“There’s hidden sweetness in the stomach’s emptiness.
We are lutes, no more, no less.”
“Let the beauty we love become the good we do.”
Music
What that murderous cruel have done
Makes me wretched like the invisible nightingale
Stones fell on me like rain
A flip of a friend tear me into pieces
I learnt who are the friends and enemies on my black day
I had ten troubles now I have fifty
I am put on the death order
Let them hang or shoot me
I am Pir Sultan Abdal, whose soul can’t rise into the air
Only if god commands, the rain shall start
The stones of the strangers never fell on me
But the rose of a friend hurts me
“Pir Sultan Abdal was a Sufi poet and rebel of his time against the Ottoman Sultan. He was sentenced to murder and this poem is said to be his last one. The hearsay is that, the Sultan orders the public to stone him, one of his fellow is afraid to go against the Sultan’s order but throws a rose instead of a stone not to hurt Pir Sultan. However, Pir Sultan hurt more because it comes from a friend but not an enemy.” It has been said that Ben Harper during a visit to Istanbul, heard this poem sung in a bar/cafe. This may have influenced his writing the song Roses From My Friends.
Sugar Magnolia/Sunshine Daydream
(excerpt)
by Robert Hunter and Robert Weir
Sugar Magnolia blossom’s blooming
Head’s all empty and I don’t care
Saw my baby down by the river
Knew she’d have to come up soon for air
Sweet blossom come on under the willow
We can have high times if you’ll abide
We can discover the wonders of nature
Rolling in the rushes down by the riverside
“Legend says that the kangaroo was blessed with a pouch to take care of its baby when it proved to be the most kind-hearted animal on the continent. The kangaroo then went around and gave other animals pouches as well so they could protect their children. Because of the kangaroos parental duties it undertakes, it is a great symbol for family, nurturing, and protection.” *
And she was fair as is the rose in May. — Geoffrey Chaucer
Without
the silence
of nature
within.
the power within.
the power
without.
the path is whatever passes—no
end in itself.
the end is,
grace—ease—
healing,
not saving
singing
the proof
the proof of the power within.
"Endangered Species Day was created by a Senate resolution in 2006 to encourage “the people of the United States to become educated about, and aware of, threats to species, success stories in species recovery, and the opportunity to promote species conservation worldwide.” It has since been celebrated in May by countries such as Australia, Bahamas/Nassau, Belgium, Belize, Canada, Costa Rica, England, French Polynesia, India, Ireland, Japan, New Zealand, Peru, Scotland and Sweden, the coalition reports." * -- Tiger Conservation Groups
“One saw a bird dying, shot by a man. It was flying with rhythmic beat and beautifully, with such freedom and lack of fear. And the gun shattered it; it fell to the earth and all the life had gone out of it. A dog fetched it, and the man collected other dead birds. He was chattering with his friend and seemed so utterly indifferent. All that he was concerned with was bringing down so many birds, and it was over as far as he was concerned. They are killing all over the world. Those marvellous, great animals of the sea, the whales, are killed by the million, and the tiger and so many other animals are now becoming endangered species. Man is the only animal that is to be dreaded.”
― Jiddu Krishnamurti, Krishnamurti to Himself: His Last Journal
I caught a glimpse of the heritage of the Natives of Southeast Alaska, when visiting. The Sealaska Heritage Center is a small museum in Juneau that features the history and art of the Tlingit Haida people. The Sealaska motto is “Heritage Forward - We honor our ancestors and pave the way for the future by making heritage a living thing.” *
“Life’s spell is so exquisite, everything conspires to break it.” — Emily Dickinson
It wasn’t bliss. What was bliss
but the ordinary life? She’d spend hours
in patter, moving through whole days
touching, sniffing, tasting . . . exquisite
housekeeping in a charmed world.
And yet there was always
more of the same, all that happiness,
the aimless Being There.
So she wandered for a while, bush to arbor,
lingered to look through a pond’s restive mirror.
He was off cataloging the universe, probably,
pretending he could organize
what was clearly someone else’s chaos.
That’s when she found the tree,
the dark, crabbed branches
bearing up such speechless bounty,
she knew without being told
this was forbidden. It wasn’t
a question of ownership—
who could lay claim to
such maddening perfection?
And there was no voice in her head,
no whispered intelligence lurking
in the leaves—just an ache that grew
until she knew she’d already lost everything
except desire, the red heft of it
warming her outstretched palm.
by Rita Dove
Maverick Mist 