The hiss of a line in a light evening breeze

sends this rose of feather, fur and steel

out over a pool so clear shadows freeze

where it drops.  To be in this place, to feel

the and promise of the river turn to wishing

then transformation in wing scattered points

of evening light, a woman learns fishing

with her heart.  For all the loss fall anoints

with yellow and red under a painful blue,

she watches her question drift in the last light

and waits to see it dimple and vanish through

a ring so subtle only a trout might

know its value.  And how eternity rings

through the line!  And how the falling river sings!

by; Greg Keeler

www.seattlegrapevine.com/user/paint_poetry/blogs

Tags: Poetry Fly Fishing Harmony Freedom

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Those lips that Love's own hand did make

Breathed forth the sound that said I hate,

To me that Languish'd for her sake.

But when she saw my woeful state,

Straight in her heart did mercy come,

Chiding that tongue that ever sweet

Was used in giving gentle doom;

And taught it thus anew to greet;

I hate she alter'd with an end,

That follow'd it as gentle day

Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,

From heaven to hell is flown away;

I hate from hate away she threw,

and saved my life, saying not you

by; William Shakespeare

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Tags: Shakespeare Love Harmony Drama

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All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and to that

knowledge become a fragment of life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace love's pleasure.

Then it is better for you that you cover your

nakedness and pass out of love's threshing floor.

Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love has no other desir but to fulfil itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let

these be your desires.

To melt, and be like a running brook that sings its

melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

and to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give

thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and deditate love's ecstasy;

to return home at even tide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in

your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.

by Khalil Gibran

Tags: Poetry Love Harmony Peace

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For those of you who enjoy literature, poetry, Edgar Allan Poe, or perhaps all three, I give you Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven:

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Edgar Allen Poe

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Tags: Poetry Love Harmony Peace Poe

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As sunset falls on the inscrutable stylized faces, one thinks again how appropariately, in the event of man's passing, they would symbolize the end of this age.  For the faces are formless, nameless, they represent no living style.  They are therefore all men and no man, and they stare indifferently upon the rolling waste which has seen man come and will see him fade once more into the primal elements from which he came. No tears are marked upon the faces, and when at last the waves close over them in the red light of some later sun than ours, the secret of mankind, if indeed man has a secret, will go with them, and all will be upon that waste as it has been before.  A flight of sea birds will wind away into the west like smoke.  The stars will come out.  There will be no one to ask where we, or the stones on which men tried to inscribe their immortality, have gone.  There will linger momentarily only a dim sense of something to tragic and too powerful to endure imprisonment in matter or long suffer itself to be reproduced in stone.  This is the message from the transcendent heart of man the seafarer and spacefarer, the figure always beckoning through the mist.

From "The Star Thrower"

by Loren Eisely

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Tags: Nature Harmony Peace Freedom

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Are Trout of this river's song, sharp

in the current and vague on the flats?

Do trout dance for any reason but love,

fanning a harp of water for the sheer gravity of a chance encounter with death,

Clearing the surface in time to stop

a mind from shattering distraction?

Can trout know the purity of the pools they mime in the deep mirrors of their scales?

Who began this risky trip into the howl of a broken river?

The small streams mother us all back to a speck in our brains called home on a trail of token lusts.

Can a haphazard heart land smack dab in the middle of luck?  Is there any doubt?

If so, never mind, just go catch a trout.

by Greg Keeler

www.seattlegrapevine.com/user/paint_poetry/blogs

Tags: Fly Fishing Trout Fun Harmony Peace Mayflies

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