National Poetry Month
The following was submitted by reader Lisa Sprague:
It all started with a poem:
Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.
For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language,
let’s stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.
If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead in winter
and later proves to be alive.
Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.
— Pablo Neruda
Out of that poem came the idea to compose a prayer, of sorts, to be used as a daily prompt, a reminder to breathe. The intention is that at 12 noon every day, wherever you are, that you will stop, just for a minute, and recite the following prayer and that people all over your time zone will be doing the same thing, sending out energy and intention that promotes kindness and hope, creating a groundswell that will traverse the world so that it becomes 12 o’clock everywhere. See prayer below.
Prayer for the world
“As we raise our voices with the power of collective consciousness, may we acknowledge our vulnerability, find the strength to embrace solitude, and listen deeply. Now we have the freedom to create ways to help the world — personally, locally, nationally, and globally. Let us be guided by kindness and hope, with the intention of discovering our own true power as a unified human race.”
T’was the Night Before Tuesday
By Wyatt and Jaxon Helterline
T’was the night before Tuesday
When all through the house
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a Geoffrey (That’s the cat)
The sock puppets were made, with fingers that care
With hopes that Mrs. McTeague and Ms. G would soon be there
Lessons were planned on computers each day
With slides, then I ready
It was almost like play
When all of a sudden the kids they could see
Summer was coming
No stopping warm seas
Arbor Day 2020
By Fran Migliaccio
No school this viral
year of seclusion, yet
April’s last Friday will come, go,
no trees given hand to hand to children
I enquired, was told, sourwood would
have come to the island’s
school children this year.
That reddish tree, bronze green of leaf,
white of flower bells, celebrated in song
the south. I remember
a bend in a Great Smokies road,
and sheltered in its shaded
crook a lone
palsied man selling sourwood
honey, generous jars, a chunk
of comb afloat within, I remember
his difficulty of speech and the sweet
amber honey we had for months
back north at home.
Honey, Arbor Day, meld
sweet in the brain, to buoy
hope for trees hand to hand
next year at school.