Snake

BY D. H. LAWRENCE

A snake came to my water-trough

On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,

To drink there.

 

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob tree

I came down the steps with my pitcher

And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough

            before me.

 

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom

And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over

            the edge of the stone trough

And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,

And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,

He sipped with his straight mouth,

Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,

Silently.

 

Someone was before me at my water-trough,

And I, like a second-comer, waiting.

 

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,

And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,

And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused

             a moment,

And stooped and drank a little more,

Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels

            of the earth

On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.

 

The voice of my education said to me

He must be killed,

For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold

            are venomous.

 

And voices in me said, If you were a man

You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

 

But must I confess how I liked him,

How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink

            at my water-trough

And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,

Into the burning bowels of this earth?

 

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him?

Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him?

Was it humility, to feel so honoured?

I felt so honoured.

 

And yet those voices:

If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

 

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid,

But even so, honoured still more

That he should seek my hospitality

From out the dark door of the secret earth.

 

He drank enough

And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,

And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,

Seeming to lick his lips,

And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,

And slowly turned his head,

And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,

Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round

And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

 

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,

And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders,

            and entered farther,

A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into

            that horrid black hole,

Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing

            himself after,

Overcame me now his back was turned.

 

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,

I picked up a clumsy log

And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

 

I think it did not hit him,

But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed

            in an undignified haste,

Writhed like lightning, and was gone

Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,

At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

 

And immediately I regretted it.

I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!

I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

 

And I thought of the albatross,

And I wished he would come back, my snake.

 

For he seemed to me again like a king,

Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,

Now due to be crowned again.

 

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords

Of life.

And I have something to expiate:

A pettiness.

 

                                                                                                     Taormina

An Arundel Tomb

By Phillop Larkin

Side by sideSide by side To see a recent photograph of this tomb of the Earl and Countess of Arundel that Larkin is describing, click here. , their faces blurred,    The earl and countess lie in stone,    Their proper habitshabits Clothes vaguely shown    As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,    And that faint hint of the absurd—    The little dogs under their feet. Such plainness of the pre-baroque pre-baroque In Larkin’s pronunciation, the phrase rhymes with 'shock.' The Baroque period, exemplified by ornamentation, followed the Renaissance. This tomb was sculpted in the Middle Ages.    Hardly involves the eye, until It meets his left-hand gauntletgauntlet An armored glove, worn in the Middle Ages, still    Clasped empty in the other; and    One sees, with a sharp tender shock,    His hand withdrawn, holding her hand. They would not think to lie so long.    Such faithfulness in effigyeffigy A sculptured likeness Was just a detail friends would see: A sculptor’s sweet commissioned grace    Thrown off in helping to prolong    The Latin names around the base. They would not guess how early in Their supinesupine On their backs stationary voyage The air would change to soundless damage,    Turn the old tenantry away; How soon succeeding eyes begin To look, not read. Rigidly they Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths    Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light Each summer thronged the glass. A bright    Litter of birdcalls strewed the same Bone-riddled ground. And up the paths    The endless altered people came, Washing at their identity.    Now, helpless in the hollow of    An unarmorial age, a trough Of smoke in slow suspended skeinsskeins Used figuratively, a skein is a quantity of thread     Above their scrap of history,    Only anOnly an When first published in June 1956 in the London Magazine, the line began: Only their attitude remains: Time has transfigured them into    Untruth. The stone fidelity They hardly meant has come to be    Their final blazonblazon Both a coat of arms, and a public proclamation, and to prove    Our almost-instinct almost true:    What will survive of us is love.

When Inspiration Strikes

When Inspiration Strikes,

You never know what you could do

When Inspiration Strikes,

You could perform miracles.

When Inspiration Strikes,

You could dance a new dance.

When Inspiration Strikes,

You could cure a disease.

When Inspiration Strikes,

You could do the impossible.

Loving the “I”

BY KIM MOORE

After Sharon Olds’s “Take the I Out”I also love the I, the way it holds everythingI almost know in one great stroke, one great love,I draw it, though I don’t give it flitches,have never heard the word until I read it.Someone tells me about a village called Great Dunmowwhere the married couple judged the happiestare awarded a flitch of bacon. It sounds like hell,I say, knowing how competitive I am,imagining dragging my husband down the road,our smiles stretched across our faces,never being able to argue—can you imagine,having to testify: no I have never regrettedour marriage, not for one second, one minute,one hour, one day. Our arguments taking placein whispers, frantic snakes of words writhingin the air between us. All this is to say, my Idoes not have flitches. I teach it to my daughter,top to bottom, I, I, I, the easiest letterin the world to write. We draw a line of themmarching along the page. I tell her I love youand she sings out I love you too Mummy.It takes time for a child to refer to themselvesas I instead of in the third person by name.But the I is singing in her blood now.I know what I was before she came.Now my I throws down its spearand says I will stand here, and here,and here, and the I is a stem of a notewithout a head, the I is a missing table leg,the I is running through my poemlike golden thread, look, here I amtrying to write whilst she shouts again and againMummy, look at me! I am here!walk hilly paths home any longer.            How did they capture you in            solid stone rolled into a greenvalley? Yes, that’s right—rolled!            But first stones were rounded.            No, sacred work is never easy.My Olmec brothers, I saw you            with my own eyes, true & dark,            in the Museum of Archaeologyof Mexico City, tall & righteous,            & I love the red-hot peppers            baked into your maize bread.

My Brothers

BY YUSEF KOMUNYAKAA

You came by woven reed boats

            forced across angry water

            driven by mighty winds.

Or a swift long skiff ferried you

            here by twenty-four oarsmen,

            twelve on each side, six front

& rear, powered by the rotation

            of two shifts, all twenty-four

            who tugged along dreamwork

on waves. They rowed around

            sun & moon setting & rising,

            inhale & exhale, all as one

song of the whole crew rotating,

            pushing ahead until they saw

            green land, their oars parting

blue rhythms of what’s to come

            or being born on the other side

            of the world. Yes, my brothers,

you of bittersweet herbs & chants

            taken in sea breeze, what secrets

            & taboos, myths, laws, & oaths

did you bring here? I believe it was

            your laughing, thundering voices

            in the drums. Where did you hide

those days of wild cats, serpents,

            & plots? Did you arrive out of

            nowhere, always here, stout

& tall, hewn of stone miles away,

            but now rooted into green earth?

            Mystery how you rose or sprung

up, somehow you became almost

            another people, calling windswept

            sea waves at your strong backs.

If you were always here, brothers,

            you wouldn’t have danced feet

            bloody under a full moon. No,

the charts were blue-black skies,

            but not to worship hidden icons

            before & beyond, & you cannot

Afternoon Notes

BY WENDY XU

After Bei Dao

A squirrel alone with his thoughts

Spider’s geometry which you might avoid

by rotating your shoulder just so

None of this is meant to be of any consequence

A soreness three quarters up the leg

An engine is more than a mumbling

cutting with a wince into—

Nevermind

Rustling another green nut to the feast

is what matters now

Choosing the most simple

beautiful words

that won’t spoil on the half-day journey to meet you

A leg hair perks the wind

It stands up without shadow

without panic

without ambition

              Unable to be judged by standards of human dignity

From “Sleeping with Bashō”

BY DAVID TRINIDAD

at the yam festival

What a delicious life!

When I cut a sweet

potato in half, I get

the harvest moon.

stripped branches

What’s left after the wind

blows every blossom

off the dog cherry—

a tree of wagging tails.

surrender to the beauty of flowers

Be sure to wear

your flowered robe

when you come out

to view the blossoms.

family history

The bamboo sprout

cares nothing

about the stalk

that produced him.

wagging tongues

Every red leaf

rustling

with gossip.

lights out

Unhappily,

the new moon

has been sent upstairs

before her bedtime.

SAYŌNARA

Like wild geese,

we’ll only be separated

by clouds, my dear,

dear friend.

house call

How come the rich merchant

never sends a horse

to fetch the village poet?

seeing is believing

I found god

in plum blossoms,

not the great blank sky

beyond them.

Poem about My Right

BY JUNE JORDAN

Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clearmy head about this poem about why I can’tgo out without changing my clothes my shoesmy body posture my gender identity my agemy status as a woman alone in the evening/alone on the streets/alone not being the point/the point being that I can’t do what I wantto do with my own body because I am the wrongsex the wrong age the wrong skin andsuppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/or far into the woods and I wanted to gothere by myself thinking about God/or thinkingabout children or thinking about the world/all of itdisclosed by the stars and the silence:I could not go and I could not think and I could notstay therealoneas I need to bealone because I can’t do what I want to do with my ownbody andwho in the hell set things uplike thisand in France they say if the guy penetratesbut does not ejaculate then he did not rape meand if after stabbing him if after screams ifafter begging the bastard and if even after smashinga hammer to his head if even after that if heand his buddies fuck me after thatthen I consented and there wasno rape because finally you understand finallythey fucked me over because I was wrong I waswrong again to be me being me where I was/wrongto be who I amwhich is exactly like South Africapenetrating into Namibia penetrating intoAngola and does that mean I mean how do you know ifPretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like theproof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blacklandand ifafter Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabweand if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even toself-immolation of the villages and if after thatwe lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will theyclaim my consent:Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people ofthe wrong skin on the wrong continent and whatin the hell is everybody being reasonable aboutand according to the Times this weekback in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problemand the problem was a man named Nkrumah so theykilled him and before that it was Patrice Lumumbaand before that it was my father on the campusof my Ivy League school and my father afraidto walk into the cafeteria because he said hewas wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wronggender identity and he was paying tuition andbefore thatit was my father saying I was wrong saying thatI should have been a boy because he wanted one/aboy and that I should have been lighter skinned andthat I should have had straighter hair and thatI should not be so boy crazy but instead I shouldjust be one/a boy and before thatit was my mother pleading plastic surgery formy nose and braces for my teeth and telling meto let the books loose to let them loose in otherwordsI am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.and the problems of South Africa and the problemsof Exxon Corporation and the problems of whiteAmerica in general and the problems of the teachersand the preachers and the F.B.I. and the socialworkers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am veryfamiliar with the problems because the problemsturn out to bemeI am the history of rapeI am the history of the rejection of who I amI am the history of the terrorized incarceration ofmy selfI am the history of battery assault and limitlessarmies against whatever I want to do with my mindand my body and my soul andwhether it’s about walking out at nightor whether it’s about the love that I feel orwhether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina orthe sanctity of my national boundariesor the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctityof each and every desirethat I know from my personal and idiosyncraticand indisputably single and singular heartI have been rapedbe-cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong agethe wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair thewrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographicthe wrong sartorial II have been the meaning of rapeI have been the problem everyone seeks toeliminate by forcedpenetration with or without the evidence of slime and/but let this be unmistakable this poemis not consent I do not consentto my mother to my father to the teachers tothe F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuyto Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardonidlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps incarsI am not wrong: Wrong is not my nameMy name is my own my own my ownand I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like thisbut I can tell you that from now on my resistancemy simple and daily and nightly self-determinationmay very well cost you your life

Mixed-Up Sestina

BY JORDAN PÉREZ

For José

We have been shitting and pissing in the sealed buses through the night,

then out, and stadium lights click on. Rows of stands standing empty.

I think of the stories of ancient Rome: lions or dogs tearing apart

the faithful in arenas like these. Then here, my own shaking hands.

Some say we will be shot at midfield, but no one is sure.

One dancer can’t forget his training. Still in first position, this man.

Electric barbed wire makes a soft click sound through the night.

Some say it is turned off during the day, but no one is sure.

We are here to learn to be men, so we rip out the grass with our hands.

The man beside me, whose shoe is untied, cries to himself, “Apart

from God, nothing” again and again. I suddenly feel like a man

who has returned from a trip to find his entire town empty.

We are even given a new alphabet. M for Marxism. R for Raúl. Apart

from this, a test: Walk until the soldier believes you are not a gay man.

There is no rice. The boat has not come from China. The empty

dishes could be my own wife’s dishes, so delicate in my hands.

Some say the ungrateful are stabbed with their own forks, but no one is sure.

Beside me, a painter with blistering palms who once did fine work.

They cut the stubborn ones with bayonets. We continue killing the grass, man

after man kneeling. The victory still marked on the scoreboard sits empty.

Someone says the umpires were very unfair that day, but no one is sure.

Many have lost their shoes, and so steal others until no one can tell his apart

from anyone else’s. A lawyer tries to make a point by sitting on his hands.

After we hear him die I can no longer sleep through the night.

We are brought to uproot fields thick with marabú until our hands

are covered in blood and thorns. I wonder if the Jehovah’s Witness thinks man

should be grateful to suffer as Jesus did. Carnations sprout in an empty

patch, but nobody seems to notice. Even together we are apart.

Castro inspects our work. The chicken he brought for his supper squawks until night.

Someone says he will soon move to reduce numbers, but no one is sure.

We stop caring and sleep on the dormitory ground, curled man to man.

The limestone soil is empty. The cottontail’s eyes are empty.

I cannot stop shaking as I pull the root and its own earth apart.

I remember the time my father and I sang by the sea long into the night.

I remember the morning when a frog sunbathed in my cupped hands.

I think my daughters would still know me now, but I cannot be sure.

Matthew 6:28—Sonnets

BY KYLE OKEKE

Two doors in the snow: two men inexcess. Beauty, theyre strain, likea grave. Its ghost, cold and falling.I was looking formeaning, too. I found a sidewalk:more doors laidlike planks. A vulture starving forlight, I found a knifeI sank in-to the white, soft wage:an angelcarved in his image.Arrestedby the path, knife wetwith glimmer, weapon left in snow—I felt hischest like a trapdoor.The inmatescarry themselves upin bouquets. In the closets, fieldsof lilies.

Walking with My Delaware Grandfather

By Denise Low

Walking home I feel a presence following           and realize he is always there that Native man with coal-black-hair who is           my grandfather. In my first memories he is present, mostly wordless,           resident in the house where I was born. My mother shows him the cleft in my chin           identical to his. I am swaddled and blinking in the kitchen light. So           we are introduced. We never part. Sometimes I forget he lodges in my house still           the bone-house where my heart beats. I carry his mother’s framework           a sturdy structure. I learn his birthright. I hear his mother’s teachings through           what my mother said of her: She kept a pot of stew on the stove           all day for anyone to eat. She never went to church but said           you could be a good person anyway. She fed hoboes during the ‘30s,           her back porch a regular stop-over. Every person has rights no matter           what color. Be respectful. This son of hers, my grandfather,           still walks the streets with me. Some twist of blood and heat still spark           across the time bridge. Here, listen: Air draws through these lungs made from his.           His blood still pulses through this hand.

In the House

by the Sea BY STACIE CASSARINOI admired the sea, most days,but not the heirs or millionairessailing in stiff-capped winds,buttoned for summer. After all,we were the spectacle, two womentouching in all the wrong places,furnishing rooms with no childrenin the hull of a house gone still.She had some guns, a half-missingfinger, an eye that pointed.Sometimes you need to be shot, she’d say.I hardly remember her name.How the sky came in obliquelythrough the window.How the skiffs were a study in silence.How I hid my body in a bathtub.What she meant was sometimes you’re hardto love. And that one nightI swore she was comingfor me, I just turned over and took it— and beyondthe blindless room, a wildnesstoo foreign to name, tomatoes tiedand splitting in the heat, couplessipping the wealth of bivalves, saltof the Sound with open lips, the gnarlof some animal, cocked and on the mark,in the distance a lighthousehaunting whatever darknesswas never ours to begin with.

A Revelation with Yeats

BY KIMIKO HAHN

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

The cyclone cannot feel the air;

The drain disavows the water—

The roof’s an outright liar.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The rancher cannot break her mare.

She’s broke and both will soon retire—

The cyclone cannot hear the air.

The teacher’s a screen, he’ll soon retire

“What is theory, what is crossfire.”

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The children think they’re scoring higher,

But they just spin the virtual where

The cyclone cannot see the air.

Who will stay when oceans boil over?

Who will return when pavement catches fire?Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The cyclone cannot flee the air. 

The Animals

By W. S. Merwin

All these years behind windows With blind crosses sweeping the tables And myself tracking over empty ground Animals I never saw I with no voice Remembering names to invent for them Will any come back will one Saying yes Saying look carefully yes We will meet again

Holy Sonnets: If poisonous minerals, and if that tree

By John Donne

If poisonous minerals, and if that tree

Whose fruit threw death on else immortal us,

If lecherous goats, if serpents envious

Cannot be damn'd, alas, why should I be?

Why should intent or reason, born in me,

Make sins, else equal, in me more heinous?

And mercy being easy, and glorious

To God, in his stern wrath why threatens he?

But who am I, that dare dispute with thee,

O God? Oh, of thine only worthy blood

And my tears, make a heavenly Lethean flood,

And drown in it my sins' black memory.

That thou remember them, some claim as debt;

I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

Unaccompanied Anthem

Unaccompanied Anthem 

By Rita Dove 

We live as we dream ... alone.—Joseph Conrad, “Heart of Darkness”I was not born to thiswariness. I came of ageas my kind do—armed with acheand swathed in rectitude,a rough carvingsluiced under a torrentof disregard. Still, I did notsuffer unduly. Most oftenI bore witness: I listened,then took it back into a solitudeneither light nor raincould reach. There I would sitand rock myself warm.I tell you this long pastthe learning of it. I ate quickly,dreamt little, read like a fiend—not quite a shadow,more than a smudge;you begrudged meeven these tremulouspleasures. I came to yougrinning with grief,but if called uponwould not pause to lift up a fist—the only one in the roomwho raises her handwhen no one else speaks,though the answer is obvious.

The Song of Smoke

The Song of the Smoke By W. E. B. Du Bois

I am the Smoke King I am black! I am swinging in the sky, I am wringing worlds awry; I am the thought of the throbbing mills, I am the soul of the soul-toil kills, Wraith of the ripple of trading rills; Up I’m curling from the sod, I am whirling home to God; I am the Smoke King I am black. I am the Smoke King, I am black! I am wreathing broken hearts, I am sheathing love’s light darts; Inspiration of iron times Wedding the toil of toiling climes, Shedding the blood of bloodless crimes— Lurid lowering ’mid the blue, Torrid towering toward the true, I am the Smoke King, I am black. I am the Smoke King, I am black! I am darkening with song, I am hearkening to wrong! I will be black as blackness can— The blacker the mantle, the mightier the man! For blackness was ancient ere whiteness began. I am daubing God in night, I am swabbing Hell in white: I am the Smoke King I am black. I am the Smoke King I am black! I am cursing ruddy morn, I am hearsing hearts unborn: Souls unto me are as stars in a night, I whiten my black men—I blacken my white! What’s the hue of a hide to a man in his might? Hail! great, gritty, grimy hands— Sweet Christ, pity toiling lands! I am the Smoke King I am black.

• The Humming-Bird Beatrice Ravenel The sundial makes no sign At the point of the August noon. The sky is of ancient tin, And the ring of the mountains diffused and unmade (One always remembers them). On the twisted dark of the hemlock hedge Rain, like a line of shivering violin-bows Hissing together, poised on the last turgescent swell, Batters the flowers. Under the trumpet-vine arbor, Clear, precise as an Audubon print,            The air is of melted glass,            Solid, filling interstices Of leaves that are spaced on the spines            Like a pattern ground into glass;            Dead, as though dull red glass were poured into the mouth, Choking the breath, molding itself into the creases of soft red tissues. And a humming-bird darts head first, Splitting the air, keen as a spurt of fire shot from the blow-pipe, Cracking a star of rays; dives like a flash of fire, Forked tail lancing the air, into the immobile trumpet; Stands on the air, wings like a triple shadow Whizzing around him. Shadows thrown on the midnight streets by a snow-flecked arc-light, Shadows like sword-play, Splinters and spines from a thousand dreams Whizz from his wings! This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on August 20, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets. Subscribe to the Poem-a-Day Podcast     “The Humming-Bird” first appeared in The Measure, no. 31 (September 1923), and later again in Beatrice Ravenel’s collection The Arrow of Lightning (Harold Vinal, 1926). In the introduction to The Yemassee Lands: Poems of Beatrice Ravenel (University of North Carolina Press, 1969), Louis D. Rubin Jr., former university distinguished professor at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, writes, “It is not without relevance, I think, that Beatrice Ravenel was university trained. Her work displays an unabashed use of the intellect, and is not content with the easy poetic phrases and undemanding language of so much Southern verse. Her poems are not oversimplifications of their subjects; they are not ‘written down.’ Consider, for example, her description, in a poem entitled [sic] ‘The Humming-Bird,’ of a summer garden after the rain [. . .]. There is a precision, a concrete specificity of language and imagery, here that are [sic] possible only because the poet knew that the connotative properties of words, and not Poetic Ideas, are what make a poem stay alive.” Beatrice Witte Ravenel, born on August 24, 1870, in Charleston, South Carolina, was a poet affiliated with the Southern Renaissance. She is the author of one collection, The Arrow of Lightning (Harold Vinal, 1926), though her collected works were published posthumously in The Yemassee Lands: Poems of Beatrice Ravenel (University of North Carolina Press, 1969). She died on March 15, 1956. The Arrow of Lightning (Harold Vinal, 1926)   “In Summer Twilight” by Joshua Henry Jones Jr. read more “The Swallow” by Luis G. Dato  read more Thanks to Divya Victor, author of Curb (Nightboat Books, 2021), who curated Poem-a-Day for this month’s weekdays. Read or listen to a Q&A about Victor’s curatorial approach and find out more about our guest editors for the year. “Poem-a-Day is brilliant because it makes space in the everyday racket for something as meaningful as a poem.” —Tracy K. Smith If this series is meaningful to you, join the community of Poem-a-Day supporters by making a gift today. Now serving more than 320,000 daily subscribers, this publication is only possible thanks to the contributions of readers like you.   donate Copyright © 2023 The Academy of American Poets, All rights reserved. You are receiving this email because you opted in via our website. Our mailing address is: The Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane STE #901 New York, NY 10038 Add us to your address book View this email in your browser Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from all Academy messages. For any other questions, please visit the Poem-a-Day FAQ page.

  

Visions

Our perceptions

Are glimpses

Into future possibilities.

These imagining are the musings of great and small minds alike. They show brilliant into the fantasy of our collective consciousness which is ever expanding.

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Challenges

To persevere,
You have to overcome the obstacles set before you.
Through your trails you shall supercede the odds which have been set before you as well as the dares and moxie met through the highest spiritual powers.

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Patience

This calm,
Serene,
Peaceful composure,
Has great stoicism.
It also has some of the most placid compososures of which are the most gentleness. These all make it of extreme humility and honor for all to observe.

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Echoes of Life

The echoes of life,
The stories that we tell,
The echoes of life,
The stories which ring true,
The echoes of life,
The stories which are so remarkably true for me and you.

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