Khalil Gibran’s original work of the same title, published in 1933. Their words are a reminder about the cycles of history.  

We’ve been warned.

PITY THE NATION

Pity the nation whose people are sheep
   And whose shepherds mislead them
 Pity the nation whose leaders are liars
            Whose sages are silenced
  And whose bigots haunt the airwaves
 Pity the nation that raises not its voice
          Except to praise conquerers
       And acclaim the bully as hero
          And aims to rule the world
              By force and by torture
          Pity the nation that knows
        No other language but its own
      And no other culture but its own
 Pity the nation whose breath is money
 And sleeps the sleep of the too well fed
      Pity the nation oh pity the people
        who allow their rights to erode
   and their freedoms to be washed away
               My country, tears of thee
                   Sweet land of liberty!
 Lawrence Ferlinghetti, 2007

                         

PITY THE NATION
By Khalil Gibran, 1933

Pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion.

Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave, eats a bread it does not harvest, and drinks a wine that flows not from its own wine-press.

Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero, and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.

Pity the nation that despises a passion in its dream, yet submits in its awakening.

Pity the nation that raises not its voice save when it walks in a funeral, boasts not except among its ruins, and will rebel not save when its neck is laid between the sword and the block.

Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox, whose philosopher is a juggler, and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking.

Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpetings, and farewells him with hootings, only to welcome another with trumpetings again.

Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years and whose strong men are yet in the cradle.

Pity the nation divided into fragments, each fragment deeming itself a nation.

I See You

I had another lucid dream about my kitty, Bandit. She was seated on the sofa, paws tucked up under her body, and she was simply looking at me.

When she was alive, she would often stare at me, right through to my bones, with such intense love in her eyes that I’d have to stop whatever I was doing and bask in the feeling of being so very loved. SIGH. I surely do miss that girl.

And, there
In the mists of my memory
I see you.
And, there
In the mists of my memory
You shall always be.

A little poem written by Athey Thompson

Reach For The Light

When things are as bad as they appear to be here in the US, and with growing anxiety every day, sometimes all we can do is breathe and reach for the light wherever we can.

Light is the thing we seek
Within the darkest of day,
let it show us the way.


Little words by Athey Thompson
“Reaching for that Star” by Florian Ceglarek

Enchanted Places

Those Enchanted places
We go to
And, whether they be real
Or whether
They be made up places
That we go to
Only we shall know
Only we shall go

A little poem by Athey Thompson
Art by Marieke Nelissen for Jacquie Lawson via Pinterest

A Little Fairy Magic

I don’t know about you, but I need some fairies to perform a little magic right about now.

The Fairy Forest

The faery forest glimmered
Beneath an ivory moon,
The silver grasses shimmered
Against a faery tune.

Beneath the silken silence
The crystal branches slept,
And dreaming thro’ the dew-fall
The cold white blossoms wept.
Sara Teasdale

Art credit: Midsummer Eve by Edward Robert Hughes

Leon Russell 🎩 Bluebird

The world lost Leon Russell eight years ago on November 13, 2016. He was and will always be the absolutely gorgeous Master of Space and Time. He is so very missed. I hope that our collective and continued love for Leon offers his family some small comfort as they remember his life. We will never forget him or his musical genius that still brings so much joy.

According to his mother, Leon Russell’s first words happened as a result of observing some birds…“What’s the matter little birdie, you cry?” She was shocked because Leon had never before spoken. For some reason, that sweet story touches my heart. Maybe it was a bluebird.

Credit to the photographer

This Mary Oliver poem about a bluebird seems to convey what I can’t figure out how to say.

What Gorgeous Thing

I do not know what gorgeous thing
the bluebird keeps saying,
his voice easing out of his throat,
beak, body into the pink air
of the early morning. I like it
whatever it is. Sometimes
it seems the only thing in the world
that is without dark thoughts.
Sometimes it seems the only thing
in the world that is without
questions that can’t and probably
never will be answered, the
only thing that is entirely content
with the pink, then clear white
morning and, gratefully, says so. — Mary Oliver

Bluebird by Leon Russell

*Featured photo credit to Enchanted Seashells of scrub jay

StarLoveLight

The Moon said to the stars :
Do not look at my dark side
for it is unseen by me
and unworthy of Love.

And the stars said :
I see your darkness and light
and love your contrasting nature.

Would it be love if I only loved
the half that reflected my shining?

At a distance you only see my light,
come closer and know that I am You.

Words by Rumi
Art credit to Jungsuk Lee

Dreams of Tea With The Raven King

Crows, ravens, I love them all. How spectacular would it be to have tea with the king of the ravens.

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Dreams by Langston Hughes

Tea With The Raven King by Lisbeth Cheever-Gessaman

let her be

Let her be
For her heart is filled with stardust
Her soul is as wild and free
As the wind

A Little Poem by Athey Thompson
Art by Roger Guinee