All images created by Rebekah Marshall’s prompts using AI on Gencraft.com website.
Poem by Mary Oliver
Read one newspaper daily (the morning edition is the best for by evening you know that you at least have lived through another day) and let the disasters, the unbelievable yet approved decisions, soak in.
I don’t need to name the countries, ours among them.
What keeps us from falling down, our faces to the ground; ashamed, ashamed?
My Poem: Mary, Mary
Mary, Mary, quite contrary. No one reads papers anymore. Not because they don’t exist, but because we can’t stomach it.
I picture you saddened by news of world events unfolding in the sickening slow motion of words frozen on the page in time.
And I wonder which is worse, the descriptions of violence we commit against each other on paper, or the real-time videos on social media?
Oh, how you would hang your head and weep at the morning “paper”, such as it is today, malicious hate unbearably wreaking havoc with impunity.
Oliver, Mary. A Thousand Mornings: Poems. Penguin Books, 2012.
My sweet Aunt Mary would absolutely say that it is not a waste of time to spend all day trying to count the leaves on a single tree. What greater way to spend one’s time than analyzing each forked twig and bough, penciling on paper the exact tally for limb 27.4? All my powers of focus, balance, strength, and intellect are at play, and Amelia (that’s the name of the tree in question) absolutely adores the attention. It’s been years since we spent an entire day together and we’ve missed one another immensely. I may or may not complete the task, but that is not important. The act of singular wonder amidst nature’s display of resilience is the thing.
My dear friend Mary would also understand my anger at certain words when they will not appear in my mind’s screen, how my brain screams words like resentment and frustration and hate at the missing word, but what I really mean is, please come back, I miss you, I need you, don’t leave me.
Mary and I know we’re not invited, but still sort of wish we could experience being a whirling dervish because there’s something in the spinning magic of their dance that speaks to our souls.
Once, when I was a bird, I flew over Mary as she took her morning walk along the tree line. I waited to see if she would notice me, but she seemed lost in thought, or maybe prayerful. She chuckled to herself, as though laughing at her own joke, then stopped to study something in the dirt.
When I grow up, I want to be Mary’s dog Percy. Oh, to be loved with such devotion and cared for in my old age, as Percy was. To be accepted, encouraged, admired, and appreciated just for being me—stinky, silly, lazy, and a devoted friend. To sit all day and listen to Mary chat and read, napping with my head in her lap as she scratches my ears, saved from rough beginnings by the kindness of that gracious lady. And when I died, I would not argue about whether or not God made me. I would know.
@Home Studio – 361st poem of the year (After reading Mary Oliver’s book of poems A Thousand Mornings.)
Oliver, Mary. A Thousand Mornings, Penguin Books, 2012.
Runner ups for the Mary Oliver photos to accompany my poem:
I was reading a Mary Oliver poem, as I tend to do and the theme was birdsong, as her poems tend to be, and I was transported— looking out the open window of my grandson’s room when he lived with me as a baby, our routine as simple as one, two, three, me holding him him looking at me, waiting for my imitation of the bird call of the morning.
I was quite impressed with my mimicry, as was he. The bird would sing to us and we would respond. If I took too long, my grandson would grunt to hurry me up. A proper reply must be whistled off, woman.
I’d forgotten that I learned three different bird calls during our shelter-in-place COVID season, probably the accomplishment I’m secretly most proud of, even though I also got my Master’s degree, fostered my grandchildren, taught remotely, rescued an elderly cat, and survived.
But those morning conversations between the birds, my grandson, and me—
@Home Studio – 345th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Bird Calls photos to accompany my poem:
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