been given the ultimate gift
soul elating heart lift
end senseless drift
silk soft hand
kissing grass, feeling sand
beauty and charm heaven send
accept these with open arms
beautiful bouquet of charms
cold heart warms
renewed life begins
new day, dawn commence
soul filled with joy immense
By Peter Notehelfer
on a spring day
sit in a blue vase
on the maple table
gold and purple
on green stems
now as in May
in my mind
as of lavender
will burst forth
whenever I reca…
Source: On Recollection
Axe the shapeless thoughts from the mind-corners,
hold them in your hand,
at first only shards of metal scattered and clouded with dirt.
Heat the thought-ore in the forge,
Fold the molten words over again and again,
Hammer them into shape on the anvil,
Sparks flying in the dark of night
Like stars above
Or fireflies below.
The molten phrases plunge into cold water
and a rush of steam hisses upward.
Then there is the scrape of metal on stone as the edge is sharpened,
and gleaming steel words, thick and sure and razor-teethed, rest in your hands.
Or maybe not a cutting sword-phrase today.
Perhaps instead make hinges and a cast iron handle,
for opening a door and stepping out.
reblogged from Life and to the Full
featured image from MFG Talk Radio
**This poem is in the public domain.
The Ownerless Mug
The dishwasher churns
the disposal growls
and a mist rises over stacks of dishes,
when there appears one of the ownerless mugs
returning from its new-found home,
its blue stripe grinning up at me.
I imagine it still covered in the fingerprints
of a lady whose children’s names keep slipping out of her hands.
One thing she does know is the comfort of a warm cup of coffee
clasped in her wrinkled hands.
The ownerless mug is not without purpose.
It wears its blue stripe like a badge of office
as it shrugs away the memories of the cupboard corner
and proudly does what it was made to do.
“Wash me, send me out again,” it smilingly pleads from the dishwashing rack.
This encourages my heart,
as the purpose or the destiny or the direction keeps slipping from my own hands.
All I know is some small comfort in letting it write itself,
whatever it may be.
Whatever I may be,
may yet be shaped and fired in Heaven’s kiln
and painted with a blue stripe.
The aimless person is not without purpose.
Source: reblogged from Life and to the Full