black heart stone

Here’s a poem by Eunice de Souza:


This poem is for you.
It’s a reprieve.
It says
nothing in your little black heart
can frighten me,
I’ve looked too long
into my own.
Thank you for the gift
of your uncertainties.



painting by Christian Schloe



<a href=””>Reprieve</a&gt;


Impression du Matin

Thames Embankment Edward Seago

painting   “Thames Embankment”  by Edward Seago


Here’s a poem by Oscar Wilde:

Impression du Matin


The Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a Harmony in grey:
A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold

The yellow fog came creeping down
The bridges, till the houses’ walls
Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s
Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.

Then suddenly arose the clang
Of waking life; the streets were stirred
With country waggons: and a bird
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.

But one pale woman all alone,
The daylight kissing her wan hair,
Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,
With lips of flame and heart of stone.

<a href=””>Impression</a&gt;

Adrift on the Lake

adrift canoe


Here’s a poem by Wang Wei

Adrift on the Lake

Autumn sky illuminates itself all empty
distances away toward far human realms,

cranes off horizons of sand tracing its
clarity into mountains beyond clouds.

Crystalline waters quiet settling night.
Moonlight leaving idleness everywhere

ablaze, I trust myself to this lone paddle,
this calm on and on, no return in sight.




From Mountain Home: The Wilderness Poetry of Ancient China


<a href=””>Adrift</a&gt;

Radical Hospitality


painting:  Frederick George Cottman – One of the Family

Here’s a poem by Rumi:

Radical Hospitality


This being human is a guest house.

Every morning is a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

[S]he may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.




orange door


<a href=””>Hospitality</a&gt;

<a href=””>Hospitality</a&gt;

final notations



Here’s a poem by Adrienne Rich:


it will not be simple, it will not be long

it will take little time, it will take all your thought


it will take all your heart, it will take all your breath

it will be short, it will not be simple


it will touch through your ribs, it will take all your heart

it will not be long, it will occupy your thought

as a city is occupied, as a bed is occupied

it will take all your flesh, it will not be simple


You are coming into us who cannot withstand you

you are coming into us who never wanted to withstand you

you are taking parts of us into places never planned

you are going far away with pieces of our lives


it will be short, it will take all your breath

it will not be simple, it will become your will





<a href=””>Final</a&gt;

the garden maze has no exit

garden maze 1

Here is a poem by Doyen Lingua:


Garden Maze

Pathways unrecognized send me in circles.

A thousand ponds, bridges, and trees identical.

The baroque fractals of emerald hue;

wandering gnomes that stare with eyes of death

follow my movements without moving.

What magic, this?

That I am lost in myself alone,

and still so unfamiliar,

with its thousand convolutions.

Yet the water is peaceful.

Fields of flowers are my bed.

From here, should I never leave?

Would solve a problem or two.

Like figuring out where I am.

Where I’ve been.

Where I’ll go.

The garden maze has no exit.

Like the earth itself, we have no wings,

or else fly too close to the sun.

The gravel, the grass, the leaves, the trees:

these are my thoughts,

these are my memories grown.

The labyrinth is my soul.

Doyen Lingua




<a href=””>Maze</a&gt;

It is pink, with speckles



Here’s a poem by Sylvia Plath:



I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful—
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.



Painting Woman and Mirror by the French painter Francine Van Hove

painting:  Woman and Mirror  by Francine Van Hove



<a href=””>Pink</a&gt;