Category: songs/poetry

  • Whenever I touch a velvet rose


    peace, originally uploaded by pilgrimgirl.

    Picture: a rose with yellow petals, tinged with pink and red at the edges.

    “My Heavenly Father Loves Me” was my all-time favorite Primary song when I was a little girl. One reason I loved it was because each time we sang it Miss Tammy would choose a handful of kids to hold pictures representing the images of the song: a bird, a rain shower, etc. and I would raise my hand high, hoping to be one of the children chosen to for the special job of holding a picture while we sang.

    It seems fitting to me that even now when I contemplate the song of a bird or the breeze rustling through the trees I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the beauty of the world and I feel closer to the divine.

    Whenever I hear, the song of a bird
    Or look at the blue, blue sky
    Whenever I feel the rain on my face
    Or the wind as it rushes by
    Whenever I touch a velvet rose
    Or walk by a lilac tree
    I’m glad that I live in this beautiful world
    Heavenly Father created for me.

  • my hands are small I know

    Heard Jewel’s “Hands” this morning as I was taking the kids to school. It was powerful for me, especially these lyrics:

    We’ll fight, not out of spite
    For someone must stand up for what’s right
    ‘Cause where there’s a man who has no voice
    There ours shall go singing
    My hands are small I know
    But they’re not yours, they are my own
    But they’re not yours, they are my own
    I am never broken
    In the end only kindness matters

  • wow, I really like this one….

    My former (teen) fondness for punk is showing, I think, as I am totally enchanted by the Dresden Dolls. Kudos to Kay for posting this vid on her website:

  • I won’t be broken again….

    This is one of those days I probably should stay away from my computer. When I feel so raw and tired of being open. And I’m. just. tired. Tired, I say.

    This song, especially the refrain that I’ve put in bold type, was going through my head at Meeting this morning:

    Going Under, by Evanescence
    Now I will tell you what I’ve done for you
    50 thousand tears I’ve cried
    Screaming, deceiving, and bleeding for you
    And you still won’t hear me
    Don’t want your hand this time, I’ll save myself
    Maybe I’ll wake up for once
    Not tormented…Daily defeated by you
    Just when I thought I’d reached the bottom

    I’m dying again…

    I’m going under
    Drowning in you
    I’m falling forever
    I’ve got to break through
    I’m going under

    Blurring and stirring the truth and the lies
    So I don’t know what’s real and what’s not
    Always confusing the thoughts in my head
    So I can’t trust myself anymore

    I’m dying again

    So go on and scream
    Scream at me
    I’m so far away
    I won’t be broken again
    I’ve got to breathe
    I can’t keep going under

    The video for this song is a bit creepy, but if you’re not familiar with the tune, you might enjoy watching it (then again, maybe not, as it is pretty dark like a Buffy episode). I like the parts where she’s singing underwater–as someone who often feels more “right” in the water than on land, it works for me. The water part starts at 1:57 for those who want to skip straight to it,

    The other song going through my head today has a video that’s definitely worth watching.

    Are there times in your life when you’re just not “ready to make nice” to please someone else? What do you do? Sometimes I hide in the dark house with the drapes closed or go to my garden. Sometimes I scream. Or clean house. Or just roll into a ball and cry.

  • a month late…

    From today’s episode of “The Writer’s Almanac“

    February

    Winter. Time to eat fat
    and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
    a black fur sausage with yellow
    Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
    to get onto my head. It’s his
    way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
    If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
    He’ll think of something. He settles
    on my chest, breathing his breath
    of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
    purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
    not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
    declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
    which are what will finish us off
    in the long run. Some cat owners around here
    should snip a few testicles. If we wise
    hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
    or eat our young, like sharks.
    But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
    Again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
    crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
    eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
    thirty below, and the pollution pours
    out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
    February, month of despair,
    with a skewered heart in the centre.
    I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
    with a splash of vinegar.
    Cat, enough of your greedy whining
    and your small pink bumhole.
    Off my face! You’re the life principle,
    more or less, so get going
    on a little optimism around here.
    Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.
    ~Margaret Atwood

  • dazzly dreams


    From jengray:
    Whatever it is you try to do with your life,
    Nothing will ever dazzle you like the dreams of your body…

    ~Mary Oliver

    What are your body’s dreams? And do they dazzle?
    [Me, today my body is dreaming about waterfalls…]
    –

  • A Poem: Seeing Stones

    “Every man who lived on the earth,” Joseph said to them, “was entitled to a seer stone, and should have one, but they are kept from them in consequence of their wickedness, and most of those who do find one make evil use of it.” (Brigham Young’s journal, as quoted in Latter-day Millennial Star, 26:118,119)


    It was the nights when Dad would have kidney stones that he would call me in
    To sit at his bedside to pray.
    I was the family healer, set apart in my partriarchal blessing when I was twelve
    To have the power to be healed and to heal others on their behalf

    I would sit and hold Dad’s hand and ask God
    and he would breathe deep and say
    Thanks Jan, the pain, it’s better now

    But how when it got so bad and the doctors didn’t know why because the stones, they couldn’t see them
    I fasted and prayed my healing prayer
    And the answer
    A time to die
    And then the MRI, it showed cancer. Pancreatic. Uncurable.

    ***

    Dad’s college buddy, Dave, he called today.
    I’d run in to him at Sunstone, recognized him from the funeral
    Asked him for stories about Dad
    Dave said Dad was curious about seer stones. That a girl brought her family’s stone to their Institute class.
    Dave put it in his black felt hat and they had tried to see.

    I asked Dave about Dad’s testimony. Did he always believe?
    He told me of Dad’s mission to the Western States. Dad was dark and could pass for native
    Went to a kiva ceremony and had a manifestation–a Navajo blanket the veil, drawn back and the heavens opened.
    That after that he wondered but never wavered.

    I am angry now that I didn’t know this Dad.
    He never told me the dream stories that Dave tells now.
    Premonitions, knowing, seeing.

    ***

    When I was young Dad stopped at all of the rock shops along the summer route to Utah. I liked the rose crystals, bright pyrite, peacock ores.
    Dad looked, too, but I don’t know what caught his eye.

    Dave says the seer stones give a psychological closeness to the Spirit, remove earthly barriers
    I see myself, a rock-gatherer
    They roll on the floor of my car, mark the bagua of my home, circle the herbs in my garden.
    I see myself, a healer

    Without
    the power to be healed
    Pondering my Father’s stones
    Lacking vision

    ~Jana, 6/2005

    In a revelation from god, Joseph Smith reveals how those who attain glory in the afterlife will receive a seer stone of their own: Then the white stone mentioned in Revelation 2:17, will become a Urim and Thummim to each individual who receives one, whereby things pertaining to a higher order of kingdoms will be made known. And a white stone is given to each of those who come into the celestial kingdom, whereon is a new name written, which no man knoweth save he that receiveth it. The new name is the key word. (Doctrine and Covenants 130:10-11)

  • Elephant Loves

    May I highly recommend the latest Speaking of Faith podcast with an interview with Quaker biologist Katy Payne.

    Katy is also the author of Silent Thunder. Katy was the first biologist to discover that elephants communicate with each other over long distances through sounds that humans can’t hear. Katy attributes her findings to her ability to “listen” to silence, as she learned in Silent Worship with Friends.

    Her podcast speaks of her research with whales, the environmental degredation in Africa, death, depression,and what we all can do to help preserve the biodiversity of our world. And it’s just breathtakingly beautiful.

  • Flash Poetry: An Ode to the return of Black Leggings

    It’s been awhile since I’ve posted some flash poetry (So the challenge is, to set a timer and write a poem in 5 minutes). :)

    The irony: when I was an undergrad, I wore black leggings, too,
    when I was dating Greg and dreaming of John (who was in Japan).

    And when I see them on my students, I am that girl in the leggings and the bright-colored XL Gap tee (that I later wore during my maternity years).

    These students of mine, they don’t know that I once wore black leggings.
    As I stand in front of the class, teaching them. About history.

  • if this is you…

    If you are waiting for a podcast to download and you randomly click on a song in your itunes library, and pouring forth is “Figlio Perduto“, as sung my Sarah Brightman. And you close your eyes and remember. That one Sunday that seemed like every other Sunday until the organist started playing the postlude. And it was Beethoven’s music, the music behind Sarah’s singing. And you sat back and let the song wash over you, because the organ was loud and D’s playing was perfect, and you were not caring that everyone else was leaving for Sunday School. And if this is you remembering this right now, you may feel a bit sad. Wishing you could be with that organ again, hearing that song. Someday. When the rest of life isn’t crowding around.

  • pardon me, hounded hope

    Ah, this one so adroitly expresses that blanket of guilt that descends on days when everything is so good and I know that there are others who suffer…So, my apologies…

    Under One Small Star

    My apologies to chance for calling it necessity.
    My apologies to necessity if I’m mistaken, after all.
    Please, don’t be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.
    May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade.
    My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
    My apologies to past loves for thinking that the latest is the first.
    Forgive me, open wounds, for pricking my finger.
    I apologize for my record of minutes to those who cry from
    the depths.
    I apologize to those who wait in railway stations for being asleep
    today at five a.m.
    Pardon me, hounded hope, for laughing from time to time.
    Pardon me, deserts, that I don’t rush to you bearing a spoonful
    of water.
    And you, falcon, unchanging year after year, always in the
    same cage,
    your gaze always fixed on the same point in space,
    forgive me, even if it turns out you were stuffed.
    My apologies to the felled tree for the table’s four legs.
    My apologies to great questions for small answers.
    Truth, please don’t pay me much attention.
    Dignity, please be magnanimous.
    Bear with me, O mystery of existence, as I pluck the occasional
    thread from your train.
    Soul, don’t take offense that I’ve only got you now and then.
    My apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once.
    My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and
    each man.
    I know I won’t be justfied as long as I live,
    since I myself stand in my own way.
    Don’t bear me ill will, speech, that I borrow weighty words,
    then labor heavily so that they may seem light.
    ~Wislawa Symborska

  • If this is you…

    If you find yourself sitting at your laptop watcing a movie that netflicks accidentally sent to you and you are shaking your head at the interminable squeak coming from GameBoy’s new rock polisher oh, only 20 days of polishing until the stones are ready, you say?, and John has just baked sugar cookies chock-full of hydrogenated oils with shards of sugar glistening glistening on their white tops, and tobycat just let you kiss her head three times before she closed her eyes and fell back asleep. If you happened to have had nearly everything go right today at your prosthetist’s appointment, and you came home walking on your own two feet again never mind that your knee still isn’t fixed yet, and the rain fell and the wind blew and today is your last day of catsitting the wobbly-footed swirly mancat who lives next door. If this is you, then you will be delighted to come across this poem:

    Life, you’re beautiful (I say)
    you just couldn’t get more fecund,
    more befrogged or nighingaily,
    more anthillful or sproutspouting.
    I’m trying to court life’s favor,
    to get into its good graces,
    to anticipate its whims.
    I’m always the first to bow,
    always there where it can see me…
    ~from “Allegro Ma Non Troppo” by Wislawa Szymborska