Gram's Lament

Gram's Lament - A song

Look at me
O look at me
What do you see
With your bright young eyes?
What do you see
When you look at me?

We are the old
We are invisible
We are not seen

Look again
Look at me
Open your heart
Now what do you see?

My eyes once glowed
My lips once loved
My limbs were graceful
My laughter light

We are the old
We are invisible
We are not seen

All you young ones
Look at me
Really look at me

I have things to say
I have love to give
Wisdom to share

So use your heart
And look again...At me.
Then tell me what you see

We are the old
We are invisible
We are not seen.

Mary Murphy

The Writer's Almanac Today

Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac today begins with Shakespeare's Sonnet 91 and goes on to tell us all about "the sonnet." Great reading and listening.

You can download it HERE - to listen

Billy Collin's Sonnet on "the Sonnet" is mentioned:

Sonnet - Billy Collins

All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now,
and after this one just a dozen
to launch a little ship on love's storm-tossed seas,
then only ten more left like rows of beans.
How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan
and insist the iambic bongos must be played
and rhymes positioned at the ends of lines,
one for every station of the cross.
But hang on here wile we make the turn
into the final six where all will be resolved,
where longing and heartache will find an end,
where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen,
take off those crazy medieval tights,
blow out the lights, and come at last to bed.

The Land and Words of Mary Oliver, the Bard of Provincetown

The NY Times: The Land and Words of Mary Oliver, the Bard of Provincetown

Perfect stillness. Could this have been where Mary Oliver had seen the deer? She had written about them in more than one poem, but most famously in “Five A.M. in the Pinewoods”:

I’d seen
their hoofprints in the deep
needles and knew
they ended the long night

under the pines, walking
like two mute
and beautiful women toward
the deeper woods, so I

got up in the dark and
went there. They came
slowly down the hill
and looked at me sitting under

the blue trees, shyly
they stepped
closer and stared
from under their thick lashes ...

This is not a poem about a dream,
though it could be. ...