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Silence. You are golden. You are attributed to Thomas Carlyle in 1831. But, whoever named you so, I am so grateful to you this evening. My children are in bed, and you are golden.  Yes, yesterday I very nearly broke the Golden Rule of this blog, rule number two, but as far and I can reckon, taking one day off to plagiarise your children is okay.

Just like listening to ACDC while poeming is okay.

“Livin’ easy, Livin’Free /Season ticket on a one night ride. / Asking Nothing, leave me be /  Taking everything in my stide. / Don’t need Reason, Don’t need rhyme”.

I am a fast machine. I can get from Mom to MonkeyFlunking Poet in zero to one hundred.

Let’s go rock ‘n rollers, those who know the benefits of all kinds of poetry, musical and otherwise. Today I had the most fun. A lunch of good soup, from vegetables grown four feet away of the table, and deer harvested from the yard, and sledding, and hot chocolate, and weaving. And it fed my soul.

And also, when we left I got to to thinking about Viggo Mortgenson. Because, Aragon. And also he does Slam and lives around here. So, he would be a good person to invite to this month’s Poetry Slam at The Readery. If one knew how to get in touch with celebrity.

So, I’m rocking this challenge, and I reckon that gives me the right to give you one. I’ve been watching Ukraine in their fight for freedom, and it reminds me of the Slavs’ love of Poetry.   When the light leaves you for seven months of years, memorization becomes a lifesaver. When you know the Gulag of modern life, even more so.

So, I’d like you, my poemies, to memorize a poem this week.  It doesn’t matter to me where it comes from, I just want to you know that wherever you are, whatever you are doing, you deserve to carry the best words with you. Learn a poem by heart and will become like a prayer.

Slavs know that the words are what will carry you through the dark, dark winter.  Part of that is the iron in the blood, but part is also the knowledge that words can change you. The Second Coming, by W.B. Yeats is one of the ones I carry. Read something amazing, over and over again until it becomes cellular.  It will provide for you. This is my challenge to you. If you can’t find one, tell me how you are feeling and I will find you a poem to carry you.

Today’s poem came from that, and the new knowledge that the Incas grew cotton of all colors, and we bred it away (its own heartbreak, I know):

The Color of Cotton

Incas had colors that grew that way. It grew blues, and reds, and yellows.

The wide earthwide graying of industry, the most highly overrated of revolutions,

bred it out until all that was left was the cleanest white.

Think of all the wastewater that could’ve been spared.

Somedays, the closest to heaven you will get will come when you get yourself closer to the water.

Get yourself closer to the water.  Give it your sorrows. It will take them willingly, and without burden.

Broken bird of prey, I see you hopping,

in circles, on the side of the highway. I see you.

That wing must hurt.

The falconer has given up and gone home to soup and bread. But the hawk is still turning,

and we haven’t given up yet.

Sometimes we wish the Earth could go back,

and grow in colors we’ve forgotten.


Love you, Poemies. Happy Sunday!