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little songs…

little songs




We have entered
each other’s atmosphere
In isolation,
the way a bee knows
The deep shadows
in the folds of a flower
But doesn’t know
what a bouquet is,

   — Rowan Ricardo Phillips

sweet tea…

She makes me want to ransack my own temple.

—Trista Mateer

not a bird or a symbol…


… a woman burning.





What ache would you deny?
I celebrate
the wax and its sun, the wingless
skeleton,    my silt      my swoon.

— Katie Longofono —

many times, many ways…

Merry Christmas to you.

do you hear what i hear…

… A song, a song,
high above the trees.

without speaking, confess…



It is a simple garment, this slipped-on world.

We wake into it daily…


— J. Hirshfield —

unmarked trails (invitation)…

It is a serious thing

just to be alive

on this fresh morning

in this broken world.

— Mary Oliver —

sappho’s last song…

[…] My burning
Flesh is yours; with a thousand coils let it be
Bound by you, let it rest in you, down at last
Let it sink, calmed and conquered
By your mighty kiss.

— Vittoria Aganoor Pompili —

alone with other people…


Is anyone moved / by the plainness of raw skin anymore?

— Gabby Bess —


a brave and startling truth…

We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
that in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living,
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness,
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
and the proud back is glad to bend.
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction,
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines.

When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear.

When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it…

   — Maya Angelou —


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