Sometimes, when a bird cries out, Or the wind sweeps through a tree, Or a dog howls in a far off farm, I hold still and listen a long time. My soul turns and goes back to the place Where, a thousand forgotten years ago, The bird and the blowing wind Were like me, and were my brothers. My soul turns into a tree, And an animal, and a cloud bank. Then changed and odd it comes home And asks me questions. What should I reply?
Poetic Outlaws has a new shop! Nothing big. Just a few T-shirts and some coffee mugs. People seem to like the logo and I’ve had many requests for some shirts/mugs showcasing it. Anyway, here it is. Thanks for all the support.
The best poems come from the simplest idea!
If we listen with care. there is in that, affection,
not agreement or disagreement, but a quality of mind that says, `Let's
see what's this all about, let us see if it has any value at all, let
us see what is true and what is false.' Do not accept or deny,
but observe and listen, not only to what is being said, but also to your
reactions, to your distortions, as you are listening; see your
prejudices, your opinions, your images, your experiences, see how
they are going to prevent you from listening.