Doodling in Math: Spirals, Fibonacci, and Being a Plant [1 of 3] - YouTube

 How utterly wonderful is this?  Quite~ 

Just watch:


Doodling in Math: Spirals, Fibonacci, and Being a Plant [1 of 3] - YouTube

Wednesday Poem

Untitled [A house just like his mother's]- Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More

I was instantly taken by this poem by Gregory Orr, drawn to its simplicity, brevity, and depth.  For me it evokes memories of living in my grandparent's house - the magic of the rooms, the mystery of the past I didn't live, that was theirs together.

Untitled [A house just like his mother's]
by Gregory Orr
A house just like his mother's, But made of words. Everything he could remember Inside it: Parrots and a bowl Of peaches, and the bright rug His grandmother wove. Shadows also—mysteries And secrets. Corridors Only ghosts patrol. And did I mention Strawberry jam and toast? Did I mention That everyone he loved Lives there now, In that poem He called "My Mother’s House?"

Monday Poem

I like this poem by George Bilgere, entitled "Robert Frost.  I am not an English or Poetry teacher, but have led workshops and am a poetry editor, so this caught my attention.  We love what we do, but sometimes the weight and volume of words forms a small wall, and the best thing we can do is sit back and have a glass of wine.  Then, maybe we can disassemble it brick by brick. And just how do we nail down ambiguity?

Here is an excerpt from the poem "Robert Frost":


" Every year the English majors of America
must read these poems and analyze their ambiguity
or compare and contrast their ambiguity
in five double-spaced pages.

And the English teachers of America must read these pages
and determine whether they are incisive or not incisive.

I am one of those teachers. I try to do my share.
Because if we don't do this—if Frost's ambiguity
is not discussed, and if these discussions are not assessed,
and then finally graded—well, what's the point of all this?
What are we doing here?"


To read the poem in its entirety, please visit the link below:

Robert Frost by George Bilgere | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor

Quote for the Day~

“In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.”

—Denise Levertov

Ascension - Poem for Easter~

Ascension- Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More

Ascension
by John Donne
Salute the last, and everlasting day, Joy at the uprising of this Sun, and Son, Ye whose true tears, or tribulation Have purely wash'd, or burnt your drossy clay. Behold, the Highest, parting hence away, Lightens the dark clouds, which He treads upon; Nor doth he by ascending show alone, But first He, and He first enters the way. O strong Ram, which hast batter'd heaven for me! Mild lamb, which with Thy Blood hast mark'd the path! Bright Torch, which shinest, that I the way may see! O, with Thy own Blood quench Thy own just wrath; And if Thy Holy Spirit my Muse did raise, Deign at my hands this crown of prayer and praise

Heron

Heron, originally uploaded by salmonbear7.

This is a photo I took last October in Bellingham~

Saturday Poem

So, this is the penultimate poem in my Lenten challenge. It is a poem that came to me when I was teaching at a gym that over-looked the mud flats.  I was on a treadmill that day, looking out at the wildlife so prevalent in that area, and was most captivated by this lone heron. This was my first published poem.

Heron

                                               

He blends almost fully

into the pull  of tide, a long

stretch of neck arched above folded wings.

He seems to glide backward

in meditation

with all the patience and ease

of Jesus fishing for breakfast at dawn.

His gaze piercing the surface he is lost

in the ripple of migrating waters

only to appear again, stark

as a bone of driftwood against a dark eddy.

In this moment he strikes with such grace

that I desire to imagine his prey

doesn’t suffer;  that it comes to him, willing

to die so beautifully.

--Ronda Broatch

A Poem for Good Friday~

After a Month of Rain by Linda Pastan | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor

Here's is the poem's beginning:

After a Month of Rain

by Linda Pastan

Everything I thought I wanted
is right here,
particularly when the sun
is making such a comeback,

and the lilac engorged
with purple has recovered
from its severe pruning,
and you will be back soon ...

Video of 500 Years of Female Portraits in Western Art

Video of 500 Years of Female Portraits in Western Art



This is quite beautifully done - a visual poem~



Music: Bach's Sarabande from Suite for Solo Cello No. 1 in G Major, BWV 1007 performed by Yo-Yo Ma
Nominated as Most Creative Video 2nd Annual YouTube Awards

Maundy Thursday by Wilfred Owen

Maundy Thursday by Wilfred Owen

Maundy Thursday

Between the brown hands of a server-lad
The silver cross was offered to be kissed.
The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad,
And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced.
(And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.)
Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had,
(And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.)
Young children came, with eager lips and glad.
(These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.)
Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte.
Above the crucifix I bent my head:
The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead:
And yet I bowed, yea, kissed - my lips did cling.
(I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)

Wilfred Owen

Text Drawings Created by Cutting Thousands of Letters from Books and Religious Texts | Colossal

Text Drawings Created by Cutting Thousands of Letters from Books and Religious Texts | Colossal

If you've never seen this before, it's really worth looking at.  Gorgeous drawings and patterns created from existing text.  Check it out!

Your Weds Poem, this last week of Lent

So, it is the last week of Lent, smack dab in the middle of it in fact, and I'm looking at wrapping my Lenten challenge to myself of sharing a poem for each day of Lent.  I'm a fan of Garrison Keillor, and love Writer's Almanac.  I happened to tune in to KUOW just as he was starting today's report, and really enjoyed this poem by Kristen Lindquist:

 
Transportation by Kristen Lindquist | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor

Transportation

by Kristen Lindquist

Everyone in O'Hare is happy today.
Sun shines benevolently
onto glorious packaged snack foods
and racks of Bulls t-shirts.
My plane was twenty minutes early.
Even before I descend into the trippy light show
of the walkway between terminals,
I am ecstatic. I can't stop smiling.
On my flight we saw Niagara Falls
and Middle America green and gold below.
Passengers thanked the pilot for his smooth landing
with such gratitude that I too
thanked him, with sudden and wholehearted sincerity.
A group of schoolchildren passes on the escalator,
and I want to ask where they're going.
Tell me your story, I want to say.
This is life in motion.
A young couple embraces tearfully at a gate;
she's leaving, he's not.
How can I bring this new self back to you, intact?
He yells to her departing back,
"Hey, I like the way you move!"
Any kind of love seems possible.
We walk through this light together.
So what if it's an airport?
So what if it won't last?

Monday Poem - on Tuesday~

The Sun Magazine | Illumination

 ILLUMINATION
by Eric Paul Shaffer

On those cold, clear winter mornings, I rise in the dark, and I sit
beneath a lamp with a pen and paper in a circle of light
barely bright enough for the work. The window beside me is black

and blank, and soon I'm staring only through the window of the page
at whatever I'm drawing from ink and concentration.  Hours pass,
and, always when I least expect it, there's a sudden tide of light

as the sun crests the mountain. When the first rays flood the fields,
the tin yellow curtain behind me brightens, and the room swells
with light. Everything is suddenly golden and illuminated,

and for just that one moment, I make the glorious and forgivable
mistake of thinking it has something to do with me.

Cherry Blossom Storm

Cherry Blossom Storm- Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More

 A poem for today~

Cherry Blossom Storm
by Henri Cole

A mother is a mother still,

                 The holiest thing alive.

                    Coleridge, "The Three Graves"

"Draping my body in the usual sterile manner,

they placed me in a supine position and adequate

general anesthesia was obtained. Then a collar incision

was made at the base of my neck and the strap muscles 

incised, the dissection continuing sharply over

both my lobes as inferior vessels and veins 

were isolated, ligated, and divided, the cut surfaces

like a cherry blossom storm, except for a small amount 

of beefy red identified at the pole. Awakening later, 

I heard a voice muttering: Don't worry about adultery 

(he sleeps in a different room). Don't go down after 

midnight. Don't take tranquillizers. Don't love. Don't hate. 

Sometimes, the paralysis of a soul awakens it. Sometimes, 

awful things have their own kind of beauty."

Your poem for today, Sunday, the 1st of April

This one is a must see - enjoy!