The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 4,300 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 7 years to get that many views.
We make ourselves a place apart
Behind light words that tease and flout,
But oh, the agitated heart
Till someone find us really out.
‘Tis pity if the case require
(Or so we say) that in the end
We speak the literal to inspire
The understanding of a friend.
But so with all, from babes that play
At hide-and-seek to God afar,
So all who hide too well away
Must speak and tell us where they are.
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I will keep
Broken
Things:
The big clay
Pot
With raised
Iguanas
Chasing
Their
Tails;
Two
Of their
Wise
Heads
Sheared
Off;
I will keep
Broken
things:
The old
Slave
Market
Basket
Brought
To my
Door
By Mississippi
A jagged
Hole
Gouged
In its sturdy
Dark
Oak
Side.
I will keep
Broken
things:
The memory
Of
Those
Long
Delicious
Night
Swims
With
You;
I will keep
Broken
things:
In my house
There
Remains
An
Honored
Shelf
On which
I will
Keep
Broken
Things.
Their beauty
Is
They
Need
Not
Ever
Be
‘fixed.’
I will keep
Your
Wild
Free
Laughter
Though
It is now
Missing
Its
Reassuring
And
Graceful
Hinge.
I will keep
Broken
Things:
Thank you
So much!
I will keep
Broken
Things.
I will keep
You:
Pilgrim
Of
Sorrow.
I will keep
Myself.
A Light in the Darkness
An eerie darkness, leaves a
footprint behind, as the thud, thud
of walking grows louder…
it is amplified
as my heart ponders:
the gust of wind, that blows, blows…
and hear the
wail of the wind leaving behind
…the unspoken word of:
a light in the darkness.
Birds outside, fly into vast
amounts of freedom,
in between the wails of the wind.
Envy etched on my eye,
as animals of all sorts, tenderly
caress the unspoken word of:
a light in the darkness –
a faint glimmer of candle light
creeps in the crack of the curtain;
and whispers from the unspecified man:
“all will be fine”
he says.
A hope no longer as broken clay,
but clay smoothly put into place –
as the unspecified man
slowly glues broken clay together
in a mundane artwork
slowly awakening
a broken heart.
Celine Bergh
Questions About Angels
BY BILLY COLLINS
Of all the questions you might want to ask
about angels, the only one you ever hear
is how many can dance on the head of a pin.
No curiosity about how they pass the eternal time
besides circling the Throne chanting in Latin
or delivering a crust of bread to a hermit on earth
or guiding a boy and girl across a rickety wooden bridge.
Do they fly through God’s body and come out singing?
Do they swing like children from the hinges
of the spirit world saying their names backwards and forwards?
Do they sit alone in little gardens changing colors?
What about their sleeping habits, the fabric of their robes,
their diet of unfiltered divine light?
What goes on inside their luminous heads? Is there a wall
these tall presences can look over and see hell?
If an angel fell off a cloud, would he leave a hole
in a river and would the hole float along endlessly
filled with the silent letters of every angelic word?
If an angel delivered the mail, would he arrive
in a blinding rush of wings or would he just assume
the appearance of the regular mailman and
whistle up the driveway reading the postcards?
No, the medieval theologians control the court.
The only question you ever hear is about
the little dance floor on the head of a pin
where halos are meant to converge and drift invisibly.
It is designed to make us think in millions,
billions, to make us run out of numbers and collapse
into infinity, but perhaps the answer is simply one:
one female angel dancing alone in her stocking feet,
a small jazz combo working in the background.
She sways like a branch in the wind, her beautiful
eyes closed, and the tall thin bassist leans over
to glance at his watch because she has been dancing
forever, and now it is very late, even for musicians.
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