Peace in a Troubled Worldt

The Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is UNPERTURBED

My first thought with regard to this prompt was The Desiderata by Max Ehrmann.
“Go placidly amidst the noise and haste…”

This isn’t the easiest thing to do; we do have emotions and sometimes we must react. But it’s a goal to aim for. We can remind ourselves to stop, take a deep breath, and rmember how today’s troubles will look much smaller in the rear-view mirror. And with regard to all the pointless noise around us — oh, for the wisdom to tune it out!

These Bible verses speak of trust in God as the source of peace:

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. Selah.
There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, the holy place of the tabernacles of the most High. God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early.”
Psalm 46:1-5

The poem, IF, by Rudyard Kipling (1865 – 1936) also gives
a good picture of a person who lives an unperturbed life.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son.

Anniversary of Restored Peace

This year is the 75th Anniversary of the end of the Second World War in Europe. On Tuesday, 8 May 1945 the Allies of World War II formally accepted Nazi Germany’s unconditional surrender.

So, one last haiku to specially commemorate this day:

the war long ended
he brought home a medal
a souvenir limp

……………………………………………………………..

children balloons

Love of Living Things

The Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is GREEN

We’re enjoying wafts of spring here, lots of sunshine and puddles alternating with colder days and more snow. No sign of green, but a lot of brittle brown grass showing up. It’s a start. 😉

Like the Canadian poet Archibald Lampman, I delight in our colourful seasons. Although the word GREEN doesn’t appear in this verse, you get the idea, so I’ll post it as my response to the prompt.

Amor Vitae

I love the warm bare earth and all
That works and dreams thereon:
I love the seasons yet to fall:
I love the ages gone,

The valleys with the sheeted grain,
The river’s smiling might,
The merry wind, the rustling rain,
The vastness of the night.

I love the morning’s flame, the steep
Where down the vapour clings:
I love the clouds that float and sleep,
And every bird that sings.

I love the purple shower that pours
On far-off fields at even:
I love the pine-wood dusk whose floors
Are like the courts of heaven.

I love the heaven’s azure span,
The grass beneath my feet:
I love the face of every man
Whose thought is swift and sweet.

I let the wrangling world go by,
And like an idle breath
Its echoes and its phantoms fly:
I care no jot for death.

Time like a Titan bright and strong
Spreads one enchanted gleam:
Each hour is but a fluted song,
And life a lofty dream.

—Archibald Lampman

Of Micros and Macros

The Ragtag Daily Prompt word this morning is MACRO

This is a word I’ve had only a passing acquaintance with. As in, heard it used; had no clue. So I checked in dictionary, I see that MACRO is the big picture whereas MICRO is the small one.

The Canadian Oxford Dictionary tells me:
Macro: A series of abbreviated instructions expanded automatically when required. (An accordion deep inside in your computer?)
Macro- combining form: long, large, large scale, comprehensive
Macrocosm: the universe, the whole of all nature
Macroeconomics: the study of large scale or general economic factors
(Macro is the Federal Budget; microcosm is our family budget.)

I’ve heard of micro-poetry, so I suppose the opposite is macro-poetry? As in, the macro-poem being the old familiar one by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and the micro-poem being my senryu version. What do you think?

THE DAY IS DONE

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor,
And tonight I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Flourish.plainer

senryu version:

soft patter of words
the poet’s pen and your voice
night’s harmony