Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood By William Wordsworth

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 



The earth, and every common sight, 



To me did seem 



Apparelled in celestial light, 



The glory and the freshness of a dream. 



It is not now as it hath been of yore;— 



Turn wheresoe'er I may, 



By night or day. 



The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 



  



The Rainbow comes and goes, 



And lovely is the Rose, 



The Moon doth with delight 



Look round her when the heavens are bare, 



Waters on a starry night 



Are beautiful and fair; 



The sunshine is a glorious birth; 



But yet I know, where'er I go, 



That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 



  



Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 



And while the young lambs bound 



As to the tabor's sound, 



To me alone there came a thought of grief: 



A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 



And I again am strong: 



The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 



No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 



I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 



The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 



And all the earth is gay; 



Land and sea 



Give themselves up to jollity, 



And with the heart of May 



Doth every Beast keep holiday;— 



Thou Child of Joy, 



Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy. 



  



Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call 



Ye to each other make; I see 



The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 



My heart is at your festival, 



My head hath its coronal, 



The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all. 



Oh evil day! if I were sullen 



While Earth herself is adorning, 



This sweet May-morning, 



And the Children are culling 



On every side, 



In a thousand valleys far and wide, 



Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 



And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:— 



I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 



—But there's a Tree, of many, one, 



A single field which I have looked upon, 



Both of them speak of something that is gone; 



The Pansy at my feet 



Doth the same tale repeat: 



Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 



Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 



  



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 



The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 



Hath had elsewhere its setting, 



And cometh from afar: 



Not in entire forgetfulness, 



And not in utter nakedness, 



But trailing clouds of glory do we come 



From God, who is our home: 



Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 



Shades of the prison-house begin to close 



Upon the growing Boy, 



But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 



He sees it in his joy; 



The Youth, who daily farther from the east 



Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 



And by the vision splendid 



Is on his way attended; 



At length the Man perceives it die away, 



And fade into the light of common day. 



  



Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 



Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 



And, even with something of a Mother's mind, 



And no unworthy aim, 



The homely Nurse doth all she can 



To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 



Forget the glories he hath known, 



And that imperial palace whence he came. 



  



Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 



A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! 



See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 



Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 



With light upon him from his father's eyes! 



See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 



Some fragment from his dream of human life, 



Shaped by himself with newly-learn{e}d art 



A wedding or a festival, 



A mourning or a funeral; 



And this hath now his heart, 



And unto this he frames his song: 



Then will he fit his tongue 



To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 



But it will not be long 



Ere this be thrown aside, 



And with new joy and pride 



The little Actor cons another part; 



Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" 



With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 



That Life brings with her in her equipage; 



As if his whole vocation 



Were endless imitation. 



  



Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 



Thy Soul's immensity; 



Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 



Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 



That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 



Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— 



Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 



On whom those truths do rest, 



Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 



In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 



Thou, over whom thy Immortality 



Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 



A Presence which is not to be put by; 



Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 



Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 



Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 



The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 



Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 



Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 



And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 



Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 



  



O joy! that in our embers 



Is something that doth live, 



That Nature yet remembers 



What was so fugitive! 



The thought of our past years in me doth breed 



Perpetual benediction: not indeed 



For that which is most worthy to be blest; 



Delight and liberty, the simple creed 



Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 



With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:— 



Not for these I raise 



The song of thanks and praise 



But for those obstinate questionings 



Of sense and outward things, 



Fallings from us, vanishings; 



Blank misgivings of a Creature 



Moving about in worlds not realised, 



High instincts before which our mortal Nature 



Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: 



But for those first affections, 



Those shadowy recollections, 



Which, be they what they may 



Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 



Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 



Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 



Our noisy years seem moments in the being 



Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 



To perish never; 



Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 



Nor Man nor Boy, 



Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 



Can utterly abolish or destroy! 



Hence in a season of calm weather 



Though inland far we be, 



Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 



Which brought us hither, 



Can in a moment travel thither, 



And see the Children sport upon the shore, 



And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



  



Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 



And let the young Lambs bound 



As to the tabor's sound! 



We in thought will join your throng, 



Ye that pipe and ye that play, 



Ye that through your hearts to-day 



Feel the gladness of the May! 



What though the radiance which was once so bright 



Be now for ever taken from my sight, 



Though nothing can bring back the hour 



Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 



We will grieve not, rather find 



Strength in what remains behind; 



In the primal sympathy 



Which having been must ever be; 



In the soothing thoughts that spring 



Out of human suffering; 



In the faith that looks through death, 



In years that bring the philosophic mind. 



And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 



Forebode not any severing of our loves! 



Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 



I only have relinquished one delight 



To live beneath your more habitual sway. 



I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 



Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 



The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 



Is lovely yet; 



The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 



Do take a sober colouring from an eye 



That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 



Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 



Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 



Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 



To me the meanest flower that blows can give 



Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

h

O Little Rooster, O Little Cock

O little rooster,

O little cock,

your broken song makes me weep.

How forlorn or gravely ill you must be.

A mob of black doves wrecks my skull,

and an earthquake fractures my chest.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says,

"He always made me cry.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

I don't get it.

We had nothing in common.

That piece of shit.

Why did I marry him?"

Her lover draws near.

He presses his stomach 

against the curve of her back.

"We should never have had any kids,"

she laments.

"He might have been a missionary

somewhere in South America

or a football coach in Texas

or some poor, penniless writer

living in the foothills of New Mexico.

And I might be living in Kentucky

a Baptist minister's wife,

or living in a shack in Durango

a devout Catholic

or living in Pakistan

on a holy journey to Mecca.

"What an ass," she says, clenching her fist.

Her lover sighs

lost in dreams

of bhang fields

and young virgin girls.

The moon presses against the windowpane.

Its sovereign light undresses her;

she pulls the covers around her shoulders.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says.

"We had nothing in common.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he adored roosters.

He always made me cry.

That piece of shit."

A mob of black doves wrecks her skull,

and an earthquake fractures her chest.

Outside, dogs bark,

and cowbells clang.

The night slowly withdraws,

and the earth begins to chirp.

In the yard, the rooster crows.

"Fucking little cock," she cries.

"We had nothing in common.

Why did I marry him?"

O little rooster,

O little cock,

your broken song makes me weep.

How forlorn or gravely ill you must be.

A mob of black doves wrecks my skull,

and an earthquake fractures my chest.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says,

"He always made me cry.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

I don't get it.

We had nothing in common.

That piece of shit.

Why did I marry him?"

Her lover draws near.

His stomach presses against

the curve of her back.

"We should never have had kids,"

she laments.

"He might have been a missionary

somewhere in South America

or a football coach in Texas

or some poor, penniless writer

living in the foothills of New Mexico;

and I might be living in Kentucky

a Baptist minister's wife

or living in a shack in Durango

a devout Catholic

or living in Pakistan

on a holy journey to Mecca.

What an ass he was."

Her lover sighs

lost in dreams

of bhang fields

and young virgin girls.

The moon pushes against the windowpane,

and its' sovereign light undresses her.

She pulls the covers around her shoulders.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says.

"We had nothing in common.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

He always made me cry.

That piece of shit."

A mob of black doves wrecks her skull,

and an earthquake fractures her chest.

Outside, the dog barks,

and there's the clang of cowbells.

The night slowly withdraws,

and the earth begins to chirp.

In the yard, the rooster crows.

"Fucking little cock," she cries.
"We had nothing in common.

Why did I marry him.

Santa Fe

The sky is bluest

in the clean, thin mountain air

of Santa Fe.

Seven days in the city

of Holy Faith,

but my faith is anything but holy.

It's 3:30 a.m.

The cottonwood's arms scrape the window,

as rain thrums a web 

and unsettles a lover in a mad tango.

My woman sighs and says,

"I've always loved you."

I roll out of bed

and, in the dark, I reach for my clothes.

By 4:30 a.m., I'm on the road to Albuquerque.

My thoughts are on the hot air balloon

that, for a while,

will suspend me above the earth,

above the rattle and hiss of the world,

above the candle burning on the horizon.

The clouds are icebergs

floating in an azure sea

carried past Sandia peak.

"How's the weather in Chicago,"

the pilot asks.

"A Heatwave is blasting the city," I reply.

"My brother says the sky is hazy, dirty."

"Do you like the Midwest," he continues.

I shrug, " I love the city."

The roar of the flame drowns my voice,

and the hot air balloon rises.

I think of the adobe house

at the foot of Cristo De Sangre mountains

and the soft, warm body waiting for me.

"I drove by Chicago back in '94," the pilot says,

"So, how do you like living in the Midwest?"

The balloon brushes a treetop,

the Tampa Bay newlyweds squeal.

I shrug, "It's okay."

No one listens.

Coyote yelps, and his brothers begin to sing

and the moon dissolves.

He streaks across open space, 

and the young lovers scream with excitement.

He lifts his tail, and excrement streams through the air.

"So, how do you like Chicago,"

the pilot asks.

I mumble, "I loved a woman there once."

But no one cares,

as the hot air balloon descends

and the land of enchantment unfolds

before an ascending sun.

evening notes #2

2

 "On the riverbank, there's a boat. The path you follow leads to the Jordan River ..."

How amazing is the Creator? Our sun, a perfect size and at an ideal distance, warms Earth as it spins on its axis and circles our life-giving star; it, in turn, orbits our galaxy at the outskirts of the Milky Way, and the Milky Way spirals as it moves through space. It has been going on for billions of years. Everything is moving somewhere, someplace.

Of late, my mind dwells on the grand scheme, or I do it more often. Anyway, the whole time Alice and I converse, I'm on autopilot. I feel I'm in another reality, as if I'm swimming in a river, and its current gently pushes me through space. I'm neither on Earth nor in heaven. I may be in a higher plane of consciousness. All I know is, at this moment, I'm not entirely here, and I feel a presence like a sun's touch on my skin, a warmth that permeates my being. That's what I'm experiencing as I drop Alice off.

Mary is at home. She left work early because of pain in her legs, and It's disconcerting. I hugged her three times. I do everything in threes. It's a dumb superstition like not stepping on cracks or not walking under a ladder, but more importantly, I'm having a running conversation with God. I ask Him for strength as I hug Mary Ann three times. Each time I hug her a little tighter and a little longer. Mac, Jessica, Junior, and Mary's precious granddaughter, Sol, are there. I hug them all as if embracing can remove their fear and pain. In reality, I'm just trying to comfort myself. I say my goodbyes and walk out the door. I smile and tell myself everything is fine. It's all good.

Outside, children head home from school, a mother walks her baby, a couple of guys argue about the Chicago Bulls' weak defense, and a tabby chases a squirrel across the street and up a tree. Everyone and everything goes about their lives as the Earth spins through space, and we continue our journey. I'm overwhelmed with emotion. I get in my SUV and drive away but turn into the first parking lot I see and sob. I'm in a strange state of mind as my sorrow quickly gives way to peace and tranquility. I feel the Spirit embrace me, and I'm comforted. I sit and let it all out -- all the sorrow, all the pain -- until all that's left is the hum of tires on asphalt, the wind rustling leaves, and the chatter of people going about their daily lives. To the West, the sun illuminates billowing clouds. It's ethereal, and I'm calm and serene as I immerse myself in Living Waters.

"Mary, we are burdened by oars we create and carry throughout our lives, but at the end of our travels, they help us navigate across the Jordan River to The Promised Land. The Spirit will be the guiding lamp on your voyage. On the opposite riverbank, mom and dad will be waiting for you. Be brave, my sweet niece, life is just beginning..."

Counting Crows - This Land is Your Land - 7/4/2012 - Codfish Hollow Barn...

Sam I Am

My thoughts drift to Molly's plump ass, and how I'd like to spank it, bite it, kiss it, and mold myself around it. That's when Sam comes around the corner and stands there smiling, and I smile back. You know, one of those dumbass grins that say, "OH shit! You caught me." But Sam can't read my thoughts, except that he's a Christian. For a second, I think he might start prophesying, "God told me you're having impure, nasty, nasty thoughts about Molly's perfectly round bottom, and he wants you to know before the rooster crows three times your penis is gonna shrivel and fall." Or something to that effect. Anyway, he stands there with an angelic smile, and I say, "How's it going, Sam-I-Am?"

"Oh, fine," he says, "much better since I had the growth on my tongue removed. Small, really, but it was painful and bothersome."

Then I remember Debbie mentioning Sam battling cancer a few years back. "Oh yeah, didn't you have cancer a while back?" I mumble and think, I'm fucking smooth, a master conversationalist.

"I'm terminal. The doctor gave me five years. If I'm lucky." Well, shit, how do you respond to that? "I'm, uh ... wow." I sputter, but I guess it's better than, "I hope you make it to five."

"No, it's fine. It's a blessing. God has given me so many opportunities to witness. Before, I couldn't see beyond my nose, but now I see the lilies in the field, the sparrows in the trees. Before, I was a miserable human being; now I see His glory all around me."

"Well, God bless you, brother. You know, my old man was a Baptist minister, and I've been reevaluating my life—the spiritual. I mean, at one point, I was really involved in my old man's church and considered attending seminary after graduating from college. I monitored a Hebrew and Old Testament class at Northern Baptist Seminary, but it wasn't for me at the time. You know, where I was at and shi--tuff. Not a good place. I guess a lot of meaning for my life must be rooted  in the cross at Golgotha." He wells up, and I stiffen and look away.

"I prayed to God today," begins Sam, "that He give me two people so that I may witness to them. He gave me a brother from my church, and He gave me you." He pauses, then says, "During lunch, may I pray for you?"

"Sure," I divert my gaze, and a ray of light reflects off my sunglasses and bursts at the tip of my nose. The Star of David, I think, as I walk away. "See you at lunch, Sam-I-Am."

Who doesn't need a little prayer once in a while? Who doesn't need positive thoughts now and again? Who doesn't need someone caring for them from time to time? Who in the hell doesn't need a little mothering now and then?

In the distance, I see Molly, and she waves. I watch her strut towards her car. "O, Lord!" I say a quick prayer for myself, then one for Sam. Justification. Sanctification. By grace. Yeah, that's what it is, I think, and I head for the men's room to wash my dirty hands.