children singing and
strong men groping for handholds
singing God loves us

Hope is a tattered flag and a dream out of time
Hope is a heartspun word, the rainbow, the shadblow in white,
The evening star inviolable over the coal mines,
The shimmer of northern lights across a bitter winter night,
The blue hills beyond the smoke of the steel works.
The birds who go on singing to their mates in peace, war, peace.
The ten-cent crocus bulb blooming in a used-car salesroom,
The horseshoe over the door, the luckpiece in the pocket.
The kiss and the comforting laugh and resolve—
Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder

The spring grass showing itself where least expected.
The rolling fluff of white clouds on a changeable sky.
The broadcast of strings from Japan, bells from Moscow,
Of the voice of the prime minister of Sweden carried
Across the sea in behalf of a world family of nations

And children singing chorals of the Christ child
And Bach being broadcast from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania
And tall skyscrapers practically empty of tenants
And the hands of strong men groping for handholds
And the Salvation Army singing God love

From the People, Yes: Number 16 as published in the The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg: Revised and Expanded Edition (Harcourt, Brace and Co.; First Edition (October 14, 1970)

The kiss and the comforting laugh and resolve.

Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder.

A heartspun word.

Hope is always just off yonder and strong men grope for handholds.

Got my luckpiece in my pocket.

when the only thing
got going for me is my
daily wordle streak

Wait for the alarm then turn it off before it goes off and out of bed.

Coffee started then into the shower.

Robe, coffee and tablet to start the day.

Bad yesterday.

Worse last night.

Then the headlines.

Somedays the only thing I got going for me is my 27 day wordle streak.

I know there will be days like this, always.

But why so many?

my whole being was
irradiated by a kind
of heavenly joy

I lived in solitude, surrounded by books on the history of religion, which have always been my favourite reading.

This may help to account for a curious episode that took place on one of my stays in the villino. I had a religious experience.

It took place in the Church of San Lorenzo, but did not seem to be connected with the harmonious beauty of the architecture.

I can only say that for a few minutes my whole being was irradiated by a kind of heavenly joy, far more intense than anything I had known before.

This state of mind lasted for several months, and, wonderful though it was, it posed an awkward problem in terms of action.

My life was far from blameless: I would have to reform.

My family would think I was going mad, and perhaps after all, it was a delusion, for I was in every way unworthy of receiving such a flood of grace.

Gradually the effect wore off, and I made no effort to retain it.

I think I was right; I was too deeply embedded in the world to change course.

But that I had “felt the finger of God’ I am quite sure, and, although the memory of this experience has faded, it still helps me to understand the joys of the saints.

Kenneth Clark in (The Other Half: A Self Portrait).

I actually came across the quote in opinion piece, The Shock of Faith: It’s Nothing Like I Thought It Would Be by David Brooks (Dec. 19, 2024 – New York Times)

Mr. Brooks writes: When faith finally tiptoed into my life it didn’t come through information or persuasion but, at least at first, through numinous experiences. These are the scattered moments of awe and wonder that wash over most of us unexpectedly from time to time. Looking back over the decades, I remember rare transcendent moments at the foot of a mountain in New England at dawn, at Chartres Cathedral in France, looking at images of the distant universe or of a baby in the womb. In those moments, you have a sense that you are in the presence of something overwhelming, mysterious. Time is suspended or at least blurs. One is enveloped by an enormous bliss.

The art historian Kenneth Clark, who was not religious, had one of these experiences at an Italian church: “I can only say that for a few minutes my whole being was irradiated by a kind of heavenly joy, far more intense than anything I had known before.”

I liked the quote so much I had to track it down in the original.

Maybe I have too many of these moments, listening to music or walking on the beach on along the road and I see things or hear things that are too much to be man made.

Maybe I go looking for them.

I walk the beach and think of God saying, ‘Just showing off.’

I think of another Kenneth Clark quote that went along the lines of, “… Man leaves his record in his words, his music and his art. Only the art doesn’t lie.”

yield to power isn’t
that it is legitimate
or that it is just

Most of us have sound enough moral instincts to reject the notion that might makes right. Power alone is not a sufficient marker of righteousness. We may watch people bow to power out of fear or awe, but yielding to power isn’t the same thing as acknowledging that it is legitimate or that it is just.

David French in the opinion piece Why Are So Many Christians So Cruel? (New York Times – Dec. 22, 2024).

appropriate but
mistaken impression things
keep getting bigger

From the last line of the article, The Godfather Part II at 50: Francis Ford Coppola’s sprawling masterpiece by Jesse Hassenger in the Guardian.

Mr. Hassenger writes, “The Godfather Part II gave the appropriate but mistaken impression that for a pugnacious American visionary, things could just keep getting bigger.”

Thinking of other big name, pugnacious American visionaries in the news these days.

Mr. Hassenger writes:  Some years later, the ambition and scale of peak American 70s film-making would wobble and collapse, after some big-budget epics failed to pay off and blockbuster sequels – a little like The Godfather Part II, but maybe not so dark, not so long, not so downbeat – became even more enticing.

I am thinking these other big name, pugnacious American visionaries will also wobble and collapse.

As Big Bill wrote … ‘Tis a consummation to be wished.’