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Showing posts from March, 2013

Air Hope Love And Magdala

Air, Hope, Love and Magdala Sad breath of April, and hot noon, when at 3 PM, a cross stands in Golgotha
Whipped and lashed scars bleed, there is flesh and skin
Now here today, what has changed?
When you still mock and strut your wicked, wicked ways
I saw they were too proud to do the parade, they thought was mardi gras - and so before the holy Wednesday - the party and blast of dancing in the streets
Across time, waved leaves on air - the breath of noon still hot and waiting
So incomplete and insincere - like the dust on my forehead
Not solemn and free - unlike the kites
The highways are empty and gleaming hot, April heat blows air
Until Sunday - at dawn in a baby's crying I awake leaping in joy
going to the tomb -
The altar is a tomb where all the dead rise and pray here.
Moments of solitude all creatures work until eternity
He is risen.
And so Like Magdala - I anointed perfume
feet, thighs, loins, body, his face and hair
They're cold but the daze in his eyes gets warm in my heart
The air ha…

Pope Francis I

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Webcam video from March 22, 2013 11:05 AM

COLORS: PAINTED TEXTS (a poem)

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The Thinker

Small pages in my mind want to write

maybe volumes of history

or maybe just of this hour.

My brain doesn't stop thinking.

It reels about me, about others

the moments of truth - around.

I read William Golding's short essay

about "Thinking as a Hobby" ;

Grades and levels of thinking

and how Professor Einstein realized that

any contact was better than none.

My mind is still reeling like clouds that

thump the sky in different orders

when rain starts to fall

or like a night blanket of which field

of earth to roof with the moon.

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I  am thinking about Rodin's the Thinker.

What can you say about that?

---

In the essay,  William prefers Venus more than the Thinker...



OK. Let's start the class! Smile.

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Small pages in my mind want to write

maybe volumes of history

or maybe just of this hour.

My brain doesn't stop thinking.

It reels about me, about others

the moments of truth - around.

I read William Golding's short essay

about "Thinking as a Hobby" ;

Grades and levels of thinking

and how Professor Einstein realized that

any contact was better than none.

My mind is still reeling like clouds that

thump the sky in different orders

when rain starts to fall

or like a night blanket of which field

of earth to roof with the moon.

---

I  am thinking about Rodin's the Thinker.

What can you say about that?

---

In the essay,  William prefers Venus more than the Thinker...