Definitely A Daily Doodle Blog for Docm77

We can make history, Explore the world beyond boundary, We can soar the unlimited sky; Spread our wings and fly. Different interests, yet aiming for one; Glow like silver brighter than the sun, Mark the time with blazing hearts, Help the ruins to make a brand new start. Social insect is like what we are; Ambassadors of peace not war, Handymen of the mischief of our elders; Making the best things more better. In the table of brotherhood we'll dine; Variety of races will intertwine, The banner of love will be unroll, All for one, one for all.                

I am crawling back to my craft With the same slow, heavy steps Of a mountain climber Nearing the peak of the mountain That devoured their sunrise. Every day This peak blocks their sun Every day The sun moves behind it Every day I am steeped in shadow Cold, my hands are stiff

The peak nears When the sun breaks across me Will my hands move sure again?

I cannot know I am crawling back to my craft With the same slow, heavy steps Of the first amphibion That exodused from the cradle of eden The sky beckons When the water breaks across me Will I be warm?

I cannot know

You wake the dead to life, you fountain of grace, you fire in thickets of tangled thought.

Today you arrived beaming with laughter— that swinging key that unlocks prison doors.

You are hope’s beating heart. You are a doorway to the sun. You are the one I seek and the one who seeks me. Beginning and end.

You greet need with generous hands. You flood us with spirit,

rising from the heart, lifting thought.

Rare one, you reveal the pleasure of wisdom and practice.

Beyond these, what is there but excuses and deceit?

We lust after the afterlife. We stew over trinkets. We stage battles between black and white. Our ears are plugged with twisted delusions.

You carry the cure.

Silence! I’m in a hurry. Leave the paper. Break the pen. The cupbearer is here, jug in hand.

Meet us in the land of insight, camped under ecstasy’s flag.

I leant upon a coppice gate       When Frost was spectre-grey, And Winter's dregs made desolate       The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky       Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh       Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to be       The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy,       The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth       Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth       Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among       The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong       Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,       In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul       Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings       Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things       Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through       His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew       And I was unaware.

This morning the world’s white face reminds us that life intends to become serious again. And the same loud birds that all summer long annoyed us with their high attitudes and chatter silently line the gibbet of the fence a little stunned, chastened enough. They look as if they’re waiting for things to grow worse, but are watching the house, as if somewhere in their dim memories they recall something about this abandoned garden that could save them. The neighbor’s dog has also learned to wake without exaggeration. And the neighbor himself has made it to his car with less noise, starting the small engine with a kind of reverence. At the window his wife witnesses this bleak tableau, blinking her eyes, silent. I fill the feeders to the top and cart them to the tree, hurrying back inside to leave the morning to these ridiculous birds, who, reminded, find the rough shelters, bow, and then feed.