"Believe, Believe" by Bob Kaufman

Believe in this. Young apple seeds,

In blue skies, radiating young breast,

Not in blue-suited insects,

Infesting society’s garments.

 

Believe in the swinging sounds of jazz,

Tearing the night into intricate shreds,

Putting it back together again,

In cool logical patterns,

Not in the sick controllers,

Who created only the Bomb.

 

Let the voices of dead poets

Ring louder in your ears

Than the screechings mouthed

In mildewed editorials.

Listen to the music of centuries,

Rising above the mushroom time.

From "At Last the New Arriving" by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

What a prize

you are. What a lucky sack of stars.

How long should a poem be

There will be cobbler.


I was so vulnerable. I was a sitting duck.


And so it is finally revealed on the global stage: so much of what we chalk up to just the way things are is deliberately and maliciously manufactured



On the garage door, above a large white heart: The only way out is through 



Does not doing make you buzz with electricity, or does it feel tinged with avoidance or depression? Pay attention.



He washed the purple bowl for me.



Take note of the tug inside--that's part of who you really are.



Food for thought. Check plus.