Because we’ve written the first chapter-
Because it’s not difficult if we let it be easy-
Because Emily Dickinson wrote, ‘Behind Me – dips Eternity -‘
We won’t leave it behind-
We’ve identified an agent-
We were always suppose to have written-
Because writing pulls raw emotion from within, and drips from our heart, to our lips, and our fingers, and then more-
It’s enjoyable finding dust within frost-
Smashing dirt within my mind-
again I do this.
It’s a dreary day in New England. I’m winding down my work day and wanted to share an inspiring poem written by one of the best.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sing the tune without the words-
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard-
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm-
I’ve heard it in the chillest land-
And on the strangest Sea-
Yet, never in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of Me.
Final Harvest. Emily Dickinson 63, (254)
Because we’re not perfect and we should see what that looks like in written form-
We all have the same words at our disposal and it’s intriguing to see how we use them so differently-
You may find hidden attributes within your personality-
Creation of words written into phrases or stories may put into motion action for yourself and possibly others-
It’s good for the heart, mind and soul-
If you don’t, these words will chase you-
As Emily Dickinson once wrote, ‘Your thoughts don’t have words every day’ and when they do, I think we ought to write them down-
A prayer Accepted
Blurred lines met-
Here we are
Beat for us
Copyright 2015 M. Taggart
This morning I took my coffee on the deck and admired the frost. Within that moment Emily Dickinson was yet again my teacher.
I Started Early – Took my Dog-
And visited the Sea-
Emily Dickinson, Final Harvest. 209 (520)
Emily reminds me that we don’t need to name our poetry. Emily also reminds me that a few words say much.
‘Your thoughts don’t have words every day’
Is the start of a poem written by Emily Dickinson. Final Harvest (1452). I agree with Emily.
During a dark time, I found relief in the poem below. I was lucky enough to have lived a few miles from where Emily Dickinson spent her entire adult life. As many of you know, she would often times shut herself in, upstairs, writing poetry. She would watch the children play from her window perch. Sometimes, she would lower poems down, in a basket from her window to the ground, and give them to the children. Emily had a wonderful heart.
‘Ample make this bed-
Make this bed with Awe-
In it wait till Judgment break
Excellent and Fair.
Be its Mattress straight-
Be its Pillow round-
Let no Sunrise’ yellow noise
Interrupt this Ground-‘
Final Harvest, 341 (829)- Emily Dickson