Archive for March, 2016

   Grow old along with me!
   The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
   Our times are in His hand
   Who saith, ‘A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be 

from Robert Browning's Rabbi ben Ezra
*thanks, Jerry Root!

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Light on the water, deep water,
shimmering on the surface –

and the light goes down
into the well of love.

Everything is illuminated.

The hidden treasures, the lost seashells,
the songs water-creatures sing,

the ripple effect of your skipping stone
sinking down to the sand.

Everything is illuminated.

Do you know what water-lilies
look like from underneath?

Do you know how to breathe
in deep places?

Everything is illuminated.

Touch the roots of flowers
that float on the water.

See what can be seen.
Hear me.


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Selkie Finds the Sea

is now available in the journal,

Journey of the Heart: Women’s Spiritual Poetry.

couple at sea

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I see you, rose, half-open book
filled with so many pages
of that detailed happiness
we will never read. Magus-book,

opened by the wind and read
with our eyes closed …
butterflies fly out of you, stunned
for having had the same idea.


Friend of hours when no one remains,
when all’s refused to the bitter heart;
comforter whose presence attests
to such caresses floating in the air.

If we refuse to live, if we renounce
what was and what may happen still,
we never think enough of this tenacious friend
who’s next to us, at work on miracles.


Let’s not speak of you. Ineffable.
That is your nature.
Other flowers decorate the table
you transfigure.

We put you in a simple vase —
everything is mutable;
perhaps it’s the same phrase,
but now sung by an angel.

Rainer Maria Rilke
trans. A. Poulin, Jr.


St. Peter’s Chapel, Mare Island

(photo by Jane Beal)

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She stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened; such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veiled a light,
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim;
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:

Sure, I said, heaven did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.

Thomas Hood


Marc Chagall
The Book of Ruth

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