A Time for Everything

 

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8


(New Living Translation)

For everything there is a season,


A time for every activity under heaven.


A time to be born and a time to die.


A time to plant and a time to harvest.


A time to kill and a time to heal.


A time to tear down and a time to build up

.
A time to cry and a time to laugh.


A time to grieve and a time to dance.


A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones.


A time to embrace and a time to turn away

.
A time to search and a time to quit searching

.
A time to keep and a time to throw away.


A time to tear and a time to mend.


A time to be quiet and a time to speak

.
A time to love and a time to hate

.
A time for war and a time for peace.

New Living Translation

Memoriam to Frank Packlick

frailty, cats purred, Simon’s Rock, tree bark

etching by Frank Packlick

drawing by Frank Packlick

To the Tune of “I’d Like to Teach the world to sing…”

I’d like to sing a tune to Frank and polka happily;
His faithfulness could strum the base; his heels tap vig’rously.
He’d grin and twinkle, nodding sage, and snatch a memory
To fly like kite on wind of cheer: another friend and tear.

His cats observed his frailty grown,
They purred in spite of pain;
Exchanging comfort everyday
Became their daily gain.

We watched him swim, pretend to drown,
At Simon’s Rock each week;
Observed his art, its careful line,
His love of detailed twist
On cat fur, tree bark, wood frame, all
His rolling, rhythmic gist!

Why We Need To Sleep

This morning I listened to Garrison Keiler on the Poetry Almanac Podcast, and was moved by this poem by William Blake.
Then I read Heidi Mordhorst’s blog and was reminded of our need to detoxify each night.
http://myjuicylittleuniverse.blogspot.com/

On Another’s Sorrow

Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear —

And not sit beside the next,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give his joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not year.

Oh He gives to us his joy,
That our grief He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled an gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

William Blake