I Saw a baby born today

I saw a baby born today
On a borrowed fur coat
At Park Street Station
between the inbound and the outbound
at rush hour

I wonder what La Maze
Would have to say
About the foul smelling air
And sudden roar
Of a hundred untrained coaches
Bursting into cheers
At the first cry
Of a new life

Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes - Shared at Rowe Camp

Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes

First, her tippet made of tulle, 

easily lifted off her shoulders and laid

on the back of a wooden chair. 

And her bonnet, 

the bow undone with a light forward pull. 

Then the long white dress, a more

complicated matter with mother-of-pearl

buttons down the back, 

so tiny and numerous that it takes forever

before my hands can part the fabric, 

like a swimmer's dividing water, 

and slip inside. 

You will want to know 

that she was standing

by an open window in an upstairs bedroom, 

motionless, a little wide-eyed, 

looking out at the orchard below, 

the white dress puddled at her feet

on the wide-board, hardwood floor. 

The complexity of women's undergarments

in nineteenth-century America

is not to be waved off, 

and I proceeded like a polar explorer

through clips, clasps, and moorings, 

catches, straps, and whalebone stays, 

sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness. 

Later, I wrote in a notebook

it was like riding a swan into the night, 

but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -

the way she closed her eyes to the orchard, 

how her hair tumbled free of its pins, 

how there were sudden dashes 

whenever we spoke. 

What I can tell you is

it was terribly quiet in Amherst

that Sabbath afternoon, 

nothing but a carriage passing the house, 

a fly buzzing in a windowpane. 

So I could plainly hear her inhale

when I undid the very top

hook-and-eye fastener of her corset 

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed, 

the way some readers sigh when they realize

that Hope has feathers, 

that reason is a plank, 

that life is a loaded gun

that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

Billy Collins

Re: Childrens Book shared by Francesca at Rowe

On Thu, Feb 7, 2013 at 1:53 AM, Joe OSullivan <josullivanjr@gmail.com> wrote:

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gave his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

of easy wind and downy flake

The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep

--

 

 

 

 

Joe O'Sullivan

19 Crawley Falls Rd

Brentwood, NH 03833

Phone: (603) 686-099
josullivanjr@gmail.com

Opening Poem

Hello All,

This is the poem from the book To Believe in God by Joseph Pintauro and Sister Corita (1968):

to believe in God
is to have somebody
who knows you thru and thru
and likes you still
and all.

Thank you to all for a wonderful weekend,
Francesca

Closing circle

I was so moved by the sharings during the closing circle. Each person speaking an echo from my own heart...the joys and the fears. We are all human, aren't we? And we have wonderful big hearts which we are willing to share at deeper and deeper levels. Thank you, each and every one, for sharing your heart's truth, and your human's insecurities and longings. I do love you all.

Francesca, would you post that short, to-the-point opening "poem?"

Peace and blessings, Judith

JP sings 'We all love Ferry Beach' at Rowe Camp gathering Feb 2013

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jS9tz309hKU&sns=em

This past weekend a group of hardcore Ferry Beach Family & Frienders got together for our winter getaway weekend at Rowe Camp in Western Ma. Here is JP singing the Ferry Beach song that he and Leah Joy wrote for us all to enjoy.

Original Poem Shared by JoeO at Rowe

A Poem

The kitchen
once again is closed

While the table set and waiting seems

to beckon take a seat
surrender

to the solitary seeker

Drawn by nothing more

or less
Than endless invitations

to feast upon the gutted carcass

Of tomorrows understanding

of yesterday's redemption

And yes,

The line is always long
and drawn

beyond the shattered windows

beyond the broken pane

beyond the missing gate

beyond the slipped knot

and bloody shoe

of the masters
bastard afterthought
now long
and full
and finally
gone

the son
once lost
then  found
then lost again
is gone this hour
gone
to the silent
sulking night
that emptiness

has called
called from the twin
and distant hills

of freedom and redemption

called to what

An empty table 

set and waiting

Still
To the one seat
where nothing waits

forever

just beyond the reach

of broken fingers

Kate Campbell playing Sax with the Proftones in Portland last summer

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZKtLJu3zI8&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Kate Campbell rocking it at Andys place with the Proftones last summer

Muck

I wriggle forward

The mud covers me.

Muck

A primordial worm

Arms and legs almost useless

Stuck in a traffic jam

Mud

Creeping into my skin

A trickle passes where I cannot

Darkness punctuated by a headlamp

Water passing in the fast lane

Blunk

Tunk

Krink

on my helmet

I’m stuck…

20 feet under.

I swim out and walk onto the frozen ground.

the cave behind me.

The mud stains my clothes forever

-by Elaine Pratt