Andromeda --
parsecs of wandering gas clouds
******* infinity while giving birth to stars

Are galaxies conscious beings?

this other-verse would, yes, approve;
of this dust mote seen by giant’s eye,
all mighty light and gravitational darkness

spirals


-cec

In the quiet
In the stillness
Sun rising and shining
Being grateful and appreciative
Sometimes even that is not enough
But if you are thankful for another day to try again
Another chance to love your family and friends
Another chance to contribute to the world making it better
and brighter
Enjoy your day because you earned it

C@Rainbowchaser2023

Do not stop to dip your toes
or heaven knows to swim
in this sea of winds
where waves are whipped to horses ears
and tails of white among the foam
foolish child go home
retreat and walk no more
upon this wild and lonesome kelpie shore

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Logosophiamag.c­om
Hellopoetry.com
Fellowshipandfairydust.com

                  ­            “Remarkably Like Any Other Place”

                                                     For Tod

                                        Who is in assisted living
                                        Assisting others in living

Rich: This is an awful place.

More: Except it’s keeping me from you, my dears, it’s not so bad. Remarkably like any other place.

Alice: It drips!

More: Yes. Too near the river.

                         -Robert Bolt, A Man for All Seasons

Life is a pilgrimage from cell to cell:
The bedroom of one’s childhood, the college dorm
The noisy barracks, merry in spite of all
Eighty conscript soldiers bunked out in rows

The marriage home set forth among trees and grass
A comfortable chair with a lamp and books
The office with its official desks and files
And Sunday liturgies in an accustomed pew

All these are now condensed into a cell
Where God has chosen to live and wait with you

In a resounding answer to the abiding question of whether genius is born or made, Emerson writes:

There is no choice to genius. A great man does not wake up on some fine morning, and say, “I am full of life, I will go to sea, and find an Antarctic continent: to-day I will square the circle: I will ransack botany, and find a new food for man: I have a new architecture in my mind: I foresee a new mechanic power:” no, but he finds himself in the river of the thoughts and events, forced onward by the ideas and necessities of his contemporaries.
In a sentiment James Baldwin would echo in his own superb meditation on Shakespeare, in which he observed that “the greatest poet in the English language found his poetry where poetry is found: in the lives of the people,”