Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith

by Mary Oliver

Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun’s brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can’t hear

anything, I can’t see anything —
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green
stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker —
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk.

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing —
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves,

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet —
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum.

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear?

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn’s beautiful body
is sure to be there.

The Catch-Up Post:

Lots of knitting, not enough cleaning. Lots of kid stuff, and house stuff, and wibbling over personal school stuff. Still in love with several people. Still puzzling over religion and politics and why people are shits to one another.

Still not King. Still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. Learning not to talk so much.

Good Morning, Beautiful

Lyrics by Matt Johnson

Satellite, oh, satellite who sits upon our skies
How deep do you see, when you spy into our lives?

I know that God lives in everybody’s soul
And the only Devil in your world lives in the human heart

So now, ask yourself, what is human? What is truth?
Ask yourself, whose voice is it, that whispers unto you?
From the cellars of your homes, from the tops of your city roofs
Ask yourself, whose voice is it, that whispers unto you?

Who is it, that turns your blood into spirit, and your spirit into blood?
Who is it, that can reach down from above
And set your souls ablaze with love
Or fill you with the insanity of violence and its brother, lust?

Who is it, whose words have been twisted beyond recognition
In order to build, your planet Earth’s religions?
Who is it, who could make your little armies of the left
And your little armies of the right, light up your skies tonight, tonight?

Now, some of you may live and some of you may die
But remember, that nothing in your world, can kill you inside
For he is thinkin’ of you, in your great cities of great solitude

Oh children, you’ve still got a lot to fuckin’ learn
The only path to Heaven is via Hell

Good morning beautiful, good morning beautiful
Good morning beautiful, goodbye world

Merton’s Epiphany

Corner of Fourth and Walnut today (now Fourth and Muhammad Ali Ave)

Corner of Fourth and Walnut today (now Fourth and Muhammad Ali Ave). Taken from my hotel room in 2009.

“In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world, the world of renunciation and supposed holiness… This sense of liberation from an illusory difference was such a relief and such a joy to me that I almost laughed out loud… I have the immense joy of being man, a member of a race in which God Himself became incarnate. As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.