It Occurs To Us

And so it occurs to us
Some late rainy afternoon:  wee are still in this
Living world, here yet and looking not too bad,
Pretty good, the days only pecking us benignly
Away; and we can stand it,

The lingering grey – it is just
This thing, more sad than rain,
A late afternoon, this thing that shadows
My body, creeps in, some music, a hum
Of sorts, that permeates the rain,
The dredging sadness of afternoon.
David Tillinghast


One of my favorite poems, and one that I revisit every National Poetry Month.  The mood of the poem seems to mimic my mood right now, early in the morning. And truthfully, it has been a while since my mood has been lowered a bit. SO seems to think it may be the hrt. I think that maybe it is bipolar depression related. I don’t know, it doesn’t matter.  All I know is that I am down, and I have to be careful about my mental makeup.  I cannot have a repeat of 2015, no way!!!


Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;–
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
She was a child and I was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love–
I and my Annabel Lee–
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me:–
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
And killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we–
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:–

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea–
In her tomb by the side of the sea.

“Too much…” by Kelley L.B.



Running out

My heart spilling over
Reaching out, frantically grasping
For someone, something,



That maybe I don’t deserve it
Maybe I give too much                         Maybe I want more than I can ever have
Maybe I think too much
Maybe I don’t feel enough


I’m drowning in something I cannot comprehend
So many things to consider
So many things to worry about

Will I?

Should I?

Am I ever?

So much time spent worrying about someone else…

And what about me?

No, there;s no time for that

Am I wanting too much?

Questions circling

W                     an


And maybe this never ends…

A Strange Man’s Dream – Charles Baudelaire

Have you felt – I have – a pain that you enjoyed?
Do they say that about you, too:  ‘How strange he is!’
– I was dying, and a special agony
filled my eager soul: dread and desire,

anguish and expectation – no sense of revolt.
The closer I came to what would be the end,
the sharper was my torment and the more welcome;
my heart was wrenching free from the usual world.

I was like a child in front of a stage,
hating the curtain as if it were in the way…
Finally the cold truth was revealed:

I had simply died, and the terrible dawn
enveloped me. Could this be all there is?
The curtain was up, and I was waiting still.

Entering The Kingdom – Mary Oliver

The crows see me.

They stretch their glossy necks

In the tallest branches

Of green trees. I am

Possibly dangerous, I am

Entering the kingdom.

The dream of my life

Is to lie down by a slow river

And stare at the light in the trees –

To learn something by being nothing

A little while but the rich

Lens of attention.

But the crows puff their feathers and cry

Between me and the sun,

And I should go now.

They know me for what I am.

No dreamer,

No eater of leaves.

Strange Fruit – Cyrus Cassells

The wailing of a clarinet,
And then the wounding voice
Of the woman with the fulgent
Gardenia in her hair
“Southern trees bear a strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves,
And blood at the root…”

How can I tell you?
As a boy,
I was frightened by Billie’s song,
The way a child is frightened,
Begins to fathom his own
Capacity for mourning,
Learning a grief
That is racial,
Cached in the soul
From generations of suffering
–Everything in our people
That is strangulated, stillborn,
Welling up
In a song,
In a child’s pure sadness
I came to identify
By its bitter taste
As “strange fruit.”
In school I heard about Emmett Till,
The boy who was lynched
For “eyeball rape.”
And then the strange fruit was given
A face, a body like my own—
Tonight I am listening
To what haunted me as a child:
Lady Day evoking
Fear’s murderous harvest, a boy’s body
Swinging from a tree,
And I’m dreaming the death of fear,
That one word, if we could grasp it,
Which might stop a child from becoming strange fruit.