A Tidings of Magpies

by Marianne Boruch I walked out, and the nest was already there by the step. Woven basket of a saint sent back to life as a bird who proceeded to make a mess of things. Wind right through it, and any eggs long vanished. But it my hand it was intricate pleasure, even the thorny reeds softened in the weave. And the fading leaf mold, hardly itself anymore, merely a trick of light, if light can be tricked. Deep in a life is another life. I walked out, the nest already by the step. please note: photo by DarlingBridget from Homespun Bliss Blog

Might I recommend a movie to you all? Diana Vreeland. If you are "of a certain age," male or female, this movie brings our past back to kaleidescopic life through an entirely different lens. The quotidian wrappings of our day have, more likely than not, become icons. The Twiggys, the Rolling Stones, the Jean Shrimptons, the Veruschkas. Pages and pages of magazine photos that filled our minds and eyes in the travels of our every days now fill in the gaps of our history of events of that time. I'd seen the previews at our neighborhood movie theater and thought it looked interesting enough, though easy enough to keep putting off. Yesterday I put it on the To-Do List for 5:05pm and to quote another great icon, "I'm mad about it!! Simply mad!" Goodbye, New York (song from the wrong side of the Hudson) by Deborah Garrison You were the big fat city we called hometown You were the lyrics I sang but never wrote down You were the live...

by Paul Lisicky That silly retriever. He doesn't go to the two guys looking right at him, beaming him awake with concentrated joy. Not at all: he goes straight to the man with his head turned to the left, who could care less about doggy behavior and isn't the least bit stirred by the snout parked in the knee and the wagging hind parts. And that's it: the physics of the known world. Which is why the trees look better when they're left unwatered, and the birds actually prefer it when you don't sing back to them. And the holy man crossing the street with the black brim hat? He knows better than to pick up what he's dropped and lift his face to the mountains. Take it from him, friend. You probably wouldn't even want it if the light hit you in your head.

by Richard Blanco One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores, peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies. One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story told by our silent gestures moving behind windows. My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors, each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day: pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights, fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper -- bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us, on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives -- to teach geometry, or ring up groceries as my mother did for twenty years, so I could write this poem. All of us as vital as the one light we move through, the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day: equations to solve...

      ...being that's it's the second inauguration of this country's first African-American president on the very day we celebrate Martin Luther King. I love this president and revere Mr. King, but I got nothing. I'm gonna percolate on this and try to be pithy and reflective at some point in my day. What I really want to talk about is the Downton Abbey episode last night, and the reports I keep getting on FaceBook that it's -20 in Fargo, and the events surrounding the young woman I wrote about a few days ago reported on the front page of our http://news.cincinnati.com/article/20130119/NEWS/301200040&Ref=AR">">  daily paper yesterday morning  and the fact that Hubby is working today and I'm off which allows me to toss and purge some of the flotsam and jetsam in this house without having every bag and pile second guessed. With the inauguration playing in the background. On...

                   "Outside, it is cold, silvery, and suffused with a delicate milky haze. Gray hushed days follow each other, calling us to inner activity. Sitting by the fire or hurrying through the streets, our power of thinking grows. Filled with new ideas, we feel creative and courageous. Legend says, "words spoken in winter go unheard until next summer." This is the message from Janus, the old Etruscan god of the doorway, after whom January was named. Janus stands between past and future, new and old. He has two faces. One looks back, the other forward. His third face is invisible. This is the face of eternity, the present moment: NOW. Warmth settles around our hearts. Summoned to great deeds of right action and selfless love, Janus bids us pass through his gate." -- Christopher Bamford please note: photo is from Cincinnati Daily Photo. Apparently there was a once-in-a-lifetime, pheno...

                           "Every year about now, I feel the need to keep a journal...I walk past the blank books--gifts of nothingness--that pile up in bookstores this season, and I can almost hear their clean white pages begging to be defaced...if I do give in, this is what I have in mind. I want to count the crows in the field every afternoon. I want to record the temperatures, highs and lows, every day and measure the rain and snow. If a flock of turkeys walks into the barnyard, I want to mention the fact. If one of the horses throws a shoe, I want to say so, in writing, before I call the farrier; and I'd like to be able to tell from my journal just how many bales of hay I have squirreled away in the barn." --Verlyn Klingenborg For those among us who live more prosaic lives and don't have the cawings of crows to mark our mornings and even...

  By William Butler Yeats                              I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and time...

                         by John Daniel Among other wonders of our lives, we are alive with one another, we walk here in the light of this unlikely world that isn't ours for long. May we spend generously the time we are given. May we enact our responsibilities as thoroughly as we enjoy our pleasures. May we see with clarity, may we seek a vision that serves all beings, may we honor the mystery surpassing our sight, and may we hold in our hands the gift of good work and bear it forth whole, as we were borne forth by a power we praise to this one Earth, this homeland of all we love. There was a fire here by the university on New Year's morning. Five kids got out and two were carried out by firefighters and brought to the hospital. When I say "kids" I mean college students--20 year olds. Of the two at our place, the young man ...

by Dara Wier                              I had been continuing to do the same thing while expecting different results. On most days the children learned how to do something. Time passed around us as something approaching a figure eight might move in order to let all else move or be moved by our large numbers of feelings exponentially on high alert once we let them register. It passed us around. It passed around us like a river around a boulder. Music consisted of light & light came on time. It was impossible for us not to anthropomorphize everything. And yes, watching ice skaters, the kind called figure skaters, the ones who aren't doing anything other than tracking again & again some figure of infinity marked out on ice for them, this never failed to quiet us down & take us some plac...

A Short Panegyric by Mark Strand                                    Now that the vegetarian nightmare is over and we are back to our diet of meat and deep in the sway of our dark and beauty- ful habits and able to speak with calm of having survived, let the breeze of the future touch and retouch our large and hun- gering bodies. Let us march to market to embrace the butcher and put the year of the carrot, the month of the onion behind us, let us worship the roast or the stew that takes its place once again at the sacred center of the dining room table. (Olivier's on Decatur Street, New Orleans. And, yes, I'm still thinking about their Creole Rabbit.)

 I have not wanted to write much after my friend's death. Let me be honest, I have not wanted to think much. And I believe that's as it should be. Lord knows, the brain takes years to recover and heal and I imagine the soul does, too. But, I miss the magic I found in words. The unexpected placements and pairings. The rhythm of syllables. So, for me, 2013 will be a year of opening doors and telling the tales of what I find. Our squirrel's nest squirms and reassembles  beneath a winter's wind. ...Maybe...or  I could watch Big Bang Theory marathons...Bazinga! The Frogs After Dark by Robert Bly I am so much in love with mournful music That I don't bother to look for violinists. The aging peepers satisfy me for hours. The ant moves on his tiny Sephardic feet. The flute is always glad to repeat the same note. The ocean rejoices in its dusky mansion. Bears are often piled up close to each other. In caves of bears, it's just one ...

                             Well, it's January and it must be done. Yoga pants must be dug out of the bottom of a pile of clothes in the bedroom, a short sleeved T shirt must be wriggled into, and I must sweat amongst strangers. Hubby and I have never quite recovered from our last visit to New Orleans and let me simply say two words. Creole. Rabbit. We believe we were placed on earth to eat and drink every two hours while wandering around listening to fabulous music. Alas, that is not meant to be and January is here and my jeans are not as comfy as my work scrubs, so sweat it shall be today. Turn it up and burn it up, my friends!    Flowers by Linda Pastan The deep strangeness of flowers in winter— the orange of clivia, or this creamy white rose in its stoneware vase, while outside anoth...

                  Does sunset sometimes look like   the sun is coming up? Do you know what a faithful love is like? You're crying; you say you've burned yourself. But can you think of anyone who's not  hazy with smoke? --Rumi

Outside Fargo, North Dakota by James Wright Along the sprawled body of the derailed Great Northern freight car, I strike a match slowly and lift it slowly. No wind. Beyond town, three heavy white horses Wade all the way to their shoulders In a silo shadow. Suddenly the freight car lurches. The door slams back, a man with a flashlight Calls me good evening. I nod as I write good evening, lonely And sick for home.