Cyrano Like

Potter Young and Old

Coincidentally the same title

as a Bob Dylan song you might have heard

Pre-Plague London

When I Was Broke

‘… Still With You.’

From the Armadio degli Argenti of Blessed John of Fiesole, OP (Fra Angelico), c. 1450

‘… I rose up and am still with you.’

Psalm 139: 18

‘Let Him Not Lose What He So Dear Hath Bought.’

From Cell 25 of the Convent of San Marco, by Blessed John of Fiesole, OP (Fra Angelico), 15th Century

Think on the very làmentable pain,

Think on the piteous cross of woeful Christ,

Think on His blood beat out at every vein,

Think on His precious heart carvèd in twain,

Think how for thy redemption all was wrought:

Let Him not lose what He so dear hath bought.

–Pico della Mirandola (translated by St Thomas More)

‘… Wounded for Our Iniquities …’

From the Armadio degli Argenti of Blessed John of Fiesole, OP (Fra Angelico), c. 1450

‘… he was wounded for our iniquities, he was bruised for our sins….

Isaiah 53: 5

A Fellow Named Webb

A fellow named Webb there once was
Who was hounded and harassed by the fuzz
For committing a crime
Every single time
He just did what everyone else always does.

Tulips for Elsie

Source: The Writer’s Almanac, 2/1/21

See Also: Dappled Things, Pentecost 2012

The Keillor Treatment

Inauguration Day

Reruns

Rerun of a poem from House of Words and Mary Karrs birthday featured today on the rehabilitated Writer’s Almanac.

The Writer’s Almanac for Saturday, January 16, 2021

becoming myself
could actually happen
i believe it could

on a rainy day
as leaves fall and paste themselves
to pavements and feet

walking familiar
paths to places known too well
shod in shoes worn out

if i were a rich man
counting money like syllables
then maybe i could rest

in increasing luxury
like a poem forming line by line
instead of worrying time

but i am more like
a haiku stanza falling
into line with you

and wishing i could
become myself with vengeance
and take you with me

http://korrektivpress.com/2020/11/32001/

Murmuration

Seen while returning from the funeral of an old friend.

My dad gave me

My dad gave me
The history
Of future things
That he could see

And when I saw
The fatal flaw
He showed how mercy
Breaks the law

My mom and I

My mom and I
Flew through the sky
Towards the sun
On wings of why

We circled high
And in her eye
Some kindness answered
To my cry

Untitled

My oldest daughter’s moon reflects my sun.
My youngest daughter’s sun collects my moon.
The woven strands of stars undone
Within my mind begin to weave a tune
That sings around me in a tunic form
With threads of gravity and mystery
To shield my soul against the wind and warm
The wintry past with future history.