Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth. Buddha.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Raindrops

 

Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet.

Roger Miller
 

Kite

The optimist pleasantly wonders how high his kite will fly; the pessimist woefully wonders how soon his kite will fall.

William Arthur Ward

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Old Dog

 

 

 

 

 

Skies

 Clouds

  

I own two passions now: watching clouds and 

writing words. Hours fly courting clouds, writing 

poems in my mind, for what are clouds and words 

but poets' fuel to warm their souls upon?

Cirrus, stratus, cumulus or mare’s tail; 

in such clouds, words seem lazy, hazy, nebulous

and misty to my mind; there are no lines 

to read myself between, I can only 

go within and listen to their whispers.

Words are scudding sounds of speech when spoken, 

but silent when written, except to my

heart where they can speak in volumes, or, when 

days are sadly overcast, they hide from 

me and say nothing, nothing at all.

 

Cait O'Connor

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I would love to live like a river flows, carried by the surprise of its own unfolding

John O'Donohue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morning Musings

 

Some things you can rely on, like the ebb

and flow of water or the phases of

the Moon. Death and taxes, love

and lust, tears and longing.  Always the day

will follow night, bringing  joy or sadness

in its wake.  Beloved birds will gather

daily at each quiet calling of the dawn;

My eyes will be drawn to fields and

trees and the clouds that frame the mountain as

they scud across an ever-changing sky.

The kettle will sing upon the hob, my

dog will gaze at me, ever-trusting in

my faithfulness.  I shall drink honey-laden

tea, and enjoy a shot of sweetness

as another day begins.

 

 

Cait O'Connor

 

 

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.


Mary Oliver