Rainer Maria Rilke

It would be good to give much thought, before
you try to find words for something so lost,
for those long childhood afternoons you knew
that vanished so completely -and why?

We’re still reminded-: sometimes by a rain,
but we can no longer say what it means;
life was never again so filled with meeting,
with reunion and with passing on

as back then, when nothing happened to us
except what happens to things and creatures:
we lived their world as something human,
and became filled to the brim with figures.

And became as lonely as a shepherd
and as overburdened by vast distances,
and summoned and stirred as from far away,
and slowly, like a long new thread,
introduced into that picture-sequence
where now having to go on bewilders us.


The Heart’s Location

The Heart’s Location
Peter Meinke

all my plans for suicide are ridiculous
I can never remember the heart’s location
too cheap to smash the car
too queasy to slash a wrist
once jumped off a bridge
almost scared myself to death
then spent two foggy weeks
waiting for new glasses

of course I really want to live
continuing my lifelong search
for the world’s greatest unknown cheap restaurant
and a poem full of ordinary words
about simple things
in the inconsolable rhythms of the heart

Loving Vincent

“If I am worth anything later, I am worth something now. For wheat is wheat, even if people think it is a grass in the beginning.” ~ Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890)

*Note: I have long been a fan of Vincent Van Gogh and his art. Kirk Douglas does a fantastic portrayal of Vincent in the old classic movie, Lust for Life (1956). You can watch the trailer here. To learn more about Van Gogh’s life and work, visit the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. The latest movie, Loving Vincent, is a major motion picture and dynamic feat of artistic creativity, bringing Van Gogh’s paintings to life. Watch the trailer here. The movie is utterly amazing!

Official Website: Loving Vincent

“I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.” ~ Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890)

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The Starry Night by Anne Sexton

Vincent, Vincent

Vincent, Vincent
Edmund Skellings, 1932-2012

The green blue walls open wide
Like a book. The red brown floor
Tiles fall like a sprung trap door.
The sunflower chair is hurled at you.
Its color held him like a bee.

All day his brain turns slowly with the sun.
He sat silent as Midas. Even
The hot French wind on his face was yellow.
No wonder he got lost in a starry night. But
That chair is carved from flower stuff

Gold enough, gold enough.

*Note: This tribute poem to Vincent Van Gogh is written by the Electric Poet, Edmund Skellings, who served as the Florida Poet Laureate from 1980-2012. Watch more of his Word Songs here.

Who Am I?

Who am I?
Ming D. Liu

Who am I, you ask?
I am made from
All the people I’ve encountered
And all the things I have
Inside, I hold the laughter of my
the arguments with my parents,
the chattering of young children,
and the warmth from kind strangers.
Inside, there are stitchings from
Cracked hearts,
Bitter words from heated arguments,
Music that gets me through,
and emotions I cannot convey.
I am made from
all these people and moments.
That is who I am.

*Note: I found this poem a long time ago on the internet, not sure where exactly, but there is so much meaningful poetry to be found all over the web that touches the heart. It is a beautiful poem to me, because it encompasses past experiences with the memories of good friends and happy times.

The Poet and His Song

The Poet and His Song
Paul Laurence Dunbar

A song is but a little thing,
And yet what joy it is to sing!
In hours of toil it gives me zest,
And when at eve I long for rest;
When cows come home along the bars,
      And in the fold I hear the bell,
As Night, the shepherd, herds his stars,
      I sing my song, and all is well.

There are no ears to hear my lays,
No lips to lift a word of praise;
But still, with faith unfaltering,
I live and laugh and love and sing.
What matters yon unheeding throng?
      They cannot feel my spirit’s spell,
Since life is sweet and love is long,
      I sing my song, and all is well.

My days are never days of ease;
I till my ground and prune my trees.
When ripened gold is all the plain,
I put my sickle to the grain.
I labor hard, and toil and sweat,
      While others dream within the dell;
But even while my brow is wet,
      I sing my song, and all is well.

Sometimes the sun, unkindly hot,
My garden makes a desert spot;
Sometimes a blight upon the tree
Takes all my fruit away from me;
And then with throes of bitter pain
      Rebellious passions rise and swell;
But — life is more than fruit or grain,
      And so I sing, and all is well.