You must be able
to do three things:

to love what is mortal
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it

and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

 

In Blackwater Woods – by Mary Oliver

 

 

 

 

Mindful

 

Every day
     I see or hear
          something
               that more or less

kills me
     with delight,
          that leaves me
               like a needle

in the haystack
     of light.
          It was what I was born for —
               to look, to listen,

to lose myself
     inside this soft world —
          to instruct myself
               over and over

in joy,
     and acclamation.
          Nor am I talking
               about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
     the very extravagant —
          but of the ordinary,
               the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
     Oh, good scholar,
          I say to myself,
               how can you help

but grow wise
     with such teachings
          as these —
               the untrimmable light

of the world,
     the ocean’s shine,
          the prayers that are made
               out of grass?

 

Mindful – by Mary Oliver

 

 

 

 

Mysteries, Yes

 

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds
will never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

 

Mysteries, Yes! – by Mary Oliver

 

 

 

.
. . .
.

 

 

 

 

the best poems are probably the ones
that you write yourself

 

 

 

 

 

touched

 

everything you touch you change

everything you change changes you

herein lies the power

of living fully

 

 

there is nothing better than to be touched

when the hairs stand up on my forearms

when tears well up unexpected

when my soul calls

out of the blue

 

 

 

 

 

The Noble Qualities

 

In this world

the gentle-hearted are often overlooked

and the soft spoken don’t get heard on the tables

 

Does this take anything away from those noble qualities?

 

The beautiful blue butterfly in the jungle

is never admired by a human eye

And she is still beautiful

in the Eye of God

 

We may find it hard to go un-recognized

by our fellow humans

We may crave acknowledgement and gratitude

for our efforts and deeds

 

But in the end

it really does

not matter

 

In the end there is only Me and GOD

 

And in the end I do things for the sake of doing them

or otherwise i don’t do them at all

 

So simple it can be!

 

 

 

 

 

Whales don’t really mind

 

rain is moving in from the sea
sheets of lovely warm rain
driven sideways by the wind
beautifully

I thought I saw a whale in the mist
but it might have been my fantasy

Anyway, the whales, they don’t mind the rain

They are not like us

 

 

 

 

river

 

look, the river!

flowing, just flowing

look how it clings to nothing at all

always finding the way

look how it flows

all the way

to the

sea

 

look, the river!

it just longs

to merge

 

I guess my soul

is such a river

 

 

 

.
. . .
.

 

 

 

 

Praying

 

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

 

Praying- by Mary Oliver

 

 

 

 

… I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want
to think again of dangerous and noble things.

I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.

 

Starling in winter- by Mary Oliver

 

 

 

 

Wild geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

 

Wild geese – by Mary Oliver

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Homage to the poet Mary Oliver

 

 

 

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