Poetry for a Cloudy Day

It was one of those days that you get in Autumn where it’s crisp and gloomy, with amazingly beautiful cloud formations, and for me these days have always been wonderful days for making art and reading poetry.
I did make art today, and I also read poetry.  My favorite non-feminist poet is Walt Whitman, so he and I shared a portion of the afternoon in Leaves of Grass.  I thought I would share some of his beautiful wordcraft with you.  I hope you enjoy it.


As Consequent (Etc.)

–Walt Whitman

As consequent from store of summer rains,

Or wayward rivulets in autumn flowing,

Or many a herb-lined brook’s reticulations,

Or subterranean sea-rills making for the sea,

Songs of continued years I sing.

Life’s ever-modern rapids first, (soon, soon to blend,

With the old streams of death.)

Some threading Ohio’s farm-fields or the woods,

Some down Colorado’s canons from sources of perpetual snow,

Some half-hid in Oregon, or away southward in Texas,

Some in the north finding their way to Erie, Niagara, Ottawa,

Some to Atlantica’s bays, and so the great salt brine.

In you whoe’er you are my book perusing

In I myself, in all the world, these currents flowing,

All, all toward the mystic ocean tending.

Currents for starting a continent new,

Overtures sent to the solid out of the liquid,

Fusion of ocean and land, tender and pensive waves,

(Not safe and peaceful only, waves rous’d and ominous too,

Out of the depths the storm’s abysmic waves, who knows whence?

Raging over the vast, with many a broken spar and tatter’d sail.)

Or from the seat of Time, collecting vasting all, I bring,

A window-drift of weeds and shells.

O little shells, so curious-convolute, so limpid-cold and voiceless,

Will you not little shells to the tympans of temples held,

Murmurs and echoes still call up, eternity’s music faint and far,

Wafted inland, sent from Atlantica’s rim, strains for the soul of the prairies

Whisper’d reverbertations, chords for the ear of the West joyously sounding,

Your tidings old, yet ever new and untranslatable,

Infinitesimals out of my life, and many a life,

(For not my life and years along I give — all, all I give,)

These waifs from the deep, cast high and dry,

Wash’d on America’s shores?


Autumn blooming Clematis grown by Barbara Mattio. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio 2004

Autumn blooming Clematis grown by Barbara Mattio. Photograph and copyright by Barbara Mattio 2004

God loves ugly and beautiful both

The Perks of Being a Writer

Photo from fineartamerica.com Photo from fineartamerica.com

Do you remember
the number of times
you thought you were ugly
because people made you feel that way?
Do you remember
 the number of times
 you wished to be like someone else
and not be yourself?
Do you remember
the number of times
you cursed your average looks? And let those extra kilos,
take away your self confidence from you?
Do you remember
the number of times
you thought God was unfair
because you weren’t born fair?
Then will you regret anymore
 if I said God loves ugly and beautiful both?
blessed are us to be loved by him
nothing else matters more than this
Ayesha Mehr Nadeem | ©

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Dualistic Magic



Dustin O’Halloran

I love the magic of a moonlit night, especially this one with storm clouds in the sky, and the wind blowing slightly in a breeze playing my wind chimes to perfection. I stage this night in advance and then just wait for it to happen. Sure enough it does and I am never disappointed. A backyard that when I first laid eyes on, I thought was hideous, is now an enchanted garden full of fairies and magic. This is not fiction it is my mind and imaging yet believing.  Sometimes, like tonight I weep. I weep in joy and bliss of the wonders I see and feel. I don’t think that you can put bliss into words? You can try to. I have experienced at least three occasions of prolonged bliss just sitting in my garden, and sometimes in the day as well. I love my bird friends…

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