Those Winter Sundays

BY ROBERT HAYDEN

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.



I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,



Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

If

BY RUDYARD KIPLING


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too; 

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Not In Vain By Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

Belated Thank You Note

Why did I always feel so strange,
as if there were something I ought to change,
as if I didn't belong where I was,
that I couldn't do what everyone does?

Because my name was Sarah.

Why did I always feel left out,
wanting to join but ever in doubt?
Nancy and Donna and Cindy and Jane
never seemed to treat me the same

Because my name was Sarah.

What was it that told me I'd been born unawares
in the land of my birth but my fate wasn't theirs?
It wasn't my clothes, it wasn't their stares,
it wasn't that Sarah from Minsk had died.
What was it that bothered, a thorn in my side
and why was I hiding and why had I lied?
What was it that told me that this place, my hometown,
wasn't really my home, wasn't really my town?

My grandmother's name was Sarah.

Why do I thank my parents today?
For giving what constantly gave me away.
In every roll call in every class
I'd stand and feel transparent as glass,
forever the only one in school
whose ancient name broke an unspoken rule.

Why do I send you kisses today?
For the name that wasn't afraid to say:
"I'm different. You know it. Why not just declare
that I'm Jewish. I'm Jewish! My name is Sarah.

By Sarah Shapiro
From Don't You Know It's A Perfect World? (1998)

e.e. cummings - in time of daffodils

in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me

Unsaid

So much of what we live goes on inside–
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.

The neighing horses
are causing echoing neighs
in neighboring barns

-Richard Wright

Faith

Dear Lord, in thine abounding grace,
Let me ever see thy face
Though years may their sorrow bring,
May the winter be like the spring.

Keep fresh in me the love I felt,
When first I met thee as the snows did melt,
When as a child, I asked not why,
Only to see thee in m y soul's eye.

I plead for the vision of my heart,
By which alone I see the part,
Thy spirit plays in making live
The stars above, who strength do give.

May I look at each blade of grass,
And see thine appointed angels pass,
Doing Thy bidding to make it grow
And not by my feeble efforts to sow.

Though my head turns white with years,
Though life is filled with many tears,
Yet, may my faith in winter be,
As 'twas in spring, when I first met thee

There once was an oyster whose story I tell,
Who found that some sand had got into his shell.
It was only a grain, but it gave him great pain,
For oysters have feelings although they're so plain.

Now, did he berate the harsh workings of fate,
That had brought him to such a deplorable state?
Did he curse at the government, cry for election,
And claim that the sea should have given protection?

No - he said to himself as he lay on a shell,
Since I cannot remove it, I shall try to improve it.
Now the years have rolled around, as the years always do,
And he came to his Ultimate Destiny - stew.

And the small grain of sand that had bothered him so,
Was a beautiful pearl all richly aglow.
Now the tale has a moral, for isn't it grand,
What an oyster can do with a morsel of sand?

Crabby Old Woman

What do you see nurses,What do you see?
What are you thinking,When you look at me?
Do you see a crabby old woman,not very wise
uncertain of habit,with far away eyes.
A person who dribbles her food,and makes no reply
when you say in a loud voice,"I do wish you'd try"
A woman who doesn't seem to notice the things that you do,
and forever is losinga stocking or shoe.
A person, maybe resisting at times,lets you do as you will,
with my bathing and feeding,and handing me my pills.
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes nurses,cause you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am, as I sit here so still,
as I rise at your bidding,as I eat at your will.
I'm a child of ten With a mother and father
and brothers and sisters,who love one another.
A young girl of sixteen,with wings on her feet,
dreaming that soon nowa lover she'll meet.
A bride soon at twenty,the heart gives a leap,
remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five nowI have young of my own,
who need me to build a secure, happy home.
A young woman of thirty,my young now grow fast,
bound to each other,with ties that should last.
At forty, the young ones are grown
and soon will be gone.But my man stays beside me,so I don't feel so alone.
At fifty once more,babies play round my knee.
Again we know children,my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me,my husband is dead,
I look at the future,and I shudder with dread.
For my young ones are all busy,rearing young of their own,
and I think of the years and the love I have known.
I'm an old woman now,and nature is cruel.
Nature makes old age look like such a fool.
The body is crumbled,grace and vigour depart.
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass,a young girl still dwells.
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys,I remember the pain,
and I'm loving and living life all over again.
I think of the years,all too few, and gone to fast,
and I accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, nurses,open them and see,
look a little closer, nurses...Please see the real ME.

- written in 1966 by Phyllis McCormack, then working as a nurse in Sunnyside Hospital, Montrose.

Awakening Now

by Danna Faulds

Why wait for your awakening?

The moment your eyes are open, seize the day.

Would you hold back when the Beloved beckons?

Would you deliver your litany of sins like a child’s collection of sea shells, prized and labeled?

“No, I can’t step across the threshold,” you say, eyes downcast.

“I’m not worthy” I’m afraid, and my motives aren’t pure.

I’m not perfect, and surely I haven’t practiced nearly enough.

My meditation isn’t deep, and my prayers are sometimes insincere.

I still chew my fingernails, and the refrigerator isn’t clean.

“Do you value your reasons for staying small more than the light shining through the open door?

Forgive yourself.

Now is the only time you have to be whole.

Now is the sole moment that exists to live in the light of your true Self.
Perfection is not a prerequisite for anything but pain.

Please, oh please, don’t continue to believe in your disbelief.

This is the day of your awakening.

From: Go In and In:
Poems From the Heart of Yoga

Downpour By Billy Collins

Last night we ended up on the couch
trying to remember
all of the friends who had died so far,

and this morning I wrote them down
in alphabetical order
on the flip side of a shopping list
you had left on the kitchen table.

So many of them had been swept away
as if by a hand from the sky,
it was good to recall them,
I was thinking
under the cold lights of a supermarket
as I guided a cart with a wobbly wheel
up and down the long strident aisles.

I was on the lookout for blueberries,
English muffins, linguini, heavy cream,
light bulbs, apples, Canadian bacon,
and whatever else was on the list,
which I managed to keep grocery side up,

until I had passed through the electric doors,
where I stopped to realize,
as I turned the list over,
that I had forgotten Terry O’Shea
as well as the bananas and the bread.

It was pouring by then,
spilling, as they say in Ireland,
people splashing across the lot to their cars.
And that is when I set out,
walking slowly and precisely,
a soaking-wet man
bearing bags of groceries,
walking as if in a procession honoring the dead.

I felt I owed this to Terry,
who was such a strong painter,
for almost forgetting him
and to all the others who had formed
a circle around him on the screen in my head.

I was walking more slowly now
in the presence of the compassion
the dead were extending to a comrade,

plus I was in no hurry to return
to the kitchen, where I would have to tell you
all about Terry and the bananas and the bread.

Love and Dread By Rachel Hadas

A desiccated daffodil.
A pigeon cooing on the sill.
The old cat lives on love and water.
Your mother’s balanced by your daughter:
one faces death, one will give birth.
The fulcrum is our life on earth,
beginning, ending in a bed.
We have to marry love and dread.
Dark clouds are roiling in the sky.
The daily drumbeat of the lie,
steady—no, crescendoing.
This premature deceptive spring,
forsythia’s in bloom already.
The challenge: balance. Keep it steady,
now sniffing daffodils’ aroma,
now Googling a rare sarcoma.
The ghost cat’s weightless on my lap.
My mother’s ghost floats through my nap,
as, dearest heart, we lie in bed.
Oh, we must marry love and dread:
must shield our senses from the glare
and clamor of chaos everywhere.
Life bestows gifts past expectation.
It’s time to plan a celebration:
dance at the wedding, drink and sing,
certain that summer follows spring,
that new life blossoms from the past.
The baby is the youngest guest.
But just how long can we depend
on a recurrence without end?
Everything changes, even change.
The tapestry of seasons strange-
ly stirs in an uneasy wind
that teases dreamlike through the mind.
I reach for you across the bed.
Oh, how to marry love and dread?

.My Coronet

l

If I in my daily contact

....... Of school days spent with you

Have taught you

.......To live content with small means,

To seek elegance rather than luxury,

.......Refinement rather than fashion,

To be most worthy and respectable,

.......To study hard, talk gently and act

......................frankly,

To listen with open mind and heart

.......And grow up to be all that you should:

Cheerful, brave, and true

.......To G-d, home, and country;

Then I shall have completed

.......The setting of another tiny jewel, with

..................care

Into the crown of my life work.

O

FRANCES G.V. KENNY

The Song of He'ezinu

Translated by Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan ZT"L

Listen heaven! I will speak! Earth! Hear the words of my mouth! My lesson shall drop like rain, my saying shall flow down like the dew - like a downpour on the herb, like a shower on the grass.

When I proclaim God's name, praise God for His greatness. The deeds of the Mighty One are perfect, for all His ways are just. He is a faithful God, never unfair; righteous and moral is He. Destruction is His children's fault, not His own, you warped and twisted generation. Is this the way you repay God, you ungrateful, unwise nation? Is He not your Father, your Master, the One who made and established you?

Remember days long gone by. Ponder the years of each generation. Ask your father and let him tell you, and your grandfather, who will explain it. When the Most High gave nations their heritage and split up the sons of man, He set up the borders of nations to parallel the number of Israel's descendants. But His own nation remained God's portion; Jacob was the lot of His heritage.

He brought them into being in a desert region, in a desolate, howling wasteland. He encompassed them and granted them wisdom, protecting them like the pupil of His eye. Like an eagle arousing its nest, hovering over its young, He spread His wings and took them, carrying them on His pinions. God alone guided them; there was no alien power with Him.

He carried them over the earth's highest places, to feast on the crops of the field. He let them suckle honey from the bedrock, oil from the flinty cliff. They had the cheese of cattle, milk of sheep, fat of lambs, rams of the Bashan, and luscious fat wheat. They drank the blood of grapes for wine. Jeshurun thus became fat and rebelled. You grew fat, thick and gross. The nation abandoned the God who made it and spurned the Mighty One who was its support.

They provoked His jealousy with alien practices; made Him angry with vile deeds. They sacrificed to demons who were non-gods, deities they never knew. These were new things, recently arrived, which their fathers would never consider. You thus ignored the Mighty One who bore you; forgot the Power who delivered you.

When God saw this, He was offended, provoked by His sons and daughters. He said: I will hide My face from them, and see what will be their end. They are a generation which reverses itself and cannot be trusted. They have been faithless to Me with a non-god, angering Me with their meaningless acts. Now I will be unfaithful to them with a non-nation, provoking them with a nation devoid of gratitude. My anger has kindled a fire, burning to the lowest depths. It shall consume the land and its crops, setting fire to the foundations of mountains. I will heap evil upon them, striking them with My arrows.

They will be bloated by famine, consumed by fever, cut down by bitter plague. I will send against them fanged beasts, with venomous creatures who crawl in the dust. Outside, the sword shall butcher boys, girls, infants, white-headed elders, while inside, there shall be terror. I was prepared to exterminate them, to make their memory vanish from among mankind. But I was concerned that their enemies would be provoked, and their attackers alienated, so that they would say, 'Our superior power and not God, was what caused all this.' But they are a nation who destroys good advice, and they themselves have no understanding. If they were wise, they would contemplate this, and understand what their end will be.

How could one [man] pursue a thousand, or two [men], ten thousand, if their Mighty One had not given them over, and God had not trapped them? Their powers are not like our Mighty One, although our enemies sit in judgment. But their vine is from the vine of Sodom and the shoot of Gomorrah. Their grapes are poison grapes; their grape cluster is bitterness to them. Their vine is serpents' venom, like the poison of the dreadful cobra.

But it is concealed with Me for the future, sealed up in My treasury. I have vengeance and retribution, waiting for their foot to slip. Their day of disaster is near, and their time is about to come. God will then take up the cause of His people, and comfort His servants. He will have seen that their power is gone, with nothing left to keep or abandon.

[God] will then say: Where is their god, the power in which they trusted? [Where are the gods] who ate the fat of their sacrifices and drank the wine of their libations? Let them now get up and help you! Let them be your protector! But now see! It is I! I am the [only] One! There are no [other] gods with Me! I kill and give life! If I crushed, I will heal! But there is no protection from My power!

I lift My hand to heaven and say: I am Life forever. I will whet My lightning sword and grasp judgment in My hand. I will bring vengeance against My foes, and repay those who hated Me.

I will make My arrows drunk with blood, My sword consuming flesh. The enemy's first punishment will be the blood of the slain and wounded. Let the tribes of His nation sing praise, for He will avenge His servants' blood. He will bring vengeance upon His foes, and reconcile His people [to] His land.

Yom Kippur

By Phillip Schultz

You are asked to stand and bow your head,
consider the harm you've caused,
the respect you've withheld,
the anger misspent, the fear spread,
the earnestness displayed
in the service of prestige and sensibility,
all the callous, cruel, stubborn, joyless sins
in your alphabet of woe
so that you might be forgiven.
You are asked to believe in the spark
of your divinity, in the purity
of the words of your mouth
and the memories of your heart.
You are asked for this one day and one night
to starve your body so your soul can feast
on faith and adoration.
You are asked to forgive the past
and remember the dead, to gaze
across the desert in your heart
toward Jerusalem. To separate
the sacred from the profane
and be as numerous as the sands
and the stars of heaven.
To believe that no matter what
you have done to yourself and others
morning will come and the mountain
of night will fade. To believe,
for these few precious moments,
in the utter sweetness of your life.
You are asked to bow your head
and remain standing,
and say Amen.

Small Kindnesses

By Danusha Laméris

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead — you first,” “I like your hat.”

Failure

By Phillip Schultz

To pay for my father’s funeral
I borrowed money from people
he already owed money to.
One called him a nobody.
No, I said, he was a failure.
You can’t remember
a nobody’s name, that’s why
they’re called nobodies.
Failures are unforgettable.
The rabbi who read a stock eulogy
about a man who didn’t belong to
or believe in anything
was both a failure and a nobody.
He failed to imagine the son
and wife of the dead man
being shamed by each word.
To understand that not
believing in or belonging to
anything demanded a kind
of faith and buoyancy.
An uncle, counting on his fingers
my father’s business failures—
a parking lot that raised geese,
a motel that raffled honeymoons,
a bowling alley with roving mariachis—
failed to love and honor his brother,
who showed him how to whistle
under covers, steal apples
with his right or left hand. Indeed,
my father was comical.
His watches pinched, he tripped
on his pant cuffs and snored
loudly in movies, where
his weariness overcame him
finally. He didn’t believe in:
savings insurance newspapers
vegetables good or evil human
frailty history or God.
Our family avoided us,
fearing boils. I left town
but failed to get away.

The King and the Ocean
By Fred Rogers


"I have a notion
to move to the ocean!"
Declared a king in his tower
After thinking for an hour.
He traveled for days around his land
But he couldn't find an ocean at hand.
Finally, the king returned to his tower.
He thought and thought for another hour.
Then he said so loud and clear
So all could hear,
"You know I'm fond of my pond.
I think I'll stay right here!"

Love is People

By Fred Rogers

Love is people
Love is people needing people
Love is people caring for people
That is love

Love's a little child sharing with another
Love's a brave man daring to liberate his brother

Love is people
Love is people needing people
Love is people caring for people
That is love

And though some have costly treasure
It never seems to measure
Up to people needing people
Caring for people
For that's love
Love is people
People love

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Father's Song - Poem by Gregory Orr

Yesterday, against admonishment,
my daughter balanced on the couch back,
fell and cut her mouth.

Because I saw it happen I knew
she was not hurt, and yet
a child's blood so red
it stops a father's heart.

My daughter cried her tears;
I held some ice
against her lip.
That was the end of it.

Round and round: bow and kiss.
I try to teach her caution;
she tries to teach me risk. 

When I Was One-and-Twenty

BY A. E. HOUSMAN

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
“Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.”
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
“The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.”
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

I asked for strength and
God gave me difficulties to make me strong.

I asked for wisdom and
God gave me problems to solve.


I asked for prosperity and
God gave me brawn and brains to work.

I asked for courage and
God gave me dangers to overcome.

I asked for patience and
God placed me in situations where I was forced to wait.

I asked for love and
God gave me troubled people to help.

I asked for favors and
God gave me opportunities.

I received nothing I wanted
I received everything I needed.
My prayers have all been answered.

Unknown

"Count your blessings instead of your crosses;
Count your gains instead of your losses.
Count your joys instead of your woes;
Count your friends instead of your foes.
Count your smiles instead of your tears;
Count your courage instead of your fears.
Count your full years instead of your lean;
Count your kind deeds instead of your mean.
Count your health instead of your wealth;
Count on God instead of yourself."

- Anonymous

Text

by Carol Ann Duffy

I tend the mobile now
like an injured bird.

We text, text, text
our significant words.

I re-read your first,
your second, your third.

look for your small xx,
feeling absurd.

The codes we send
arrive with a broken chord.

I try to picture your hands,
their image is blurred.

Nothing my thumbs press
will ever be heard

THE LIGHTEST TOUCH

By David Whyte

Good poetry begins with
the lightest touch,
a breeze arriving from nowhere,
a whispered healing arrival,
a word in your ear,
a settling into things,
then, like a hand in the dark,
it arrests the whole body,
steeling you for revelation.

In the silence that follows
a great line,
you can feel Lazarus,
deep inside
even the laziest, most deathly afraid
part of you,
lift up his hands
and walk toward the light.

I Worried

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers

flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

—MARY OLIVER

Sure I Was Payed Well

but the money felt
like a thick stack of bills
had been folded once and crammed in my open mouth

so what I wanted to say
was blocked, or at the very least garbled
by the wad of dollars

and my jaws ached
with the strain of being held apart
by the cash. Though I tried to dress well

I wasn’t sure if people on the street
mocked me behind my back
for being so funny looking

with a mouth stuffed with currency.
Or maybe they didn’t see me at all
but only saw the clump of bills

that presed down on my tongue.
When I sought out others payed a smuch as me
I found myself calculating how thick

their gag of dollars was compared to mine. In any case
it was difficult to talk about the experience we had in common

since their words were hard to distinguish
through the money. And I confess
I was afraid to stick my fingers in behind

and lever the currency out; I was fearful of
what was dammed up
behind that cash,

of what the absence of those dollars
would release. And I was anxious
that the wad of money

would turn out to be an illusion:
a few genuine bills on the outside of the roll
and the rest only paper,

paper.

- Tom Wayman