Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Starry Night
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

The Church – Under The Milky Way

The Return

Summer Evening
The Return

Sarah watched from the window – her right arm in the natural resting position on the sill, while her left hand fidgeted with the flower pot.  It was a warm sunny summer evening and her two boys were at play in the back yard – it should be a happy time.  But where was her husband, Matt? – it wasn’t like him to be late coming home.  And he seemed distance lately – Sarah caught herself before going down this path and returned her focus to the boys.

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The Path Anew

The New Path
The Path Anew

Henri walked this path thousands of times – and yet today he would walk it for the first time.  Were those rosemary bushes always there? he wondered as he neared the bend.  For the past 23 years he had strolled this path every day with Gabrielle in his arms.  They talked of the little things that happened during the day – inconsequential things really – but their time together was never about the conversation anyway, Henri began to realize.  Now, left to his solitude he found himself disoriented with his surroundings – the path seemed foreign to him.  He suddenly found it hard to imagine his life without Gabrielle.

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The Cafe Glance

Cafe Terrace at Night
The Cafe Glance

Dylan quickly glanced up and down the street before returning his gaze to the untouched glass of ale.  He was sure that Monique still walked by this cafe on her way home from work – and it should be any minute now.  On such a night as this, she would surely stop when she saw him.

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Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

Mending Wall
Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors’.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

Robert Frost

The Lake’s Breath

The Lake's Breath

The Lake's Breath

I feel the cool Autumn breeze on my face and arms as it makes my skirt dance across my knees. It is grandma, of course, giving me a kiss “hello”. She always made these woods come alive with her stories of the wind fairies – and though mom said she was gone now, I know she is here. Her presence is particularly strong as I near the edge of the woods as it spilled into the shore of the lake. I can smell her fragrance emanating from the leaves on the trees as they sway in the breeze all around me. I hear her lyrical voice echo from the waves as they sweep against the shore and carry in the wind all around me. I see her smile reflected as the light glitters across the lakes’ surface.

Yes, grandma – I hear you – I’m fine…

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The Little Knitters

The Little Knitters

The Little Knitters

“When can I knit Ang’l?”, asked Dently. “In a while Dent”, replied Angel.  “Mom said I could help, Ang’l.”  “I know Dent – you are helping by holding the thread for me.  That’s an important role in knitting – you know.”  “Oh ok – what are we making again?”  “It will be a sweather for grandma – to help keep her warm.”  “Then, will she come outside and play with us?”  “Maybe Dent.”

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There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound —
And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
(Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

Robert Frost

In a natural poem and fine art painting mashup, the “Mowing” by Robert Frost gives voice to ”The Veteran in a New Field” painting by Winslow Homer. I imagine Robert penning his thoughts into his lyrical poem after gazing at this painting – closing his eyes and hearing the whisper sound of the scythe as it made its back and forth rhythm across the hay – and we get a moment in time full of the imagery and voice of a quiet contemplation of man and his interactions with nature.