Butterfly

Butterfly in my dreams, 

Nothing is as it seems; 

Whispered winds and silver gleams,

Lost in labyrinthine streams. 

Shadows dance, and time redeems, Forgotten, half-remembered schemes. 

A world where fantasy teems, 

And waking life, like fading themes.

#BENOTEWORTHY

#piccadillyinc

Hymn of Nature

Felicia Dorothea Hemans

O! Blest art thou whose steps may rove

Through the green paths of vale and grove

Or, leaving all their charms below,

Climb the wild mountain’s airy brow!

And gaze afar o’er cultur’d plains,And cities with their stately fanes,

And forests, that beneath thee lie,

And ocean mingling with the sky.

For man can show thee nought so fair,

As Nature’s varied marvels there;

And if thy pure and artless breast

Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest!

For thee the stream in beauty flows,

For thee the gale of summer blows;

And, in deep glen and wood-walk free,

Voices of joy still breathe for thee.

But happier far, if then thy soul

Can soar to Him who made the whole,

If to thine eye the simplest flower

Portray 

His bounty and His power:

If, in whate’er is bright or grand,

Thy mind can trace His viewless hand,

If Nature’s music bid thee raise

Thy song of gratitude and praise;

If heaven and earth with beauty fraught,

Lead to His throne thy raptured thought;

If there thou lovest His love to read;

Then, wand’rer, thou art blest indeed!

Creativity in Life

A lifelong creative who dabbled in cartooning, songwriting, and performing, Shel Silverstein is best known for his whimsical poetry for children. His writing strikes a clever balance between mischief and sincerity, often using bizarre characters as cautionary tales.In one of Silverstein’s most well-known poems, a girl named Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout refuses to take out the trash, and eventually meets “an awful fate” in the garbage she neglected. But many of his poems aren’t ominous at all, and instead turn real life on its head in delightful ways.In beloved books such as Where the Sidewalk Ends and A Light in the Attic, Silverstein often returned to themes of dreaming big, taking life one day at a time, and the importance of being yourself — things you don’t need to be a young reader to appreciate.

Shadow

M. J. Fraser

Fickle fibrous tendrils creepingSeeking out, no longer sleeping

They writhe and slither and work their way through

For all they've got and what they will do

Shadows dance, just out of sight

Hiding away, avoiding the light

But there they creep, for when we weep

They take hold and start to mould

A new feeling, more bold

They grip the mind and soul

Attempting to consume it whole

But breaking through a sliver of light

The shadows retreat, apparent fright

For sparks within will start to fight

To turn it round, to make things right

The spectre's gone, away from view

The sun it shines, trickling through

For now the peace holds dark at bay

But never gone, it's seeks a way

To slither through in shadows wait

The darkness or light depends on fate

Wait

By Galway Kinnell 1927-2014

Wait, for now.

Distrust everything if you have to.

But trust the hours. Haven’t they

carried you everywhere, up to now?

Personal events will become interesting again.

Hair will become interesting.

Pain will become interesting.

Buds that open out of season will become interesting.

Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;

their memories are what give them

the need for other hands. The desolation

of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness

carved out of such tiny beings as we are

asks to be filled; the need

for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.

Don’t go too early.

You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.

But no one is tired enough.

Only wait a little and listen:

music of hair,

music of pain,

music of looms weaving our loves again.

Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,

most of all to hear your whole existence,

rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

My Song

Joseph Seaman Cotter Sr.

Wait

By Galway Kinnell 1927-2014

Wait, for now.

Distrust everything if you have to.

But trust the hours. Haven’t they

carried you everywhere, up to now?

Personal events will become interesting again.

Hair will become interesting.

Pain will become interesting.

Buds that open out of season will become interesting.

Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;

their memories are what give them

the need for other hands. The desolation

of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness

carved out of such tiny beings as we are

asks to be filled; the need

for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.

Don’t go too early.

You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.

But no one is tired enough.

Only wait a little and listen:

music of hair,

music of pain,

music of looms weaving our loves again.

Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,

most of all to hear your whole existence,

rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Prayer

Langston Hughes

I ask you this: 

Which way to go? 

I ask you this: 

Which sin to bear? 

Which crown to put 

Upon my hair? 

I do not know, 

Lord God, 

I do not know.

Ocean

M. J. Fraser

A glow shimmers in the star specked sky

Upon a mountain, rising high

We gaze out to the distant sea

A place of rising waves, a place to be free

To drift and sail to journey ahead

By moon and stars and magic lead

Up and down on gentle waves

Passed rising cliffs and hidden caves

A journey onwards far and wide

On open oceans nowhere to hide

And so the journey forwards through

To lands uncharted, somewhere new