Monthly Archives: March 2020

Mar8

center of my world

Posted on March 8, 2020 by virtualartistaltar

Harbor 2017 by Drea
https://dreajensengallery.pixels.com/featured/harbor-2017-drea-jensen.html

Drea Art
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facebook.com/dreajensenart
virtualartistaltar.com

A Pretty Song
by Mary Oliver

From the complications of loving you
I think there is no end or return.
No answer, no coming out of it.
Which is the only way to love, isn’t it?

This isn’t a playground, this is
earth, our heaven, for a while.
Therefore I have given precedence
to all my sudden, sullen, dark moods

that hold you in the center of my world.
And I say to my body: grow thinner still.
And I say to my fingers, type me a pretty song.
And I say to my heart: rave on.

Mar6

love the world

Posted on March 6, 2020 by virtualartistaltar

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Drea Art
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facebook.com/dreajensenart
virtualartistaltar.com

The Sweetness of Dogs
by Mary Oliver

What do you say, Percy? I am thinking
of sitting out on the sand to watch
the moon rise. It’s full tonight.
So we go

and the moon rises, so beautiful it
makes me shudder, makes me think about
time and space, makes me take
measure of myself: one iota
pondering heaven. Thus we sit, myself

thinking how grateful I am for the moon’s
perfect beauty and also, oh! how rich
it is to love the world. Percy, meanwhile,
leans against me and gazes up
into my face. As though I were just as wonderful
as the perfect moon.

Mar2

demure or respectable

Posted on March 2, 2020 by virtualartistaltar

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Indigo 2020 by Drea
https://dreajensengallery.pixels.com/featured/indigo-2020-drea-jensen.html

Drea Art
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facebook.com/dreajensenart
virtualartistaltar.com

I DON’T WANT TO BE DEMURE OR RESPECTABLE
by Mary Oliver

I don’t want to be demure or respectable.
I was that way, asleep, for years.
That way, you forget too many important things.
How the little stones, even if you can’t hear them, are singing.
How the river can’t wait to get to the ocean and the sky, it’s been there before.
What traveling is that!
It is a joy to imagine such distances.
I could skip sleep for the next hundred years.
There is a fire in the lashes of my eyes.
It doesn’t matter where I am, it could be a small room.
The glimmer of gold Böhme saw on the kitchen pot
was missed by everyone else in the house.

Maybe the fire in my lashes is a reflection of that.
Why do I have so many thoughts, they are driving me crazy.
Why am I always going anywhere, instead of somewhere?
Listen to me or not, it hardly matters.
I’m not trying to be wise, that would be foolish.
I’m just chattering.