Monday, February 04, 2013

Monday Poetry Stretch - Amazed and Humbled

I've been spending time reading admission files for the University. Every year I'm simply amazed at what these applicants have done and accomplished, most before the age of 18.

There are other things in this world that amaze me. Have you seen this video on underwater astonishments?

Nature amazes me, usually on a daily basis. Last week I walked out into the snow in the early morning hours to hear a woodpecker tapping away. It made me laugh and marvel at the world at the same time.

The sky still amazes me, no matter how many times I look at the moon or stars. I also find it to be quite humbling.

While I continue to read applications and wander through my week in wonderment and appreciation, I thought it might be fun to write about what amazes or humbles us. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll share the results in time for Poetry Friday.

8 comments:

  1. Celebrant

    She goes to weddings, funerals, birthdays,
    coming-of-age parties, crone-hood inductions,
    bar and bas mitzvahs, communions, comings out.
    Like the fool of old, she is hired to speak truth,
    make games, spread rose petals, hold hands,
    help us laugh, lead us into tears,
    say the words that make us understand
    this special moment, this special day.
    She does it with grace and hair touched
    with rosemary oil, bringing the outdoors in,
    the natural to the unnature,
    and the herb of remembrance into our lives.

    ©2013 Jane Yolen all rights reserved

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  2. MORNING

    Sunset stretches out of bed,
    I follow suit, my vision is a myopic blur
    As I wash face, brush teeth, comb hair.
    When I return to my room I finally notice
    My clothes have been laid out, shirt and pants
    Pressed, shoes shined to perfection like
    mirrored footwear. Nose finally wakes up
    spots an aroma ... my favorite breakfast.
    Head downstairs see Pop over a hot stove,
    Ham, eggs, biscuits, raspberry preserves
    and freshly squeezed orange juice resting
    on our 3rd generation maple colored table.
    My father doesn't speak much, taciturn
    would be a good way to describe him.
    Though this morning he tells me
    the only thing that I care about
    hearing from him.
    "Happy Birthday son."

    (C) Charles Waters 2013 all rights reserved.

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  3. This happened in 2005. Here's one of the articles I read: http://www.sfgate.com/news/article/Seed-of-extinct-date-palm-sprouts-after-2-000-2628668.php


    Date Palm

    Elaine grows a date palm in her greenhouse
    beside a Dang gui from China
    and a Tibetan Chu ma tsi. She was given
    three seeds the way Jack was given beans.
    Now she has three leaves, a Biblical miracle.

    The seeds are 2,000 years old. Sealed up
    in Masada, Herod’s palace and then a fortress
    of grief as the Romans began to breach
    the high walls and Jewish rebels chose to die.

    Methuselah, Roman phoenix, tamar,
    Judea’s tree, its dates sweet beyond sweet.
    They cured cancer, malaria, and toothache.
    The fronds were paving stones beneath
    the dusty feet of the Jewish prophet Jesus.

    Today a trinity of leaves rises from the black
    plastic pot like a resurrection.
    Elaine tends this plant with the others.
    She writes about its growth in her notes.
    But there are times she just looks at it,
    wondering about death and life.

    —Kate Coombs, 2013
    all rights reserved

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  4. Sands of TIme

    I changed
    his diapers,
    washed
    his clothes,
    combed
    his silky hair

    I held
    him
    in
    my arms
    at night,
    rocked him
    in
    my chair

    I told
    him stories,
    sang
    him
    songs,
    never left
    his side

    If I’d
    my way
    this distant
    time—
    he’d be my
    sand,
    I’d be his
    tide.

    (c) 2010, jgk

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  5. This is a revision of an earlier poem...

    Winter moon

    there’s something
    about the winter
    moon—
    something in
    its craggy
    glow,
    something in
    its skin like
    snow,
    something in
    its torpid
    pace,
    something in
    its heatless
    grace—
    something
    about its hanging
    there,
    rootless in
    the twilight
    air.

    (c) 2013, jgk

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  6. Forgot to tell you how much I like this, Julie. Especially those last several lines. Wonderful!

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  7. Thank you, Kate. And big congratulations for being a Cybils Finalist!

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  8. Thank you, Kate--and congrats for being a Cybils Finalist!

    ReplyDelete