Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
...I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds circled in flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Anonymous

the well of grief - david whyte

Those who will not slip beneath
the still surface on the well of grief,
turning downwards through its black waters
to a place we can not breathe...
They will not find the source from which we drink.
The secret water; clean and clear.
Nor will they find in its darkness, glimmering,
the small round coins
thrown by those who wished for something else.

Song of myself (extract) Walt Whitman (1855)

I have heard what the talkers were talking,
The talk of the beginning
and the end.
But I do not talk of the beginning
or the end.
There was never anymore beginning
than there are now,
Nor any more youth or age
than there is now,
And never be any more perfection
than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell
than there is now.
Clear and sweet is my soul,
And clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.
I welcome every organ and attribute of me
Not an inch,
Not a particle of an inch is vile to me.
I am satisfied –
I see, I dance, I laugh, I sing!
I will go to the bank of the river in the woods
And become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it all to embrace me.
I am obsessed with the agony and ecstasy of this life!
It all amazes me!

The honeycomb - Pauline Stainer

They had made love early in the high bed,
not knowing the honeycomb stretched
between lathe and plaster of the outer wall.

For a century
the bees had wintered there,
prisoning sugar in the virgin wax.

At times of transition,
spring and autumn,
their vibration swelled the room.

Laying his hand against the plaster
in the May sunrise,
he felt faint frequency of their arousal,

Nor winters later, burning the beeswax candle,
could he forget his tremulous first loving
into the humming dawn.

Pauline Stainer

DH Lawrence - the glass bottles of our ego

When we get out of the glass bottles of our ego and when we escape like squirrels turning in the cages of our personality and get into the forests again, we shall shiver with cold and fright but things will happen to us so that we don't know ourselves. Cool, unlying life will rush in, and passion will make our bodies taut with power we shall stamp our feet with new power and old things will fall down, we shall laugh, and institutions will curl up like burnt paper.

Creation is praising her God

Creation is praising her God

in the inner city.

 

Window boxes,

burst into life.

The city park opens its gates,

to welcome the day.

Secret roof gardens

give glory to the highest heavens.

 

Forgotten waste ground,

decked with willow herb,

makes space for the urban fox to hide,

for birds to sing and be heard.

 

In the cracks,

where pavement meets factory wall,

poppies spring up,

flashing red and orange.

 

People occupy borrowed ground,

with plants and shrubs,

with pathways and picnics,

till the council is ready to build.

 

Between the cars,

against the odds,

a butterfly weaves its unsteady dance

to the Risen One.

 

Creation is praising her God!

Join her now in celebrating

all that tend seeds of life

in unexpected places.

 

Brian Woodcock.

When death comes - Mary Oliver

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse 

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measles-pox; 

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades, 

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness? 

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility, 

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence, 

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth. 

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument. 

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.