January 8, 2023
Quote for Today
"People ask you for criticism, but they only want praise."
William Somerset Maugham [1874-1965]
Of Human Bondage [1915] - Chapter 50
Sunday, January 8, 2023
Saturday, January 7, 2023
January 7, 2023
OLD SONGS
I was wondering
if everyone has some
old songs
that are still playing
back there
and down there in the
bottom
of the basement of
their being –
a song or
two that starts playing again –
when they are
walking through a bank
or an office building
– or simply
while twisting the
radio dial while
driving alone doing
some shopping
on a Saturday morning.
Surprise
there are more songs
waiting for you
to attach themselves
to your feelings
and your
experiences. Twist those
dials. Turn up the
volume. Listen
and sing along with the old songs.
Reflections ©
Andy Costello
Friday, January 6, 2023
January 6, 2023
PROOFS
THAT GOD EXISTS
Rain, but not all rainy days.
The bark of trees – especially pine.
Ice cream – with the right ingredients,
the right cold and the right flavor -
and enjoying it with the right person.
Of course, other sights: a tiny green leaf -
clover growing in between cement on
sidewalk cracks – but not my sidewalk.
A full moon on the ocean – Eucharist –
the monstance of dark black night sky -
light shaking on the waters at 11 P.M.
and big mountains – especially
big Colorado grey mountains and
a lot more – more – keep noticing.
Reflections
©
Andy Costello
Thursday, January 5, 2023
January 5, 2023
BLUE
BLACK INK
It used to come in surprise shaped two inch high bottles:
Waterman’s blue black ink. Even as a tiny kid I could get
an injection of ink from them – using the gold colored clip
on the side of’ my fountain pen. It gave me enough ink
to do my homework. It gave me enough ink to write
a 9 year old’s first poems. Where are they now? Sorry
to say, they are mostly gone. Yet I would think they were
part of my path to becoming a poet. Then there was my 3rd
year high school English teacher – who read a poem I
wrote out loud. Mentioning my name said, “Never ever
write a poem again.” Everyone in the class laughed.
As a result of that comment, I didn’t write my next poem,
till I was 35. Fountain pens were almost gone. Ball point
pens were now in – usually with blue or black ink.
At a workshop we were told to write a poem and I said
to myself, “Oh no!” Yet we had to – and then everyone
picked my poem. I often think where did all the poems I
would have written from 15 till 35 go? Maybe they are
there in black and blue on the skin paper of my soul.
Reflections © Andy
Costello
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