Few miracles are meant for human eyes.
We speak of miracle and point. We tag it so,
but what we tag is but a mise-en-scène.
Heart-stopping though it is, the miracle
remains where it belongs: backstage.
Most miracles are shy. Invisible. You see
but ripples from them in our time and space.
We recognise them in the wonder that we feel.
Just think of when you wake and feel yourself alive:
you know you've come back from a mini death.
You are sensing the dimensions of a miracle.
The growing child does not display
the way a billion axons meet
their dendrites in the dark.
There is no check list, manual
or precedent. The growing child does this,
his milieu is his guide. We see
the consequences written large
in how she grows, moves, talks. The work
is underground, like roots in soil.
New lines are draw, new circuits laid,
the stop-gaps are dismantled constantly.
As each connection breaks or is remade
another miracle is chalked up on the board outside.
We clap our hands and rightly praise the growing child.
This is a Poetry Jam submission. The task was simply to write a poem about a miracle.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
A Wikipedia Image Picasso's "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon" is one hundred years old this year. Some facts: The painting measu...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...