CABIN OF THE DAWN
(from the movie Sweet Hostage 1975)
My truck broke down on my way back home:
And along came a man speaking in poems:
I thought he was nuts when he called himself Kubla Khan:
And he took me away to his Cabin of the Dawn::
At first I thought I was in a terrible mess:
But he made me a lady even bought me a dress:
He taught me all sorts of things from the very start:
He opened my mind and gave wings to my heart::
At first I couldn't figure this funny man out:
But then I realized he's teaching me what life's all about:
Like wanting things enough can make them come true:
I guess that's what he means by Xanadu::
Life on that farm was almost like hell:
Now I'm Queen of England and my name's Christabell:
We dine on delicacies and plenty of fruit:
And I dance for him as he plays his flute.::
I think he's been awfully lonely for a while:
and just needs a friend to make him smile:
What he doesn't know is he's got one in me:
And together we make awful nice symmetry:
My truck broke down on my way back home:
And along came a man speaking in poems:
I thought he was nuts when he called himself Kubla Khan:
And he took me away to his Cabin of the Dawn::
At first I thought I was in a terrible mess:
But he made me a lady even bought me a dress:
He taught me all sorts of things from the very start:
He opened my mind and gave wings to my heart::
At first I couldn't figure this funny man out:
But then I realized he's teaching me what life's all about:
Like wanting things enough can make them come true:
I guess that's what he means by Xanadu::
Life on that farm was almost like hell:
Now I'm Queen of England and my name's Christabell:
We dine on delicacies and plenty of fruit:
And I dance for him as he plays his flute.::
I think he's been awfully lonely for a while:
and just needs a friend to make him smile:
What he doesn't know is he's got one in me:
And together we make awful nice symmetry:
EVENING SOLACE
THE human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.
But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back -- a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !
And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.
- Charlotte Bronte
THE human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.
But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly back -- a faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !
And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come.
- Charlotte Bronte
EASTER ASSURANCE
Life after death? Why doubt it?
It is the natural way.
Matter, disintegrated,
Takes form and life from decay.
Born from the lowly egg is
The song of the nightingale,
The plumage of the peacock,
And the modest quail.
A little speck of matter,
A seed dropped into the sod,
Becomes a beautiful aster,
A daisy or goldenrod.
The ugly caterpillar,
So displeasing to the eye,
Wraps itself in its coffin
To emerge a butterfly.
And coal, though black, unlovely,
Refined by volcanic fire,
Becomes a sparkling, precious stone -
The diamond we admire.
Change but not destruction
Of matter is God’s plan;
Surly, then He does not destroy
The spirit and soul of man.
If ugliness breeds beauty
In the material sphere,
In what celestial glory
Must a soul, reborn, appear!
Grace E. Richardson - My father’s Aunt Grace,
MOON COMPASSES
I stole forth dimly in the dripping pause
Between two downpours to see what there was.
And a masked moon had spread down compass rays
To a cone mountain in the midnight haze.
As if the final estimate were hers;
And as it measured in her calipers,
The mountain stood exalted in its place.
So love will take between the hands a face.
- Robert Frost
First snow—I release her into it—
I know, released, she won't come back.
This is different from letting what,
already, we count as lost go. It is nothing
like that. Also, it is not like wanting to learn what
losing a thing we love feels like. Oh yes:
I love her.
Released, she seems for a moment as if
some part of me that, almost,
I wouldn't mind
understanding better, is that
not love? She seems a part of me,
and then she seems entirely like what she is:
a white dog,
less white suddenly, against the snow,
who won't come back. I know that; and, knowing it,
I release her. It's as if I release her
because I know.
- Carl Phillips
. . . of South America often loses an antenna or leg --- but
always grows a new appendage. Often nature makes a
mistake and a new antenna grows where the leg was lost.
- Ripley's Believe It or Not
Eventually the
most accident-prone
or war-weary
walking sticks
are entirely
reduced to antennae
with which they
pick their way
sensitively,
appalled by
everything's
intensity.
- Kay Ryan
The Jam Jar Lifeboat & Other Novelties Exposed
Suppose I came down from these rainless dark clouds
and lived as a blade of grass in a garden
washed by dew, dried by wind, printed by frost.
I would be green with white roots.
Worms would touch my feet.
I would not be afraid.
I would spend my whole life growing out of myself
into my
Self.
Bill Buchanan
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