(No title) two things I found in an old notebook-

I.

Rain of a summers day.
The doors of the bar are thrown open to the street
It's tempting to step out of the weather,
to seek asylum amongst old men.
But my father is dead,
And Stephen has quit drinking.

II.
Now all the old men are young again,
And their wives too are young.
The young men rest their freshly shaven faces
On the shoulders of their young wives,
And bight them gently on the neck
and from their washing of dishes
they lift them off their feet,
And across the kitchen
And through the doors
thrown open to the street.

Hawaii

Tunes drift from an accordion across paridise
Under the waves wales sing to their calves, if slightly off key.
All the while bikini clad women laugh,
as they pass the old Buddhist graveyard.

I speak my children's names.....
As to hold them close to me...
the cap on my head,
I wear in remembrance of them
in remembrance of you.
my hands through my hair
and my hands upon my face
in remembrance of you...
in remembrance of them......
Them, whom I have loved.....
and her who is gone.
The three never reconciled....
Nor those who came before me,
Never reconciled.
My hands upon your hips,
never reconciled...
You
A city surrendered at my feet,
surrendered at my hands.....
given freely.
freely given.
Never reconciled..... 

Donal Og

It is late last night the dog was speaking of you;
the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh.
It is you are the lonely bird through the woods;
and that you may be without a mate until you find me.
You promised me, and you said a lie to me,
that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked;
I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,
and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.
You promised me a thing that was hard for you,
a ship of gold under a silver mast;
twelve towns with a market in all of them,
and a fine white court by the side of the sea.
You promised me a thing that is not possible,
that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish;
that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird;
and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.
When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness,
I sit down and I go through my trouble;
when I see the world and do not see my boy,
he that has an amber shade in his hair.
It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you;
the Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday.
And myself on my knees reading the Passion;
and my two eyes giving love to you for ever.
My mother said to me not to be talking with you today,
or tomorrow, or on the Sunday;
it was a bad time she took for telling me that;
it was shutting the door after the house was robbed.
My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe,
or as the black coal that is on the smith's forge;
or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls;
it was you that put that darkness over my life.
You have taken the east from me; you have taken the west from me;
you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;
you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;
and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!

The weight of remembering-

The past comes to those who have chosen

to take up the burden.

It becomes a tangible thing

It’s weight unable to bear it’s self.

And it’s loss,

Though often unrecognized,

No less a wound born by the living.

It comes at times a comfort.

It asks of us to enter,

To remain and to be steadfast.

When we are equal to it’s measure-

There is a joyous stirring in the graves

Like a child turning in the womb

Those unseen, gone from us, and unborn…

Those whom we are looking toward,
Those to whom we belong;

Are freed from their eternal bonds

And with joy they wait…

Or in peace they rest.

Offten it comes a burden-
And
when unequal to it’s measure

We are haunted by the ghosts

Of those who bore our same burden,

Or burdens of greater weight;

With greater patience,

Or with greater humility,   

Or both.

But the dead make no judgment.

What rest could we have, with contempt in our hearts?

And those who will come after us

Bear no ill regard for our failures.

Who would sow seeds in hope that they might fail?

Who would not hope

That after a time in darkness,

What they had planted

Would not be made

One day
see the light?

Surely no ghost haunts the alleys,

Nor the doorstep, nor forests, nor the night.

No phantom stalks the dawn,

Or our rest.

Only the fear that we be unworthy

Of those whom we have loved....  

Can keep us from our joyous sleep.

Very Late

I am awake because I can not sleep. I have no desire to sleep, I have been awake for over twenty hours, I will pay dearly in the morning (for this) but it is beyond my control. I can not sleep.
  I am looking at my right foot. Once I sold my right foot. There is a curve to my right foot, while my big toe is straight, the other four toes seam to have their own ideas. Once I sold my left foot. I sold each hair on my head. I sold every thing in between. The cost was nothing.... I gave them away. To dispel the notion that ownership carries with it some inherent and just stewardship, I would like to offer my right foot...

St. Francis and the sow

St. Francis And The Sow 
The bud
stands for all things,
even those things that don't flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;
as St. Francis
put his hand on the creased forehead
of the sow, and told her in words and in touch
blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow
began remembering all down her thick length,
from the earthen snout all the way
through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of
the tail,
from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine
down through the great broken heart
to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering
from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking
and blowing beneath them:
the long, perfect loveliness of sow.
Galway Kinnell

Also-

 

 

Tripping Over Joy

What is the difference
Between your experience of Existence
And that of a saint?
The saint knows
That the spiritual path
Is a sublime chess game with God
And that the Beloved
Has just made such a Fantastic Move
That the saint is now continually
Tripping over Joy
And bursting out in Laughter
And saying, “I Surrender!”
Whereas, my dear,
I am afraid you still think
You have a thousand serious moves

Hafiz'-