A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness...it finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Robert Frost


Poetry can be transformative and the takeaway suggests an awareness that on this earth-trodden journey, no matter the circumstance, there is beauty and hope and help that exists beyond our weary material world. That we can live in two worlds...this one, and the spiritual one, where the soul is nourished. That is heaven brought down to earth.

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.


The house

on Jefferson Avenue—
1939 mortar, brick, stone
pearly wood shutters


my parents’ bedroom window—
crystal leaded glass,
childhood’s diamonds.


The door
once sturdy—
painted white
three cape cod windows
brass numbers—
faded and splintered


My kindred
days dust—
like dried sunflowers.

I roam through rooms,


hear my father’s words,
a soft thunder,
my mother calls my name,
calls my name.

(Excerpted from Light in Light)

Arthur Rimbaud