Let Love Do the Rest (Remembering John Lewis)

Just in case you forget

As you lay in your Sunday best

You are golden, you are blessed

Fold your hands upon your chest

You can let love do the rest

If the world is unaware

If they still think that God wasn’t there

The hour has come, they’ll confess

That you are heavens’ honored guest

It’s time to let love do the rest

When you pray, move your feet

Make good trouble, let it speak

So you said, so I’ve heard

As if the meek could inherit the earth

I still believe the words in red

As I pull on that hidden thread

Who can say what comes next

But as I walk in your footsteps

I will let love do the rest

Tom Prasado-Rao

[Photo from a long-ago visit to our home in Vermont.]

The End

 

When I was One,
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three,
I was hardly me.

When I was Four,
I was not much more.

When I was Five,
I was just alive.

But now I am six,
I'm as clever as clever

So I think I'll be six now
Forever and ever.

—A.A. Milne

(Video of our granddaughter and her K class reciting this poem).

Dear Peace

 

You are one of the few things left

that cannot be purchased, but

must instead be cultivated and

shaped over time, like clay aching

for the touch and turn of human hands.

You struggle up like a wildflower

in the same untamed patch of ground,

needing both the light and shadow

of the understory to keep rising up

year after year. You are the single

untrammeled Spring Beauty I saw

today, growing from a clump of moss,

white and pink-veined petals open

only slightly, like a mouth searching

for the right words to speak or sing.

—James Crews

Open Anyway

 

When I have fears that what I share

will never touch this hurting world,

I turn to the wild violets growing again

from clumps of moss on the forest floor,

how they unfurl a few limp purple

petals that seem no match for spring

winds and rain, but still somehow trust

that mining bees and fritillaries will

find them and feed—the flowers open

anyway. I still remember standing in front

of that classroom full of expectant faces

in third grade for show and tell, gripping

the thin notebook page on which I’d

written my first poem. The words swirled

and swam until I closed my eyes and

recited them by heart. It was all I had

to give, and not nearly enough, I thought.

Applause thundered through the room.

—James Crews

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

 

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

--William Wordsworth

[Photo of daffodils planted in honor of my beloved friend, Nancy Seward].

Tired

 

I am so tired of waiting,
Aren't you,
For the world to become good
And beautiful and kind?
Let us take a knife
And cut the world in two -
And see what worms are eating
At the rind.

--Langston Hughes

Peace Mountain

 

Climbing takes a thousand steps, then
another thousand, then beyond counting.

Sometimes someone placed the stone steps

here for you, carried them from the valley

and set them firm for your feet to find.

Sometimes no one made a path for you,

so you follow where the deer stepped,

pushing through. Descending into war

is easy—a few short syllables in anger

or fear, and the killing begins. It is a fire

that feeds itself, hungry for a nation,

a city, a child. It burns the hands of

those who make it. To climb Peace

Mountain takes a thousand steps,

then a thousand more, then beyond

counting. The trick is to begin.

--Kim Stafford 

[Photo of Kirkjufell Mountain in Iceland].