Spring day

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot, and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots.
The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.


Spring day by Amy Lowell  (From: Men, women and ghosts 1916)

As flowers die

The sick rose by William Blake

O rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm

that flies in the night

In the howling storm
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Rain before dawn

Photograph: Angel in the rain by Tim Oliver Husser.


The dull, faint patter in the drooping hours
Drifts in upon my sleep and fills my hair
With damp; the burden of the heavy air
Is strewn upon me where my tired soul cowers,
Shrinking like some lone queen in empty towers
Dying. Blind with unrest I grow aware:
The pounding of broad wings drifts down the stair
And sates me like the heavy scent of flowers.

I lie upon my heart. My eyes like hands
Grip at the soggy pillow. Now the dawn
Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouse
Of night; lead-eyed and moist she straggles o'er the lawn,
Between the curtains brooding stares and stands
Like some drenched swimmer --
Death's within the house!


Poem by F. Scott Fitzgerald

What is she dreaming about?

Although these angels don't have their home on the cemeteray, i still want to share their images with you. The first one, dreaming angel, i made in a little church in France but shame on me i've forgotten the name of the village. The second angel, who's looking up, i made in the beautiful Cathedral of Boulogne sur mer. Later while driving the car i found out that Boulogne also has a very nice cemetery but there was no time left to visit it. :-( Besides: my three beloved ones, one big man and two little ones, don't share my interest and passion for old graveyards.

Dignity

Life is an unanswered question, but let's still believe in the dignity and importance of the question.

Tennessee Williams

I dream my future * Ik droom mijn toekomst

Gravel rustle under my feet
Thoughts wandering to expired times
Tomorrow is yesterday sighs the sinking sun
I dream my future into oblivion.

Grind knispert onder mijn voeten
Gedachten dwalen naar voorbijgegane tijd
Morgen is gisteren verzucht de zinkende zon
Ik droom mijn toekomst in vergetelheid.

Momo Luna

Then shall you truly dance

Photograph by Cathy from One pink goose.

DEATH
You would know the secret of death.
But how shall you find it
unless you seek it in the heart of life?
The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind
unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.
If you would indeed behold the spirit of death,
open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one,
even as the river and the sea are one.
In the depth of your hopes and desires
lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow
your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams,
for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.
Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd
when he stands before the king
whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.
Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling,
that he shall wear the mark of the king?
Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?
For what is it to die
but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is to cease breathing,
but to free the breath from its restless tides,
that it may rise and expand
and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence
shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top,
then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs,
then shall you truly dance.

Khalil Gibran

angels