Praxilla of Sicyon
Loveliest of what I leave behind is the sunlight,
and loveliest after that the shining stars, and the moon's face,
but also cucumbers that are ripe, and pears, and apples.

Praxilla of Sicyon was a Greek lyric poet of the 5th century BC, from Sicyon on the Gulf of Corinth. Three lines of Praxilla's hexameter hymn to Adonis are quoted by Zenobius. In them, Adonis is asked in the underworld what he will most miss from the mortal world. He replies that he will miss the sun, stars, and moon, cucumbers, apples, and pears.

Just came across this email from Forbes...

June 2, 2020
Hi folks,
Taking a page from Joseph Campbell's Hero with a Thousand Faces which develops a theme that a myth under girds the most primitive cultures to the developed nations and that asks four important questions;
Who are we? Identity
What are we? Reality
What would we like to be? Intention
What should we be? Morality
These questions are crucial and must be asked in this time of uncertainty, where we live seemingly only in the anxious present but offers us direction.
stay well,
Forbes 

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love,
Or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the
    ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

~ Walt Whitman 1819 –1892

I like to live in the sound of water,
in the feel of mountain air. A sharp
reminder hits me: this world still is alive;
it stretches out there shivering toward its own
creation, and I’m part of it. Even my breathing
enters into the elaborate give-and-take,
this bowing to sun and moon, day or night,
winter, summer, storm, still—this tranquil
chaos that seems to be going somewhere.
This wilderness with a great peacefulness in it.
This motionless turmoil, this everything dance.
~ William Stafford

"While drawing grasses
I learn nothing "about" grass,
but wake up to the wonder
that there is grass at all.
~Frederick Franck

The moment one gives close attention to anything,
even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious,
awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.
~ Henry Miller

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlours of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.
~ Walt Whitman

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
~William Blake

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind.”
~William Wordsworth

Note: I recently read Henry Miller's quote in my Zen calendar and thought so many references are made to a blade of grass (or similarly, a grain of sand...). The way Forbes saw this world...

So sad to hear of Forbes’s passing. He was a larger-than-life (literally!) figure of my childhood, and a wonderful cousin. My deepest condolences.

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 ~

Brilliant yellow daffodils have been dancing
about my sanctuary since Easter, bringing
such joy that I had to acknowledge them...
I know that Forbes would be taking great
pleasure in them as well... dancing with &
within each one...

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee.
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.'

~Emily Dickinson ~

Forever-- is composed of Nows--
     ~ Emily Dickinson ~

The Night Has a Thousand Eyes

The night has a thousand eyes,
  And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
  With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
  And the heart but one:
Yet the light of a whole life dies
  When love is done.

~Francis William Bourdillon 1852-1921

Thank you William for posting the first stanza of Bourdillon’s poem. Not familiar with this (though now realize it is quite well known), I looked it up and find that the second/last stanza gives greater meaning to the first and, I think, Forbes would heartily agree.

" The night has a thousand eyes and the day but one yet the light of the bright world dies with the dying sun."
                               F.W. Bourdillon

Looking at our world today, would appreciate the chance to discuss our challenges with Forbes. We have a big job and little time. Perhaps he will lend us his guiding hand and share a bit of his wisdom. I hope so. He always knew more than I ever did.

The Earth would die
If the sun stopped kissing her.
~Hafez

This spoke to me.
I imagine it would
to my brother as well...

The Dragonfly Incident
by Bill Sherwonit
Apr 06, 2023

I suppose this could be considered a “wildlife encounter” story of sorts, though it presents some unusual twists. For one thing, the animal at the heart of this tale is a subarctic insect (and yet has nothing to do with the region’s legendary mosquitoes). For another, odd things happen that aren’t easily explained by either reason or chance. There are other curious turns, as well ...
The story begins with a man sitting on the front steps of a lakeside cabin, feeling contented and thankful to be part of such a beautiful, softly shimmering summer day. He’d brought a mug of coffee out to the porch, plus binoculars and a journal in which he planned to record some dreams. In between sips of his morning coffee, he noticed splashing on the otherwise calm lake surface, not far offshore. Actually it wasn’t so much a splashing as a trembling, those shudders creating tiny ripples that spread outward a short distance, until disappearing into the stillness of the water.
The source of the ripples barely moved, which suggested that a small creature of some kind was struggling. Picking up his nearby binoculars to take a closer look, the man saw a dragonfly, rapidly—and, it seemed, desperately—flapping its wings, or trying to.
The splashing stopped, then started again a few moments later. It went on like this for a couple of minutes, the tremble of wings on water gradually diminishing, as if the insect were losing its strength, its vitality, which of course it must have been.
The man wondered how the dragonfly ended up on the water. Had it somehow miscalculated while pursuing another insect, and crashed into the lake? That seemed unlikely, given dragonflies’ legendary flying abilities. But accidents happen, right?
Or maybe it had been chased by a bird and driven into the water. Or, its wings weakened and worn by age, perhaps the dragonfly had simply, finally, lost the power of flight.
In the midst of all those thoughts, another entered the man’s mind: why not try to rescue the dragonfly? For as long as he could recall, he’d been fascinated by dragonflies and their smaller, more delicate cousins, the damselflies. It might not be too great a stretch to say that occasionally he’d felt a sort of connection to them, the way some people feel linked to a particular animal, or plant, or landscape. He’d felt similar bonds to other wild creatures. The connection, if that’s what it was, had always been fleeting. But it seemed real, even if it wasn’t something he felt comfortable talking about, except with close, trusted friends. Even then, he sometimes felt a little silly and self-conscious, as if others would consider him odd for having such experiences. In truth he did sometimes feel odd. But also blessed.
Besides that, in recent years the man had stretched his sense of ethics and “right behavior” to include his relationship with insects. That was still a work in progress, though he’d even experimented with seeing how far he could go into summer without killing a mosquito.
But back to the dragonfly. The man went into the cabin and grabbed a broom, then walked down to the lakeshore. Alas, the dragonfly was too far out to reach, even with the broom. Oh well, the man sighed to himself. I tried.
Yet as he stood there watching the dragonfly, the insect beat its wings furiously for several seconds, then stopped, as if resting. Or exhausted. For a while after, the wings continued to shiver ever so slightly, sending out miniscule ripples. Then even they stopped.
More thoughts came to the man. Just how far am I willing to go, to save this dragonfly? How determined, how committed am I? The dragonfly appeared close enough to reach, if he waded out a ways. Okay, he decided. I can do that.
The man took off his hiking boots and socks and rolled up his pants, then gingerly stepped into the water, cold but not painfully so. (He wasn’t one to splash around in lakes or streams or oceans, even in warmer temperatures.) With the water nearly to his knees, he stretched his right arm and lifted the dragonfly out of the water on the broom’s bristled end. Smiling, he waded back to shore, the dragonfly weakly fluttering its wings.
Back on land, the man gently pried the dragonfly from the broom, careful not to harm the insect, whose dark, barbed legs kept a firm grip on the bristles.
His next decision: where to put the dragonfly? After considering various options, he chose to place it upon a picnic table, which offered a dry, spacious, sunlit surface. The dragonfly again fluttered its wings, as if trying to fly, but didn’t budge. It might be too waterlogged to survive its dunking, the man thought. But I’ve done what I can.
He returned to the porch steps, took a sip of coffee, and then picked up his journal. But instead of writing about his dream the night before, he jotted some notes about his interaction with the dragonfly.
Have I mentioned the man had a dog? Probably not, because the dog, though curious that his companion was behaving in such an unusual way, didn’t show much interest in the dragonfly. But the dog was another reason the man chose the tabletop, to keep the dragonfly away from her easy reach. Now settled back on the steps, he called the dog to him and they sat side by side a while, until some sound in the bushes pulled the dog away.
Now and then, the man would look up from his journal toward the picnic table. The first couple of times he did so, the dragonfly remained in place, still drying in the sun. But the third time he checked, the dragonfly had disappeared. This surprised him. He hadn’t really expected it to recover. Could it have somehow flopped off the table? Walking over, he thoroughly checked the ground but couldn’t find the insect. He supposed a bird could have swooped in and snatched the dragonfly off the table, but that seemed unlikely.
With no certain evidence, the man decided the dragonfly had mended enough to fly away. This possibility pleased him. Returning to the porch, he sensed himself grinning. Back on the steps, the man took another sip of coffee and then opened his journal, added a few more observations. When he got back to Anchorage, he’d dig out his Dragonflies of Alaska guide and try to determine which species he’d pulled from the lake.
Several minutes later, while looking up from his journal, he noticed a dragonfly land on the large, exposed root of a nearby birch tree, no more than eight feet from where he sat.
Here is where the story takes something of a surreal twist. While he watched, the dragonfly left the tree, circled a couple of times, and then zigzagged toward the man. And it landed softly on the back of his right hand.
Until that very moment, the man had never considered the possibility that such a thing might happen. Though startled, he didn’t flinch, but rather sat perfectly still, as if a spell had been cast upon him.
For a few moments (he later recalled), his brain seemed empty of thoughts, his entire being attentive to the strange yet marvelous creature that was grasping his hand. With something close to fondness, he took in the dragonfly’s bulbous head and enormous gleaming eyes; the fantastically intricate wings with their complex veining, those wings too glistening in the sunlight; and the blue-and-brown banded, tail-like abdomen. Yet more than any bodily detail he, what captivated him most was the dragonfly’s calm yet vibrant presence on his skin and a sense of shared awareness.
If the man had been caught in some sort of spell, the magic didn’t last long, soon replaced by curiosity and desire. The man wondered how the dragonfly would respond if he lifted it closer to his face. Would it stay on his hand? Or surprise him in some other way?
Well, it flew away. And didn’t return.
Only then did the man’s mind explode in a silent Wow! And once again his brain became busy with thoughts and questions. So many questions. For starters, what about the dragonfly’s struggle had aroused his desire to help it? What if he’d been unable to reach the dragonfly even after wading into the lake up to his knees; would he have given up or kept trying? And why did trying seem so important? And what in the world had prompted a dragonfly to land on him the very morning he’d rescued one? In some inexplicable way, could the insect that he’d saved been drawn back to him?
Behind all these questions were two others. Was he being ridiculous for taking this “dragonfly incident” (as he’d begun to think of it) too seriously? Or, conversely, was it possible that his preconceptions of dragonflies—and “lower” forms of life, generally—had blocked him from some deeper, more meaningful experience?
He just didn’t know what to make of this, this . . . what? Encounter? Meeting? Connection? But he was pretty darn certain that in all his 66 years, a dragonfly had never before landed on his hand—or any other part of his body, that he could recall—though he’d spent plenty of time in their company at swamps and lakes and other bodies of water.
Ah, you think too much, he muttered to himself, brow wrinkled and lips set tightly in a wry sort of smile. Seated on that sun-drenched porch, the journal still open on his lap, he gazed back toward the still water. Maybe that was part of the problem: he spent too much time rolling thoughts around his head, not enough time listening to his gut. Or simply experiencing the present moment without analyzing it. Simply being.
While his rational side argued that what happened was nothing more than a pretty amazing coincidence, some deeper, intuitive part of him wasn’t convinced of that. He sensed that he stood at a gateway into some different realm, a deeper way of connecting with wild nature, the more-than-human world that he loved so much. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way. Sometimes he wished he could be more open to the possibilities . . .
There you go again, he playfully chided himself. Too much musing.
If nothing else, he needed to learn more about the nature of dragonflies and what other, more mystical folks have to say about their symbolism, their significance.
Continued here: 
https://www.dailygood.org/story/3069/the-dragonfly-incident-bill-sherwonit/

Say ‘Wow!’ by Chelan Harkin

...Feed yourself fire.
Scoop up the day entire
like a planet-sized bouquet of marvel
sent by the Universe directly into your arms
and say “Wow!”

Break yourself down
into the basic components of primitive awe
and let the crescendo of each moment
carbonate every capillary
and say, “Wow!”...

The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

When I am among the Trees
by Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

Instructions to Painters & Poets
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I asked a hundred painters and a hundred poets
how to paint sunlight
on the face of life
Their answers were ambiguous and ingenuous
as if they were all guarding trade secrets
Whereas it seems to me
all you have to do
is conceive of the whole world
and all humanity
as a kind of art work
a site-specific art work
an art project of the god of light
the whole earth and all that’s in it
to be painted with light

And the first thing you have to do
is paint out postmodern painting
And the next thing is to paint yourself
in your true colors
in primary colors
as you see them
(without whitewash)
paint yourself as you see yourself
without make-up
without masks
Then paint your favorite people and animals
with your brush loaded with light
And be sure you get the perspective right
and don’t fake it
because one false line leads to another

And then paint the high hills
when the sun first strikes them
on an autumn morning
with your palette knife
lay it on
the cadmium yellow leaves
the ochre leaves
the vermillion leaves
of the New England autumn
and paint the ghost light of summer nights
and the light of the midnight sun
which is moon light
And don’t paint out the shadows made by light

for without chiaroscuro you’ll have shallow pictures
So paint all the dark corners too
everywhere in the world
all the hidden places and minds and hearts
which light never reaches
all the caves of ignorance and fear
the pits of despair
the sloughs of despond
and write plain upon them
“Abandon all despair, ye who enter here”

And don’t forget to paint
all those who lived their lives
as bearers of light
Paint their eyes
and the eyes of every animal
[...]
and the eyes of men and women
known only for the light of their minds
Paint the light of their eyes
the light of sunlit laughter
the song of eyes
the song of birds in flight.

And remember that the light is within
if it is anywhere
and you must paint from the inside
[...]
Turner painted sunlight
with egg tempera
(which proved unstable)
and Van Gogh did it with madness
and the blood of his ear
(also unstable)
and the Impressionists did it
by never using black
And the Abstract Expressionists did it
with white house paint
But you can do it with the pure pigment
(if you can figure out the formula)
of your own true light
But before you strike the first blow
on the virgin canvas
remember its fragility
life’s extreme fragility
and remember its innocence
its original innocence
before you strike the first blow

Or perhaps never strike it
And let the light come through
the inner light of the canvas
the inner light of the models posed
in the life study
the inner light of everyone
Let it all come through
like a pentimento
the light that’s been painted over
the life that’s been painted over
so many times
Let it surge to the surface
the painted-over image
of primal life on earth

And when you’ve finished your painting
stand back astonished
stand back and observe
the life on earth that you’ve created
the lighted life on earth
that you’ve created
a new brave world

From https://www.dailygood.org/

We must abandon arrogance and stand in awe.
We must recover the sense of the majesty of creation,
and the ability to be worshipful in its presence.
For I do not doubt that it is only on the condition of humility
and reverence before the world
that our species will be able to remain in it.
~ Wendell Berry

"Shoveling Snow"

If day after day I was caught inside
this muffle and hush

I would notice how birches
move with a lovely hum of spirits,

how falling snow is a privacy
warm as the space for sleeping,

how radiant snow is a dream
like leaving behind the body

and rising into that luminous place
where sometimes you meet

the people you've lost. How
silver branches scrawl their names

in tangled script against the white.
How the curves and cheekbones

of all my loved ones appear
in the polished marble of drifts.

by Kirsten Dierking

Day in, day out
I swallow
the beauty of the world
this hungering beauty
My God
open windows within me
to let the world enter
calmly and peacefully
that more of the world
enter
the world I love
cry over
and love again and again

~Miriam Baruch Halfi

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more.

~ Lord Byron

On Being with Krista Tippett
Ocean Vuong
A Life Worthy of Our Breath

https://onbeing.org/programs/ocean-vuong-a-life-worthy-of-our-breath-2022/

Today is the second time I have heard this very touching interview with Ocean Vuong-- the first time was April, 2020, before my brother's passing. I am now so focused on that verbal fire escape, how we so rarely go out there to really be there with those in pain. While talking to my brother after Marilyn's death, he would often apologize when suddenly overcome by emotion. It must have been exhausting for him as well as painful but I just kept thinking: this too shall pass, it’s all part of the grieving process etc etc. I know it was awkward for him, and I didn’t want to draw more attention to it. I so wish now that I had directly addressed this, gone out on that fire escape with him… been there...

Below is an excerpt.

Tippett: ...Speaking of the body and walking and movement, I want to close — you wrote this beautiful essay in The Rumpus, in 2014, called “The Weight of Our Living: On Hope, Fire Escapes, and Visible Desperation.” Part of the context of that piece was your uncle’s death by suicide. He was three years older than you, and you’d grown up together. And that wove into you reflecting, on these walks you do through New York City, on fire escapes. I’m going to read a little bit, and then I want you just to say more.

“All that richness and drama sealed away in a fortress whose walls echoed with communication of elemental and exquisite language” — you’re looking at all the buildings — “and yet only the fire escape, a clinging extremity, inanimate and often rusting, spoke — in its hardened, exiled silence with the most visible human honesty: We are capable of disaster. And we are scared.”

Vuong: It was such a blow. Anyone who has lost anybody to suicide — I lost my uncle; I lost a few friends. The great mystery and the great violence of taking oneself out of the picture — I’ve been grappling with that for so long. And I think one of the things that lead us to that is that you start to feel that you are always out of the picture — this loneliness that language does not allow us to access. The way we say hello to each other — Hi, how are you? Oh, good, good, good, good, good. So the “how are you” is now defunct. It doesn’t access. It fills. It’s fluff.

And so what happens to our language, this great, advanced technology that we’ve had, when it starts to fail at its function, and it starts to obscure, rather than open? And I think the crisis that my uncle went through, and a lot of my friends, was a crisis of communication — that they couldn’t say, “I’m hurt.”

And looking at — I remember when I heard of his suicide, I was a student at Brooklyn College in New York. I went for the longest walk. And I kept seeing these fire escapes. And I said, what happens if we had that? What is the linguistic existence of a fire escape, that we can give ourselves permission to say, Are you really OK? I know we’re talking, but you want to step out on the fire escape, and you can tell me the truth?

And I think we’ve built shame into vulnerability, and we’ve sealed it off in our culture — Not at the table, not at the dinner table, don’t say this here, don’t say that there, don’t talk about this, this is not cocktail conversation, what have you. We police access to ourselves. And the great loss is that we can move through our whole lives, picking up phones and talking to our most beloveds, and yet still not know who they are. Our “how are you” has failed us. And we have to find something else.

And I thought about that. What if literature, my participation in it — that’s my field, if you will — what if the poem, the story, the novel, at its best can serve as a fire escape? Because on the page, you don’t have the awkward reality of a body bumping into someone in the supermarket. You don’t have to say, How ‘bout them Patriots? You don’t have to talk about the weather. You can go right in, deep. And I really have been — it changed the way I thought about writing and literature, in that if we have the fire escape as a reality in our buildings, what does it look like in the reality of our communication, in our language? What does that look like?

And I’m still figuring that out. I’m still — every book, every poem, I think, is my attempt at articulating a fire escape. But I think it was a great reckoning for me, because here I am, supposedly a writer, and then my uncle dies, and I’ve lost so much. We talk all the time, we say all these things, and yet I never knew what was happening. And if that’s the case, language, this field that I chose, this thing that I feel so much hope for, failed me. And it was a reckoning, I think, existentially, with myself as an artist.

Tippett: I wonder if, to close this incredible time together, if you would read — I just copied out a paragraph from the end of this essay from 2014, “The Weight of Our Living.”

Vuong: “The poem, like the fire escape, as feeble and thin as it is, has become my most concentrated architecture of resistance. A place where I can be as honest as I need to — because the fire has already begun in my home, swallowing my most valuable possessions — and even my loved ones. My uncle is gone. I will never know exactly why. But I still have my body and with it these words, hammered into a structure just wide enough to hold the weight of my living. I want to use it to talk about my obsessions and fears, my odd and idiosyncratic joys. I want to leave the party through the window and find my uncle standing on a piece of iron shaped into visible desperation, which must also be (how can it not?) the beginning of visible hope. I want to stay there until the building burns down. I want to love more than death can harm. And I want to tell you this often: That despite being so human and so terrified, here, standing on this unfinished staircase to nowhere and everywhere, surrounded by the cold and starless night — we can live. And we will.”

Tippett: Ocean Vuong, thank you so much.

Vuong: Thank you.

I thought of Forbes a lot last weekend attending a memorial service for a person with many of the same attributes: quiet, always giving credit to others, eschewing the limelight at all costs, and with a fierce love for the natural world. His name was John Phillips and I wonder whether they might have even known each other. I thought too of my last “lunch” with Forbes in Annapolis, which lasted three hours. We talked about everything; perhaps he knew, perhaps we both did, that it would be the last time. I look back on a long career. We remember the mentors, don’t we? Forbes was one of mine.

Into The Blue

May you be met at the door and greeted by the kindest of breezes,
the kind that rises from the earth through the throats
of the ones who breathe
Alleluia.

May you be swept up in the love of a song,
lean and laugh like some lily in the wind—
there’s nothing to catch us but air,
and our stalks strong enough to split the earth
and reach for the summer sun.

May you seek the green and receive what you need:
from the light, through the breath that lifts us up,
out of the tangles of our roots
and around even the most oppressive rock.

In good, kind company
may you lengthen, swell soften, spread,
send the colors of your voice, every russet, carnelian,
deep yellow stripe of your flame into the blue.
Alleluia.

As a chorus of future lilies
flourishes through you
day after day
week after week
June after June
giving up, giving in, giving out:
trumpeting
the exquisite, excruciating
pleasure
of growing here.

~Susan Windle

In Passing

How swiftly the strained honey
of afternoon light
flows into the darkness

and the closed bud shrugs off
its special mystery
in order to break into blossom:

as if what exists, exists
so that it can be lost
and become precious

~ Lisel Mueller

*****
I heard that Forbes was particularly drawn to Lisel's poetry, that it spoke to him (after Marilyn's passing?). 

Look deep into nature,
and then you will understand
everything better.

~Albert Einstein

Forbes put this quote on Marilyn's memorial bench, Quiet Waters Park, Annapolis. My sister and I had it engraved on Forbes's memorial stone, Willard Pond, NH.

I happened upon this today and thought my bro would enjoy it...

*****

In Addition to Faith, Hope and Charity

I’m sure there’s a god
in favor of drums. Consider
their pervasiveness—the thump,
thump and slide of waves
on a stretched hide of beach,
the rising beat and slap
of their crests against shore
baffles, the rapping of otters
cracking molluscs with stones,
woodpeckers beak-banging, the beaver’s
whack of his tail-paddle, the ape
playing the bam of his own chest,
the million tickering rolls
of rain off the flat-leaves
and razor-rims of the forest.

And we know the noise
of our own inventions—snare and kettle,
bongo, conga, big bass, toy tin,
timbales, tambourine, tom-tom.

But the heart must be the most
pervasive drum of all. Imagine
hearing all together every tinny
snare of every heartbeat
in every jumping mouse and harvest
mouse, sagebrush vole and least
shrew living across the prairie;
and add to that cacophony the individual
staccato tickings inside all gnatcatchers,
kingbirds, kestrels, rock doves, pine
warblers crossing, criss-crossing
each other in the sky, the sound
of their beatings overlapping
with the singular hammerings
of the hearts of cougar, coyote,
weasel, badger, pronghorn, the ponderous
bass of the black bear; and on deserts too,
all the knackings, the flutterings
inside wart snakes, whiptails, racers
and sidewinders, earless lizards, cactus
owls; plus the clamors undersea, slow
booming in the breasts of beluga
and bowhead, uniform rappings
in a passing school of cod or bib,
the thidderings of bat rays and needlefish.

Imagine the earth carrying this continuous
din, this multifarious festival of pulsing
thuds, stutters and drummings, wheeling
on and on across the universe.

This must be proof of a power existing
somewhere definitely in favor
of such a racket.

~PattiAnn Rogers

Behold, my friends, the spring is come;
the Earth has gladly received
the embraces of the Sun,
and we shall soon see
the results of their love!
     ~Sitting Bull

Don’t say that I will depart tomorrow —
even today I am still arriving.

Look deeply: every second I am arriving
to be a bud on a Spring branch,
to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings,
learning to sing in my new nest,
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.
I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,
to fear and to hope.
The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death
of all that is alive.
I am the mayfly metamorphosing
on the surface of the river.
And I am the bird
that swoops down to swallow the mayfly.
I am the frog swimming happily
in the clear water of a pond.
And I am the grass-snake
that silently feeds itself on the frog.
---
My joy is like Spring, so warm
it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth.
My pain is like a river of tears,
so vast it fills the four oceans.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and my laughter at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart
can be left open,
the door of compassion.

--Thich Nhat Hanh

(worth reading the whole poem… I took out the people parts…)

I asked the leaf whether it was frightened because it was autumn and the other leaves were falling.

The leaf told me, “No. During the whole spring and summer I was completely alive. I worked hard to help nourish the tree, and now much of me is in the tree. I am not limited by this form. I am also the whole tree, and when I go back to the soil, I will continue nourish the tree. So I don’t worry at all. As I leave this branch and float to the ground, I will wave to the tree and tell her, ‘I will see you again very soon.”

That day there was a wind blowing and, after a while, I saw the leaf leave the branch and float down to the soil, dancing joyfully, because as it floated it saw itself already there in the tree. It was so happy. I bowed my head, knowing that I have a lot to learn from the leaf.

… So please continue to look back and you will see that you have always been here. Let us look together and penetrate into the life of a leaf, so we may be one with the leaf. Let us penetrate and be one with the cloud or with the wave, to realize our own nature as water and be free from our fear. If we look very deeply, we will transcend birth and death.

Tomorrow, I will continue to be. But you will have to be very attentive to see me. I will be a flower, or a leaf. I will be in these forms and I will say hello to you. If you are attentive enough, you will recognize me, and you may greet me. I will be very happy.

~~ Thich Nhat Hanh

Diana Smith, a close friend of Forbes and Marilyn, just sent me this email, published now with her permission.

******

I just read your last tribute on Forbes' page and am stunned by the irony and timing.

The very first concert I invited Marilyn and Forbes to was the Chesapeake Youth Symphony Orchestra. I invited them because they were such followers of my grandson's musical path and he was the featured flutist that night. The symphony played Bolero and when it was done we simply sat there in silence as we had never heard it played so magnificently. Forbes was the first one to comment that the youth played it with more passion and technique than he had ever seen or heard from any professional symphony. He was the first to stand while clapping but soon the entire audience was on its feet.

I spoke with Maestro Benichou, the conductor, after the performance to give him my compliments and he said that the performance nearly blew him off his feet. The musicians played with all the drama, insight and passion that he had been trying to give them for months. He said they didn't even need him to conduct because it was as if they themselves had written the piece.

I had no idea this was one of Forbes' favorites which now explains his reaction.

Thank you for reminding me of that beautiful evening.

One of Forbes's favorite classical pieces (at least when younger) was Bolero. I happened to watch this version today, and tears welled... I just talked to my sister and she said the same... I can imagine Forbes entering the scene playing his flute... or drums! (What an intricately steady & "instrumental" beat throughout...)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ILNDWCLVnpw

BLESSING FOR THE BROKENHEARTED

There is no remedy for love but to love more.
—Henry David Thoreau

Let us agree

for now

that we will not say

the breaking

makes us stronger

or that it is better

to have this pain

than to have done

without this love.

Let us promise

we will not

tell ourselves

time will heal

the wound,

when every day

our waking

opens it anew.

Perhaps for now

it can be enough

to simply marvel

at the mystery

of how a heart

so broken

can go on beating,

as if it were made

for precisely this—

as if it knows

the only cure for love

is more of it,

as if it sees

the heart’s sole remedy

for breaking
 is to love still,

as if it trusts

that its own

persistent pulse

is the rhythm

of a blessing

we cannot

begin to fathom

but will save us

nonetheless.

—Jan Richardson

Green Canoe
by Jeffrey Harrison

I don't often get the chance any longer
to go out alone in the green canoe
and, lying in the bottom of the boat,
just drift where the breeze takes me,
down to the other end of the lake
or into some cove without my knowing
because I can't see anything over
the gunwales but sky as I lie there,
feeling the ribs of the boat as my own,
this floating pod with a body inside it ...

also a mind, that drifts among clouds
and the sounds that carry over water—
a flutter of birdsong, a screen door
slamming shut—as well as the usual stuff
that clutters it, but slowed down, opened up,
like the fluff of milkweed tugged
from its husk and floating over the lake,
to be mistaken for mayflies at dusk
by feeding trout, or be carried away
to a place where the seeds might sprout.

To you Beloved Bro...

Deep peace of the running wave to you.
Deep peace of the flowing air to you.
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.
Deep peace of the shining stars to you.
Deep peace of the gentle night to you.
Deep peace of the light of the world to you.
           --Celtic prayer--

May deep peace hold you in our deep and everlasting love...

I can’t believe it will be a year since your new journey began
Miss You oh so very much ….
your sparkling eyes, gorgeous smile, your wit, your charm your intelligence and that oh so over the top humor with SO many beautiful interesting stories…All are so missed and can never be replaced… You definitely were one of a kind. You have a special place in my heart forever. Be well in heaven my dear and I do hope that you and Marilyn are dancing.
God… I miss you….. until we meet again ❤️

The Lake Isle of Innisfree
by William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Friends of Marilyn and Forbes gathered with me in Quiet Water's Park to celebrate our dear friend's birthday. We sat on the hill where we all had been in the past to listen to the Symphony. We drank wine, shed tears and shared stories about the man we miss so much. However, we all agreed. He isn't truly gone - only his body - because his spirit lives on in so many of us and in so many ways. What a legacy he has given us.  We all should be loved as he was. Every morning, in the dawn's light when I walk my puppies, I feel his presence with me. As long as I am alive to say his name he is not gone. I say his name every day.

Happy Birthday, Forbes.

I will for sure be celebrating Forbes 80th as if he were still here with us..miss my golf ⛳️ buddy so much..we’d be on the course on his birthday..if only he were here..but I’ll be out with him on my mind and on my bag. Much love to him now above lookin down on us, his loving family and friends. Happy 80th my dear friend.
CM ☺️

Happy heavenly 80th birthday To my dear dear Forbes❤️
As I passed Adams last night, I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. I know it was you,  Forbes.
Adams is where Forbes and I would go once a week just before Covid took over the world… We enjoyed each other‘s company so much and just sat and laughed and laughed… Especially about our very similar HIppie days ☮️
Here’s a toast to you my wonderful loving friend whom I miss more than anyone would ever dream…I would’ve never dreamed that a heart could be so filled by someone as you did mine… I would do anything to bring you back to us… I Love you and miss you so very much ….your sparkling eyes, gorgeous smile, your wit, your charm your intelligence and that oh so over the top humor with SO many beautiful interesting stories…All are so missed and can never be replaced… You definitely were one of a kind. You have a special place in my heart forever. Be well in heaven my dear and I do hope that you and Marilyn are dancing.
God… I miss you

Testament

I love the flame,
the bright element,
in lightning flash,
in flickering stars.

I love the air,
divinely free,
where the winds, where the clouds,
the eagles wander. 

I love the wave,
sounding and splashing,
ardently surging
from land to land.

I love the earth,
the holy green,
where it's joy to wander,
and still sweeter to rest.

And when I die
I'll give myself gladly
to those that I've loved,
to the elements:

My spirit to the flame,
My soul to the air,
My heart to the wave,
My body to the earth.

Spirit blaze high!
My soul shall expand,
The surge of my heart will go on,
           sounding and splashing;
My body shall rest.

—Robert Hamerling 1830 – 1889

[I read this at Willard Pond yesterday, on his 80th birthday...]

HAPPY 80TH FORBES-- WE LOVE YOU & MISS YOU BEYOND WORDS...

Growing up in NH, my parents were friends with Forbes. I have some wonderful memories of visiting the cabin at Willard Pond as a child.
I can’t say I knew him well as it was so long ago.
But I feel I got a true sense of someone special and I know he will be missed by all who knew him.

A good man is never forgotten. Think of him often.

Sea Fever
by John Masefield

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s              
like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

Let us dig our gardens and not be elsewhere;
Let us take long walks in the open air...
Let us bathe in the rivers and lakes...
Let us indulge in games...
Let us be more simple: simple and true in our gestures, in our words,
and simple and true in our minds above all.                               
Let us be ourselves.
--Robert Linssen, Belgian Zen Buddhist

Forbes wrote down this poem in longhand, found in a file.

The Viking Sails No More

The tiller swings in idle grief
And sails that never knew a reef
Droop desolate in silent woe
His pennant furled and stowed below.

No more those grand old piercing eyes
Will search for signs in mortal skies
Nor seek the tides off mortal shore
Nor scan the rocks where breakers roar.

His race was long– a true course run
He asked no quarter– giving none.
A Viking til his day of doom
And God will give him buoy room.

They never die– fine souls like these
He'll race upon celestial seas
The moon and stars his marks will be
The finish line Eternity.

Author Uknown


Found in one of Forbes’s files, a memorial service program for A.A. Libby, no doubt a sailor out of the Annapolis Yacht Club. I see Forbes in this Viking as well.

Written on the back of two of Forbes's Zen quotes (so it must have been important to him...

Tony Bennett: The Very Thought of You
youtube

*****
Perhaps this version?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGvrcUvH2C8

The very thought of you and I forget to do
The little ordinary things that everyone ought to do
I'm living in a kind of daydream
I'm happy as a king
And foolish though it may seem
To me that's everything
The mere idea of you, the longing here for you
You'll never know how slow the moments go till I'm near to you
I see your face in every flower
Your eyes in stars above
It's just the thought of you
The very thought of you, my love
The mere idea of you, the longing here for you
You'll never know how slow the moments go till I'm near to you
I see your face in every flower
Your eyes in stars above
It's just the thought of you
The very thought of you, my love

This tribute is from Esther Korin who knew Forbes from the History of Jazz class led by Ed Conaway given at the Annapolis Senior Center. Thank you Esther!

*****

Background: The “Back Row Bunch” is a most endearing group of guys who over the years had mastered the art of looking innocent while enjoying a bit of clever trouble making.  Usually something about the music or the lyrics led to a kind of intentional, under the breath comment which then led to a series of comments by each of them. They loved it and so did we.

*****
 
The Magic of Jazz

Look at us.  Come closer.....closer.  What do you see?  Do you see Us? The whole, beautiful microcosm of what could be....should be and is our Jazz family.  Don’t turn away.  Enter freely into the world of music where we are truly “Us.”  

You will see Us as a group.  In harmony with the music and each other. The music envelopes you.  Protects you.  Encourages the dreamer as it penetrates your mind and heart.  It brings peaceful reflection often interrupted by discordant sounds.

It is in this bubble, surrounded by the familiar sounds of Master musicians, that you sense a piercing stirring that overtakes your mind and body.  The movement is not to be controlled.  It forges friendships and creates a bond that is unbreakable.. Not even a pandemic could weaken this group of Jazz lovers.  Not even death can break the power of “Us.”

Two of us are taken away.  They were the prime instigators of the “Back Row Bunch.” They were the source of good natured mischief on the one hand and a treasure of knowledge of the history of Jazz on the other.  The back Row will change in appearance but never in spirit.  

Oh, Art and Forbes, know that we will not forget what you have taught us about the Magic of Jazz.  We will miss you.  We will be forever grateful for the time spent with you.   We will shout out to all the World......look at US....learn from US....become US.


Note: Forbes taught the History of Jazz at the Annapolis Community College.