Flag day

Flags are bits of colored cloth
    that governments use first to shrink-wrap people's brains
        and then as ceremonial shrouds to bury the dead.

                    Arundhati Roy, Come September

 

 

 

 

 

Hit or miss

You miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take.

            Wayne Gretzky, The Hockey News

 

 

 

 

 

The right time

The right time is any time that one is still so lucky as to have.

            Henry James, Italian Hours

 

 

 

 

Correct!

An error doesn’t become a mistake until you refuse to correct it.

            O. A. Battista, How to Enjoy Work and Get More Fun Our of Life

 

 

 

 

Sense and nonsense

The pendulum of the mind oscillates
    between sense and nonsense,
        not between right and wrong.

                Carl Gustav Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saintly advice

On the Sabbath try and make no noise
That goes beyond your house.
Cries of passion between lovers are exempt.

        St. Thomas Aquinas, Love Poems from God

 

 

 

 

 

Poem: Miracles

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the
ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

            Walt Whitman