Good morning! Today is World Kindness Day. As a result…
The prompt for today is to write a kind poem. My interpretation of this prompt is that the poem should either be kind or somehow involve kindness in it–one way or the other. I suppose the poem could also involve cruelty–as long as there is some form of kindness somewhere. But if you feel the need to stretch the prompt, go for it.
Here’s my attempt:
“Scout”
– for cousin Sean
There was some debate over what,
but then he gave away his knife.
He needed to pick a gift, but
there was some debate over what.
His decision came from his gut–
who knows? It might save someone’s life.
There was some debate over what,
but then he gave away his knife.
*****
Follow me on Twitter @robertleebrewer
And learn more about writing, publishing, and living in general at my other blog: My Name Is Not Bob.
*****
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“Gratitude”
“You are just like your mother.”
he hissed,
language laced with poison.
Her voice
low and scratchy
answering another
of my late night telephone calls.
The soft and slow trace of her fingertips
on my back; next to me; right now.
In silence I still hear
the kindness in
her voice.
“Thank you.”
and with a smile I turn
and walk away.
this poem is in honor of my mother and her kindness!…I am playing around a bit with form…so there is a rictameter within the poem…
xx
Annie
AT THE END OF A LONG DAY
You made
a sandwich
for me
and sat
by my side
while I ate it –
Your generous
kindness.
for april
by juanita lewison-snyder
when your mother died,
you approached the crumbling edge
of a dangerous precipice
my friend, staring down that
empty barrel into darkness,
and i was very afraid for you.
as the very last branch of
your family tree, you dangled
lost, broken, alone.
i too drank in your suffering,
licking your wounds like a
mother cat. to do so otherwise
would have rendered me false.
as i helped pack up the house,
you blessed me with wonderful
intimate stories about the woman
who birthed my best friend,
who for years had gifted her daughter
with collectible teddy bears
celebrating milestones,
before cancer came to the door
sweet-talking its way in.
it was at that very moment
that your mother’s ghost
leaned over and spoke to me
and i made the decision to
continue what she had started,
so that you would always remember
the day your branch was grafted
onto my own family tree.
© 2011 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Six Kinds of Impossible
“It’s kind of fun to do the impossible.” ~Walt Disney
“Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” ~Lewis Carroll
Let us do impossible things –
yes, six of them before breakfast.
And really, it’s kindness with wings
since after all, we need to fly;
we need to make our spirits high.
From this world…it’s you and I…
Let’s laugh; let’s love; let’s not ask why.
###
Note: The form is Saraband.
Sowing Kindness
“That’s very kind of you,”
words startling to my ear
often repeated by my first
boss and for deeds most
people would simply say
“Thank you” for: like a
message communicated
or task completed.
I was
taken aback that he saw
kindness in my ordinary
acts but I could not deny
how good his words made
me feel, a warming glow
grew inside me as if he
saw goodness I had not
noticed within me.
Now
I’ve learned to summon
up that feeling in others
commending their deeds
whenever I can, knowing
it’s like rain on parched
land. They will blossom.
***
quiet types
***
my wife and I
we walked
in our sleep
with Jesus
on the water
my wife knew
instantly
but I had to ask
his name
which woke
the kids
THE KINDEST GESTURE
You overreacted.
We both know it’s true.
But I let it pass.
I’ve done it too.
Lifeblood
Stepping off the steeply inclined bus steps,
I bleakly rub my throbbing inner elbow,
bound with a blue bandage, before
I eyeball the polished gallon pin upon my lapel.
A slight smile of satisfaction surfaces
on my face as I realize that a little bit
of my lifeblood may have meandered its way
into a multitude of human beings.
I have no means for most charities
but this one’s surprisingly simple.
Kind Healer
The doctor’s hand touches
my husband’s arm, my hand
as he tells us its cancer, quickly
tells us the way we will do
battle, irradiate the enemy,
keep close eye on rebirth.
He’ll slice away every cell of tumors,
then singe in the fires of a laser.
We – keep our appointments,
pray, and don’t give up hope.
I am still plugging away…
Pamela
Two Septolets of Kindness
Offerings
He said, will you show me– I promise
not to touch.
There was the crackle of crisp paper.
So then there was unbuttoning,
fabric and fabric, a pale revelation.
And he breathed, circled
like this was a Greek marble for admiring,
one that he could smell and sense its
fluttering pulse–
he said, just one touch– another one
for just one touch.
And the crackle of paper mixed with that
of skin on skin. He dragged his fingertips
in a long unending spiral, memorizing,
squeezing, never lifted them
once. He trembled, too: he’s trembled
ever since they found the poison
in his veins–
he said, I’m going to– I won’t do it
anywhere near you.
One more if you do too. He was
half-cocked already, and he finished quick:
the result glared brilliantly from his hand,
accusatory, but full of terror.
The sound of skin, paper, fabric:
on top of that the sound of what might be
the last cinders of mercy, burning away.
All kinds of wonderful poems!!
Cold Comfort
In Minneapolis it seems
Kindness is in the genes
They help, they give, they hold the door
They’re never, ever mean
It may be freezing out, or months
Of snow and storm
Yet the hearts of Minnesotans
Seem perpetually warm
While back in sunny Fla
Where everyone loves to play
The sea is warm and blue
And all the palm trees sway
The hearts have got a chilliness
It’s very clear to see
When it comes to kindness
It can’t be measured by degrees
Stop In for a Minute
Through the frosty window there
She’s sitting in her old wooden chair
Her hair is streaked with white and grey
A warm face wrinkled and smile so gay
Her eyes are blue and clear as bells
“Hello” she says, and an odour tells
Of gin and tonic her favourite drink
“Come on in.” she says with a wink
“Sit by the fire, and give me your coat
I am so happy to see you, good lord you’re soaked
I’ll fix you a drink to warm you up
And a ladle of soup in the old blue cup”
Both elbows resting on the table
She lights her cigarette and starts her fable
Whether it be the truth or a lie
It is of no matter to you or I
In her eighties she still tosses her hair
Like one of twenty who’s young and fair
She sits a glass on the table for me
And says one for the road won’t hurt ye
She steps outside and into the snow
I made these ice cubes for Christmas you know
Into each one she has placed a cherry
To make the season just a little more merry
It’s five o’clock and darkness creeps in
A wintery night is about to begin
Lifting the shade off the kerosene light
The match on the box she softly strikes
A smell of sulphur and kerosene
She lights the wick and the flame burns clean
The snow is falling ever so softly
She puts wood in the stove and brews me a coffee
I lean myself back in the old rocking chair
And listen to the stories she has to share
“It’s getting late will you spend the night?”
“The cot by the stove would it be alright?”
The tick of the clock and the crackle of the fire
Gets louder and louder as she starts to tire
“Pouring one last drink.” she says with a grin
“I’ll sleep tonight with all that gin”
Before she butts out her last cigarette
She blows a smoke ring just round and perfect.
“I once was a wild one.” She said with a smile
And no regrets do I have for even awhile”
She carries the light to her painted bedroom
And with a small giggle she starts singing a tune
Tucked in her bed she says,” It means a lot
When everyone’s gone and no family I’ve got.
That you are a friend of an old lady like me
Always comin’ around, be’ in my company
As I lay in the dark and there is not a sound
I say” Sleep tight Emma, I love being ‘round”
Soup Kitchen
Sensible smile
outstretched ladle
serving others
365 days a year,
hair pulled back by a net,
dull, stained dress and apron
torn stockings met with
non-skid shoes
makes no difference here
to be yourself, warm portions
from the heart to the belly,
keeping order and minding
all the hungry souls
Kris Kringle can’t keep up with her,
not a single complaint, receive
a smile and a scoop,
when the dinner bell has ceased
the serving soul goes to the community
determined heart to help the needy,
donations by the bags
another day, another chance to dish up
hope added to her cups of love.
Kindness
Keen to the needs if others
Immeasurable virtue
Never selfish
Doing good unto others
Not withholding
Earnestly caring
Serving
Sacrifice
An Act of Kindness
Perhaps the
Greatest kindness is
To simply
Let someone
Know you have walked through their pain
And you understand.
small town coffee shop -
let’s buy cookies from Heidi
and feed the wild geezers
Grandpa…………….
A simple man dipping well,
Guiding ragged skiff through Atlantic swell,
Forged by lashings of hemp under sail,
Knew loss by fickle nature’s scything gale,
Skin as rough as salt-bleached wood,
So deeply quiet others suspiciously misunderstood,
From the greatest war he returned home whole,
Yet never talked about his role,
Every day he read from the worn leather book,
So serious and somber countenanced his stern outlook,
And every year for summer I would return,
To live with my Grandpa next to the heather coated country burn,
The year I turned eight brought a lump to my throat,
My stern old grandpa had crafted me a boat,
He taught me to fish and sail and row,
He taught me to persevere as he sentiently watched me grow,
He taught me the wonder of life in the wild,
How to grow yet still retain the hidden inner summer child,
So a simple poem for grandpa in heaven above,
So that through my sadly inadequate words… for the magic… I can
show my love…
The Fever
At Midnight it started. A westbound train
Below my window sounded a long cold whistle
And drove uncomfortable waves from the small of my back
Upwards until I fell into long days of restless memory
We never know how sick we were until we return
The next train I heard woke me with a dismissive whistle
I’d finally fallen asleep and you had left for home
It was Midnight again when I looked down from my wide window
Onto the empty tracks the sweat on my arms
Had beaded around the stars. The moon was warm
On my chest. And I can tell you now, It is easier to breathe
In the present where all I can remember
Is how incredibly kind you were to me
– For Shannon
I have got to go to bed! One more.
Cowboy Kindness
(for Willie and the Boys)
We both agreed
he could have
loved me better,
but the lesson was not
too late for my learning.
The last thing on my mind
was being his strange reliance,
his blue eyes crying,
his reason for writing
complicated love songs
suitable for drinking,
remembering, and
quibbling over lyrics.
I see now that
cowboy selfishness
can turn us on ourselves
like misshapen pots,
slung all wrong
from the start.
Even without the beer
and weeping, I know
when I’m holding
a heart in my hand.
So tell me, Willie,
if you didn’t mean
to be unkind,
why were you?
Cup Of Kindness
Cup in hand
She rings the bell
I wonder what
She’s here to sell
I scowl past
The safety chain
She smiles through
The driving rain
And says, “Your neighbor
Sent me here
To thank you for
The cup of cheer
You let her borrow
Yesterday.
She says her sorrow’s
Gone away
So here’s your cup of
Kindness back.”
She hands the cup
In through the crack.
I take it, and
She smiles once more
Then leaves me standing
At the door.
The rain, the wind,
The girl so wet
Whose smile I
Won’t soon forget…
I wish I’d had
The nerve to say,
“Hey, next time,
Wash the cup, okay?”
http://trollpants.wordpress.com
Day 13 11-13-2011
Write a kind poem.
Legacy
Surrounded by epitaphs
of Scripture,
praise of accomplishment,
or love from family or spouse,
hers drew attention in its simple purity:
“To everyone she showed kindness.”
I like this prompt
***
“Because kindness fades”
The heat held in a cup of tea;
garlic fragrance in the kitchen;
a legend about a saintly
person; heady effects of wine;
halvah, a cloud of sesame—
your kind acts make this world serene
for a while. Then they sublimate
like a picnic into evening.
The taste of sweetness you forget;
just the fact keeps in memory.
Each comfort tends to dissipate,
and the bittersweet pendulum
swings with time toward the bitter taste.
Our photographed smiles turn dull, dumb…
Therefore, we chums become some kind
of honey dynamos that thrum,
making things that make us say “yum.”
The Cheapest Gift is Kindness (a shadorma)
What
costs
nothing,
no tax, no
fee, and yet is worth
all the riches on
earth to the person it touches?
Sara, you captured the essence!
Thanks, Karen.
From the Director’s Chair
The art director wanted a sofa
the color of kindness. I said
color didn’t matter; it was all
up to the lighting designer.
The 67-year-old former soap star
whose job it was to splay, dead,
over the back cushions said
Who gives a shit about the slipcovers,
as long as the cushion underneath
doesn’t mess with my sciatica?
The pop star playing the killer
asked for cerulean blue, because
it made the corpse’s skin look smoother.
That, I said,
is kindness.
Pamela Murray Winters
Wonderful chuckle. Others, people, Others! Ha!
Kind
A young mom
with three young kids
pulls into the station
to put a few bucks
worth of gas
into her barely
running car.
All three are buckled in
securely.
She must go pay the cashier.
She puts the car in park,
pulls the emergency
brake. (Does it even work?)
She steps away for one
short
moment.
Inside the car, little feet,
bored by the waiting,
are kicking.
Kicking at the
gear shift
among other things.
And the car slips
into neutral.
And gravity
pulls the
car (the emergency brake
does NOT work!)
down the
slight incline,
picking up speed,
toward the busy
street.
From the kiosk,
the mother sees her
babies
rolling toward the street
and runs.
Too late, it’s too late
the car is going out
into the street.
And a homeless man
(an angel in disguise?)
steps out
into traffic, and turns
the wheel,
allowing the car
to roll to a stop
safely.
The mother,
distraught,
runs up and
(thank you, thank you, thank you!)
tries to thank the man
who shrugs off
her gratitude
and shoulders
his pack
and walks
away
leaving four lives
forever changed
by his
kindness.
Diana Terrill Clark
a scary, lovely story
This really happened to me. And after that, I never left my kids in the car again, no matter how difficult. <3 thanks Jane.
Kindness Poem
If you seek me out
from the googol of
websites
self-aggrandizing blogs
cobwebbed social media,
I am so thankful
for your devotion.
If you leave a note
then I know you’ve seen me
and you’ve invalidated
my presumed invisibility
and most days
that is the kindest thing
of all.
See you clearly, B.
I see you, too, Buddah! I also always saw your kindness!
Of a Kind Nature
What does it mean, her grandson
Asks, to be one of a kind,
Is it the same as being kind
Or knowing your own kind
And what does she mean
When she says to people
They are being “too kind”
He can tell that she doesn’t
Always mean it – just by the sound
Of her voice
As is often the case
He gives her pause, makes her
Think, about her motives,
The way she speaks, frequently
Without thinking, and the nature
Of words, meanings, even voice
Inflections – such a simple word:
Kind – so many variations
What is it she wants him
To know about it – what does she
Consider most important
She tells him she agrees
With most dictionary definitions:
That the purest meaning
Of the word when it is used
Properly is that it means
Having a caring, giving nature
Or even being agreeable,
not destructive
That that was when it was something
Called a modifier – he was a bit
Young to learn about adjectives
But what can you do
He looks at her blankly
Clearly not understanding
And she decides – for now
“The important meaning is the one
I just told you – that when you
Share things, or don’t hit even
When it feels like you might
Like to -
Or try to make your brother laugh
When he’s sad – you are
Being kind …”
He looks puzzled and she watches
as he struggles to tell her about
being good, about being nice
Just like Mom and Dad say
And with wonder in his little voice
The voice that has only recently
Found words and is just
Learning sentences
He excitedly concludes
That good and nice sound
A lot like kind
Does that mean he’s kind?
She has to look away
Stifling both tears and smiles
Yes – yes – it sure does,
He is very kind.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gpfvkeo0KBc
Isaiah 11:6. “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the young goat…”
AND LET THAT BE A LESSON UNTO US.
The leopard kills a baboon, its natural predator.
Though horrid to behold, we recognize this
Natural act of self-preservation.
The leopard notices the day-old infant baboon,
And we gasp,
Anticipating another act we cannot bear to witness.
Yet, the leopard’s reaction to the infant
Stirs sighs of relief and bewilderment,
As she tenderly licks and embraces
This vulnerable suckling, orphaned
As an outcome of her own action.
Is she as mystified as we
At this apparent inverse instinct -
This act of grace, offered
To one not of her own kind?
Hi, all you wonderful poets! If you have not seen the youtube video I linked above, it is well worth checking out. Amazing! Hannah, this is more of that super quick clip on Facebook. Unfortunately, the infant baboon ends up not making it.
Wishing for time to read and relish, but I must be getting to bed at a decent time tonight. Good night, all!
This IS amazing! Thank you so much for sharing this, Marie and I love your poem fits perfectly!
Yes, I saw this some time ago. Loved the youtube piece and your poem.
Poetic Depression (a triolet)
Kinda running out of poems
What is a poet to do?
Pray to all the saints in Rome?
Kinda running out of poems
I might hibernate at home
come back fresh in a month or two
Kinda running out of poems
What is a poet to do?
I felt this way today; wrote anyway. I’m glad you did too.
KINDNESS OF POETS
Is it their way with words?
Or the vision they clearly see?
Like a flight of southern flying birds,
Written touch sets souls free!
Poets seem to capture,
The very essence of life,
Focusing on the rapture
With phrases that end strife!
They highlight what is admired,
Coaxing out the beauty,
Anything stuck or mired,
With poets it ceases to be!
Delicately, they find their stride,
Carry us forward on high,
Suddenly it becomes our ride!
Blending in with their sky!
Transported into their touchable heart,
Gently we let go,
Not knowing we became their art,
There’s no worry what’s below!
Taking our willing hand,
We’re shown gardens, every flower,
So thrilled they understand,
We’ll stay close days on the hour!
Through all their written gifts,
Carefully crafted and guided pen!
All genuine words give us happy lifts,
Opening us to ourselves . . .
As each poem is artfully, kindly done!
Beautiful poem, Janet.
Thank you, Sweet Sara! I appreciate your kind post! You are a kind and gentle person . . . so, thank you . . . kindly!
Kindness
Extravagance bestowed on the undeserving
No slack hand; all generosity and benevolence
Arching heavenward
Like a multi-colored rainbow
In a sun washed sky
Golden rays of kindness
Warm the crowded streets
Thanks for your kindness!
‘Simple’
Magical moments exist
When a smile shines forth
A thank you is presented
A genuine appreciation expressed
Fireworks burst
Inside
For the
Simple Acts of
Kindness
A dime at a bus stop
Is worth more than
Thousands
Grudgingly
Good morning
Is refreshing
When the morning is not so
Great
Simple Acts
Are simply
Precious
Differential Weathering
She knew I was trying
to be what she wanted.
Which was not what she wanted.
I had nowhere to go. So I lingered
in the brutality of her kisses.
RESCUED BY KINDNESS
it was the kindness
of strangers that ushered her
from one life to the next
she was rescued, that one,
given a second chance
to be loved, and cuddled;
today, on World Kindness Day,
it was the kindness of family
that again ushered her
from one life to the next
as she was rescued
from pain and suffering
2011-11-13
P. Wanken
Rest in Peace, Zoey.
…Zoey was my “dog niece”…one of the many “rescue animals” that have been a part of my sister’s family…
Random Acts
random act of pansies,
their sweet, silly faces
popped in colorful pots,
smiling on the front porch
chance proffer of poems
tacked up on phone poles,
taped inside storm doors,
tucked beneath door mats
stray lavish of pleasantries
greetings, drive-by smiles,
a car horn toot, friendly wave,
song, salute or tip of the hat
gifts bestowed by some unknown
gardener, poet, artist, stranger,
intending only kindness, needing
neither reward nor recognition
unable to return the favor; no way
to pay back the benefactor; only
two things you can do:
pass it by, or pass it on
My Father’s Son-in-law
John barely knew his father,
already old and sickly, when
he was born, and gone before
they could be adults together.
He called my father, Pop,
throughout our marriage;
Dad loved him as a son.
John took us to Washington, D.C.
My Dad, a World War Two
veteran, could barely walk.
When navigation proved
arduous, he wheeled Dad,
tears trembling down his cheeks,
`round the new memorial.
Several years later, Dad sat up,
propped by pillows on hospital
sheets, body barely covered
by the blue gaping gown, tissues
tented on the table. They called
it Rehab; we knew he’d never
come home. Dad was an avid
newspaper reader, like John,
both hungering for historical facts
and political propensities. Each
morning John brought newspapers,
and wheeled Dad up and down
the halls of the facility, even on
that one freakish day, when Dad
ranted, and sobbed, scaring
everyone else into staying home.
Newspapers lay forgotten,
as did Dad’s thick-framed
glasses, folded in their case.
Still my husband brought news,
hoping silently to engage
him in life again. At the cemetery,
we gathered, listened to my husband
read the eulogy he wrote for his Pop.
Swim Lessons
Kindness in the high school-aged swim teacher
who holds my daughter, now; they drift through
water rippled by others’ splashes in the hall
of echoes that is this ancient natatorium.
My daughter, age 6, does not splash, does not
yet float; she rejects my cheery assertion
that the water will hold her, just like a bed.
Every week, a little bit farther; every week,
I watch the wet, broad back of the instructor
as she holds her most resistant student level
in the water, encourages her not to grip
so tightly around the neck—the small arm
comes up, is gently placed back down again—
as they sew, the two of them, a seam from
the wall to the end of the shallows, back.
High fives are given as needed. In so many
weeks it begins to mean something; I begin
to forget I used to dread coming here. Now
I see the strong back, the open arms making
space for tiny progress, not failure. They are
skin to skin, and both of them still children;
someday, perhaps, as mother or wife,
the teacher will remember this intimacy,
have a sense memory of holding this stranger,
a feeling that it was something like love.
This is a lovely piece written with a kind and loving eye as the one you celebrate in this young teacher. Nice job.
Belated thanks!
Still playing catch up! I cannot wait until the Thanksgiving break!
The Phone Call
After dropping out of school five years ago,
he still calls his high school teacher,
the one who taught him that someone
cared if he came to class, or did drugs,
or ate healthy food, and how to pet a dog.
He always lies about finishing his GED,
and tells her that he’s still working
on that college degree. He asks about
the dogs, her family and school. Before
hanging up, he reminds her of the photo,
the one of him smiling with her family,
his black afro spiraling among the blonds.
He keeps it on his dresser and remembers
everything––everything she taught him,
everything about kindness but nothing of truth.
Innate (double shadorma)
Even when
we choose not to be,
we know that
kindness is
simple bravery, pity,
acceptance, and love.
Even when
we practice war and
greed, hate and
selfishness,
still we know what kindness is.
We know it by heart.
Kind Enough
Sometimes it is not necessary,
To say anything, to try to force
A meaning onto thorny acts.
Even kind words chafe
The raw and tender wound.
A touch, a look, companionable
Silence, hugged tight to beating heart,
A hand held gently, the brush of lips
On tear-stained cheek, a hot cup of tea,
A favorite meal, lovingly prepared.
When self gets out of the way of us,
A simple gesture is kind enough.
Hold the Door
A door held open
when hands are full
juggling groceries
and a tot too small to walk.
Eyes mist up from the gesture
a nod of the head is all she can muster.
The child smiles his chubby grin.
The door closes,
the moment disappears,
but small eyes see everything.
very cute
Thank you, Robert, for your tireless enthusiasm to challenge us
Thank you all for your kind words and encouragement.
Love,
Amica
Nice catch!
offering
a hand to help you
up after
laying you
out with a bone-jarring hit
on a crossing route
Kindness is this.
Kindness is a seed
that blooms in time
when planted now.
Kindness is a seed
that roots in time
when planted now.
Kindness is a hand
one from each one
of us holds us.
Kindness is a tree.
If planted now,
it grows firmly.
Kindness is a tree.
If planted now,
it grows steady.
Kindness is a heart.
One bleeding heart
gives another life.
Kindness is a word
A single word
gives another life.
A bit more downbeat than much of the rest that’s been posted today:
Kindness
No one thought her crazy when she took in
the first two vocal strays at her doorstep.
Some warm milk, a few strokes on the back,
and they wanted to stay forever.
How kind of her, the neighbors said.
Over the months, three more wandered
onto her porch, and again, found a home there.
Three tabbies, a Siamese and a Persian,
all of whom got along well, she told her friends.
But that’s when they stopped hearing
from her, and her mind took a left turn.
Neighbors only saw her when she went out
in her housecoat, looking for something -
more cats, they would gossip later.
She retreated into a claustrophobic world
filled with felines, and two years later,
when the cops responded to complaints
about the smell, they found her, dazed
and disoriented, with thirty-five cats
in a two-bedroom row house. Feces
were everywhere, and most of the animals
were emaciated, starving. Three were dead,
and others had begun to feed on them.
They took all her cats away, destroyed
about half of them. Now she is in a rest home,
where they treat her, and the other residents,
with a modicum of kindness. There is a point
where love is not enough, and care is too much.
Exquisite….great last line….:)
Kindness is
a smile shared between two strangers
when eyes met
and they decided not to turn away.
I meant to go to bed approx. 30 minutes ago, but neglected to do so. I have read and soaked in, but not commented, for not wanting to take that much time this evening. However, I just want to say that these words, simple and few, tie with Hannah’s for my favorite today. Such a simple act that means far more than we know. THANK YOU FOR THIS, SHANNON.
Thank you. Coming from someone who embodies kindness, your comment means a lot.
And I second this statement !!
Oooo you’re right Marie, these do go nicely together! Thank you for the compliment too! <3
Kindness Created
Such little things
A whispered word
A squeeze of a hand
A gentle hug
when eyes are blurred…
We understand
sometimes the simple
sometimes the small
when needed the most
can comfort all.
Agree!
Let Them Be Kind
I just want them to be happy, parents say,
as if self-evident, while all the evidence
stares us in the face: happiness does not come
at the end of a pursuit. Therefore, I adjust
my wishes for my own: I don’t wish them success,
but for the industry to earn it; I don’t wish
for a gift of intelligence but for their desire
to gain wisdom from knowledge. Nor do I wish
fame, fortune, or unfettered fun. Instead,
I wish for them an abundance of kindness,
more than they can give away, as hard
as they try, and I wish for them to try.
I wish a tender heart, a generous nature,
a willingness to act in secret kindness
with no thought to recognition or reward.
I wish that as they practice kindness,
happiness may stealthily overtake them.
Love this, Nancy. One of my favorite students had a lovely mom who told me she didn’t care if he made all A’s as long as he enjoyed his life and was kind. I was so glad I could assure her that both were true so far.
Rehab
Focused on the fix,
Knowing only the need.
Desperate for the drug,
Denied further self-destruction;
The cruelest of all kindness.
I’ve been afflicted with rhyme for over 24 hours. Is it a virus?
Child’s Play
I don’t know if you saw her fall
Or heard the children laugh and jeer.
Perhaps you weren’t nearby at all
And only ran when you could hear
A cry of pain and stifled sobs
And see a bloodied knee and hand;
Your look of pity shut them up
And made them wish to understand
Just what it was that knelt you down
Beside her in the playground dirt
To wipe her eyes and smile her frown
And quietly access her hurt.
The children stood and watched you then
And you were what they longed to be—
Someone with heart who made a friend,
A lesson they don’t often see.
We took you with us all that day,
And thought of how to be and do,
How we could wipe a tear away,
For kindness looked so good on you.
Hope you never find a cure for this virus and that I catch it soon, Jane.
Thanks, friend.
OFF OF THE FLOOR
Uplifting words raise all fallen hearts.
Observing what touches our souls
gives us the control to touch others
in kindness. Our blessings shared
given to help others; from our own want
not our excesses. A tender word,
a helping hand, an arm wrapped around
in empathetic embrace places you
in the shoes of your brother. No other
vision needs to be seen. Your kindness
is enough to lift one off of the floor
to proudly stand tall and confident.
Feeling safe. Feeling warm.
Feeling filled with kindnesses love.
Thoroughly lifted in the praise of good.
Hey, Walt . . . your kindness has always touched me and for that I have been grateful! Your touch of humor has also moved me and in a good way! What a guy! Love your poem today . . . well done and well expressed kindness! But then . . . you are just that way!
“Thoroughly lifted in the praise of good.” This sort of beauty is why you’re Poet Laureate. WOW.
FINAL WORD
As the last palm tree,
Bows in the wind,
A dazzling wave crests,
One more time,
When the harmonious sound,
Echoing through her favorite wind chime,
Is finally heard,
At her open sunlit door,
Her breath begins slowing down,
To nothing,
Hardly able to carry life,
Precious life,
Anymore!
Life that once was so,
Vibrant and alive!
Her heart begins,
It’s final active beat,
Watching with pain,
In their hearts,
Sadness in their eyes,
Dread in their stomachs,
Her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren,
Bend forward towards her one last time . . .
They all hear it,
They will always remember it,
Even though it is now just a whisper . . .
Through a tired and parched mouth the words come . . .
With her last bit of air as her long life with them softly ends . . .
She gasped . . .
“Through it all, I was always grateful for kindness!”
My hearth.
My art reflects my visions
It lies within my heart
It hears the plight of children
abandoned from the start.
Machine guns forced in tiny hands
somewhere in their foreign lands,
while others have to roam the streets,
to sell things such as measly treats.
Cigarettes, chewing gum—anyone?,
he chants, as his sister kneels beside
Their ages aren’t that much different,
yet he sees to it that she’d have her rice.
“Do as I say!” the grown-ups tell
these helpless ones, the voiceless ones.
The minute they start to crawl,
their wings are immediately clipped.
I’ll never forget the picture
of a Sudanese mother crying,
she just didn’t understand,
that they were, again, running.
The child in her mother’s arms…
the child in no one’s arms…
the child holding his sister’s arm…
the child who dropped his arms…
I saw their glimmer-less eyes
impressionable minds too weak to flee
and just say no when beaten to death
or slowly skinned alive.
If my heart ever loses sight
of these trampled little hearts,
then my art has doused cold—the hearth
and failed tremendously.
Kindness changes lives.
It is compassion that gives
kindness its power.
An Air of Kindness
Ron had to go alone
to dinner last night,
where my favorites
topped the offerings
I went to keep their baby boy
while my daughter, her husband
enjoyed dinner at the Ritz ~
held hands through Mama Mia.
I fed, burped, rocked and crooned
then walking carried him
beyond his cries, repeated that
routine again and again, till…
Midnight when they brought
relief, sweet smiles, two hugs
a bid farewell that ushered
me into my morning ride.
After 1:00 am I arrived home
to find, waiting beyond
his own sleep, my Ron with
egg-rolls wrapped and warm.
Jane Penland Hoover
November 13, 2011
PAD 13
All about kindness
LOVE’S OUTSTRETCHED HAND
A simple touch connects,
a caress of heart to heart,
turning an intended “give and take”,
into the “give and give” of
unconditional love.A brush
of tactile lingering a soft
fingering of emotion -
heartfelt and wanted.
Love’s close embrace,
a face-to-face gaze
through the soul’s windows.
In those tender moments
love enters. In the gentle
hand of love lives are held.
In those connected lives,
the outstretched hand of love
traverses the miles.
The resulting smiles warm,
hearts connected glow.
“The right time”
We stand at the counter, your kitchen of centuries, knotty pine cabinets, milky yellowed. The cutting board splintered where Gram butchered her lamb shanks. I never could get the accent down when she tutored me in Norwegian poetry. She would roll her eyes and chant: repeat, repeat. I hand you a paring knife to slice the carrots. I see the tremors so I hug my hand on yours. You have cradled more wishes, stroked more fears, mirrored more mystics than I; half a century, half again, where headstone and cradle collide. But, I don’t cup my hands to enfold skin to skin, warm to chilled, but to hear, voice to heart, what I was deaf to when I was naïve and simple, when I was unable to see that silver is the color of a sage, that tremors are just a song of a life lived well.
I possess not the
power to anoint you with
time; even eagles
sleep at harvest and the sun
does not forsake the mountain.
Very nice: sentiment and structure.
OH MY…INCREDIBLY BEAUTIFUL …MOVED TO TEARS BY SHEER BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE “cradle to headstone” …. Oh just too much to quote….
Mark and PKP–Thank you for reading and for your sweet comments.
Kindness Is As Kindness Does
I will go out of my way to help you
as I always help others
and I welcome your respect
and gentle words
regards to family accepted
with heartfelt gratitude
but as your knives cluster
in my back
be not too surprised
that one day I turn around
and turn on you
and deal back all
the kindly given
spite
you have given me
Iain
Classic Iain… Bravo
“Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.” Romans 12:21
Kill with kindness
We’ve been told
Turn the other cheek
Should we rollover?
Cave and fold?
No, it means be meek
We show our strength
With self control
Take them by surprise
They’ll be defeated
Thunder stole
Kindness shows us wise
“cave and fold?” Reference kisses on the cheek in the Godfather
The kindness of strangers
Dear Mrs. Atkins,
I couldn’t help but notice
you were gone this week,
so I took the liberty
of watching your house for you.
I hope you’ll be pleased
with all the things I got done.
I read through your mail,
threw out the stuff you don’t need
and clipped a bunch of coupons.
Those strange blue flowers
that were growing in the back?
they are all gone now – YAY!
And don’t worry – I planted
something else instead: surprise!!!!
Oh, and I just know
you will totally adore
how I rearranged
the layout of your bedroom.
The new paint was my best touch.
I’m only sorry
I’m not there to see your face
when you arrive home.
Please, please, don’t try to thank me.
After all, what are friends for?
I love this, but it was hard to read through my laughter.
You’re too kind!
Ouch! Is misplaced kindness not worse than outright neglect?
Unique and incredibly descriptive poem …. Beautifully illustrated as Viv states “misplaced kindness”.
This is a hoot, Andrew, and also a lot of work…
Interesting prompt
Coming back to prompts after almost an year. Here is my attempt.
Kind your best to me : http://navindutta.com/wordpress/2011/11/kind-your-best/
You dont sound “You” anymore..
You have moved on.
Havent you?
The silliest of stories
have gotten rare
Or have they found you
new ears to root?
I so miss that familiar touch
that sensed my heart
in wrath.
Have you lost your sense of touch
Or has my heart
stopped beating at all?
I miss the glances
that in the silent blush
raided my thoughts
all the time.
Please tell me,
that they are there..
And i have not gone blind?
Blind my love
for you re my star
I seek no heaven
no moon
If at all I need to ask
You be my only boon.
Spear my heart!
Dont spear my love.
For that is wilder sorrow
What do i do with me today,
when there is no YOU tomorrow.
Political Pantoum
I am repulsed by politics
hypocrisy, cant, and worse, lies.
we should all believe in kindness
as much as we keep to the truth.
Hypocrisy, cant and worse, lies
prevent us reaching happiness,
by the antithesis of truth,
all partners to aggressiveness.
We never will reach happiness
if we pursue with selfishness
those partners of aggressiveness
hypocrisy, politics, and lies.
We must be done with selfishness
and live our lives in kindliness
care, honesty and goodliness
and be repulsed by politics.
Lollipop
The toddler sits on the floor
with a lollipop in her mouth,
licking and slurping her candied drool.
In walks the dog
following the smell of food in the air,
she sits down and waits, she’s no fool.
With a happy squeal,
she pats the dog on the head
pulls her lollipop out of her mouth
and sticks it before the dogs nose.
The dog knows the deal,
and wagging her tail
she licks that lollipop
over and over again.
The toddler giggles with delight,
then she takes the lollipop and
promptly sticks it back in her mouth.
Her mother looks in and sees all is right,
never knowing the sharing
going on out of sight.
By The Hand
You were given great gifts
now your mission is to share.
Open up your soul
and give to others all that’s there.
A blessed act of kindness
is the purest way to start
and the greatest gift that you can give
from deep within your heart.
Take them by The Hand
and you will surely see,
the Grace that you’ve been given
and all you were meant to be.
By Michael Grove
A KIND POEM
She asked him, just this once, for
a kind poem. Not the in-your-face jack-
hammer rhythm ‘n’ rhyme that made
her canary blue. He hadn’t written
since the stroke; the lying-flat-
in-hospital week. The canary
was dead. He didn’t want another,
not a poem. Didn’t want anything, he
said. Just this once, she asked,
a kind poem. He stared into space,
the kind beyond stars, black hole
that swallows rhyme and
rhythm, canaries, cantaloupes sliced
just ripe for him. He began
to hum with words. Something
like a nursery ditty. Ring
around the tadpole, pockets
full of pie, four and twenty daisies
never will die…. Well, he said, it’s a
kind of poem. Isn’t that
what you wanted? Yes, she said.
I’m glad she understood and appreciated the effort and willingness to please.
Wow! Taylor reading through tears
beautiful
Kindness : http://ladynimue.wordpress.com/2011/11/13/kindness/
a (more-or-less) true story
some days are born light, and I woke with the sense of having lost
weightiness. to validate my loss, I excavated my old honest scale
from the closet where I tossed it to be buried in the dross of my estate:
a heating pad, a lantern without battery, Kiwi cordovan for shoes long
in the landfill, a box of nonstick gauze pads, a book of Billy Collins
poems, antacid, two clocks (one still ticking), three blue bands
for exercising my right knee, a carpal tunnel left hand brace, a christmas present
in its wrapping paper, and a bag of sanitized-for-decoration spanish moss.
I set the white scale on the floor by my downtrodden pink terry house shoes.
expecting four or five pounds gone, imagine my chagrin* to read a gain of ten.
(*honestly, chagrin!) I stepped down, picked it up, cursed its now-number-less
face; shook it once, or twice. or three or four times. and said I had a mind
to let it weigh the Mustang, one wheel at a time. then I tried it once again, and
saw that honest scale had learned that even truth can reconsider, and be kind.
this makes me smile – always a kindness too that is
Truly a delightful sweetness throughout … and perhaps a bit of identification because I have a kind scale who sweetly lies to me each morning… We have an agreement “he” keeps lying and I keep him.
Getting High
As the boat took off
and I flew, feeling fine and free,
above the sparkling waters
where the people
playing in the waves
looked like tapioca pearls
in my bubble tea,
I marveled as I considered
the “pay it forwards”
I passed on along the way
and how the feelings
were much the same.
From Swaziland with Love
For Dr. Maithri Goonetilleke
He had come to offer relief
from the diseases that ate
at body and soul in this land
of red earth, fiery sun and poverty
so thick it laid heavy on
the all life forms trying to
exist.
He had come to offer relief
to the poorest of the poor -
yet, as he entered the hut
a small, brown, wrinkled hand
reached out, offering him
a gift of unconditional hospitality -
fruit.
He came to offer relief
but found instead a gift
that blessed his soul in ways
far greater than those found
in pews. The gift? –
Love
Well done, Linda.
“Wouldn’t it be nice”*
It used to be
I found God inside harmonies.
Voices, lifted together,
finding spaces
in the spectrum
where two
sound as one.
But now,
the discordant
voices of children,
unabashed
and unaware,
rise a little sharp
or fall
a little flat
but filled with kindness.
And I know
we were all meant
to sing.
Sensitive ears
be damned.
* Yes, this title was stolen from what is likely
my favorite Beach Boys song.
Love this: suppress the inner critic and just appreciate what we find around us. You give us good advice.
Sorry ….. site doesn’t like me posting so quickly… and I lost the littlest league which was (of course aren’t they always) far better the first time I posted it and had it disappeared by the “slow down” critic
Pearl — hit “refresh” to reload the page — it will often hold your words for you to re-post.
Thank you Paula
At the Littlest League Field
He swung again and
again
and again
at the ball
sneering
on the rubber
planted T
but only
when he hit it
did his mother
seem to ever see
Ah yes, the results wins love dilemma. I was always the idiot in the crowd shouting “you can do it!” as soon as they stood at bat
A haiku again
I had to after the opening inspiration.
Kindness
Your haiku holds such a good point. Very well written and beautiful blog site, too!
In a “This n That Shop”
He was no more than seven or eight
perhaps a smallish ten
you know the kind rumpled
hair, arms and legs still thin
eyes downturned from grownups
now darting panic plain
had he five dollars
for a gift slapped his
pockets twisted round
his reddened neck
ran out the door and
back
“Had five dollars for
my father – he just
came home today”
Wanted to buy him
something – more he
couldn’t say words
caught in his throat
a grownup moved on
by – but another had
a crumpled bill thrown
into a corner right nearby
“I think that might be it
in the corner over there”
said the woman casually
so carefully at him not to stare
continuing her looking at
a this and a that
as relief flooded the air
ringing with the small voice
wondrous mumble
“can you imagine that?”
I haven’t read All the comments but has anyone noticed that when you get the notice that you are posting too quickly that the “You” is in fact plural? Meaning that “You” (The Poetic Asides Community) is posting too quickly. Not “You” as an individual. Is that right?
It just happened to me.I think it don’t like long comments.
doesn’t. :[
I keep getting this message as well.
It’s just a glitch with the website. Nothing to fret over. Happening to all of us on occasion. Robert sez to ignore, no biggy.
Dog
You don’t know me
from Eve and yet
your flag-tail thumps
your nose up, your
neck stretched for pats
as eagerly
as if I were
your human, your
eyes saying, you
cannot be sad,
and that is the
best kindness the
world could give me
this cold morning.
Love it!!!!
Thank you, Jacqueline!
A TIM HORTON’S TIDBIT
The black SUV
with grey-haired couple
just drove off into the sunset.
I pull up to place an order:
1 double-double large, please.
That will be free, sir.
Pardon, I asked for a large coffee.
Must be your lucky day, eh? The couple ahead of you paid in advance–a free coffee for the next customer.
Well, wow, thanks to them! Uh, could you just do the same for the car behind? Here’s a fiver.
I like your version of pay-it-forward.
You have given named it well! Not sure who first thought of it but this is one of those random acts of kindness that brightens one’s day!
A TIM HORTON’S TIDBIT
The black SUV
with grey-haired couple
just drove off into the sunset.
I pull up to place an order:
Oops, see whole poem below.
Kindly Cruel
From birth he was taught
That he could depend on
The kindness of others
For his livelihood
He need not understand why
Folks he would never even meet
Would be so generous and kind
But they were
They provided
And he grew to expect their kindness
Taking became part of his life
Never having to give anything in return
That became his definition of kindness
Given by those he’d never meet
Funneled through the government
It became his only way of life
Passed down to the next generation
And the next
And the next
Until it was more the norm than not
It was no longer kindness
It was expected
And demanded
Then one day it didn’t come
The invisible providers
Were so much outnumbered
That they could no longer provide
They could not longer afford
They, themselves, needed kindness
Protests turned violent
Riots plagued every city and town
As those that expected the kindness
Demanded its return
But it did not return
Because it could not return
The kindness bank was empty
The kindness well had run dry
And the cruelty of kindness set in
Atlas Shrugged revisited. Becoming more true everyday.
I have heard a lot about Atlas Shrugged, but haven’t had the chance to see it yet. Now that it’s out on DVD, I might have to pick up a copy.
What is out is only part one of three. It is a very long book, but worth the read.
Wonderful poem, Earl.
All Kinds
kind of pensive
kind of tired
kind of bored
kind of wired
kind of silly
kind of grave
kind of fearful
kind of brave
kind of happy
kind of blue
kind of restless
what, you too?
kind of edgy
but I don’t mind
kind of thoughtful
kind of kind
– Cara Holman
Simple and complicated at once. This really made me think, Cara. Thanks for sharing it.
Thank you, Ina. This was one of those poems that came to me all at once.
Epitaph
I don’t want them to say I was
beautiful
or talented
or funny
or fun
or smart
or creative
or good at wrangling kids
or wrestling words,
though I hope I am sometimes
those things.
When I’m through
all these phases,
I hope the phrases
that remain
are these:
She was kind.
His light shined.
Dear De…I think I will have to stop reading and just write because it seems we are on the same wave length! I couldn’t have said it better, though.
Love this!
Nice one, De. Me too.
I’m sure that’s what they’ll say and add that she was good at wrangling kids and delighting paper and people with wonderful words
Union in Baxter, Arkansas

They stand pinned upon coarse ground,
the blunt-faced man and a hardscrabble girl,
cleansed from regret,
bonded to time,
and stare at a sky white as old bones.
She has no wildness in her,
willfulness or lust,
this young Maudie White Hopkins
who put her childhood away
for William Cantrell, a Grey Back,
a brittle treasure from Pikeville,
in front of the justice of the peace.
William offers her his home,
cold comfort in old furniture and mirrors turned to the wall,
gravid cows in forsaken fields,
and a mule named Kit
if she will help him find relief
from the flaws of his eighty-six years,
if she will marry him and keep his life awake.
She fears crude gossip
but does what she has to,
what she must,
to survive.
She pays her tithe of loss and gain,
and at dawn’s scant light,
drinks coffee and indifference.
Maudie is nineteen,
making a fried peach pie
when William asks.
She says
Yes, Mr. C, I will.
The story this paints is so sad and yet…my grandmother married my grandfather when she was 14, almost 15 and he was 40 something with a dozen kids already. His first wife died. He owned land, had a good job and she was an orphan. They were together until he died in 1954.
This is a another true story and not sad, for the times. Maudie was thought to be the last Confederate widow, died in 2007 at age 97, married William (he died in 1937 at age 90) when she was 19 and he was 86. Her daddy couldn’t make a living and she didn’t have shoes. I read about them and saw the wedding photo here ~ http://www.belt.es/noticiasmdb/home2_noticias.asp?id=6425
THX for sharing your story, Linda, sounds like a win-win.
Absolutely brilliant images!
THX J lynn, I was moved by the tale, out of need and desperation, kindness ensues.
Oh my agree with all of the above …. not sure where the kindness is here except in the swell of kindness this tale engenders in all of us readers!!!!
I left a comment on your lovely poem yesterday but it’s disappeared (or didn’t post). It’s very nice piece of work. Well done.
This is the first thing that popped into my head. Not doing so well with ideas for this topic. Will revisit later.
An untitled poem about kindness
There was an old lady who lived in a shoe
it seemed rather small so I gave her a boot
Interesting, Rob. Giving her a boot can be both kind and unkind…with a simple twist of the phrase.
I thought about that…how simply changing ‘a boot’ to ‘the boot’ completely changes the intent. Maybe I should keep this around for World Unkindness Day.
I liked this so much I shared it with my husband:)
Mine is about assumed kindness and may be found here:
http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com/2011/11/13/lesson-learned/
Thanks
Despite the Rain
We climb the hill into a field once occupied
by a factory, back in the days when Chesterfield
was the home of thriving industry
instead of retail parks for beds and sofas
and discounted white goods.
The factory is long gone, only blocks of fallen concrete
mossed and lichened, a reminder that walls
once stood where now the birches fight for light.
Beneath all is the concrete and tarmac
covered in years of leaf and grass but still
despite the roots and anthills there is little chance
for rain to drain away. It leaves the field
waterlogged in winter,
parchment-dry in summer
but the rabbits call it home and the foxes hunt
and despite my sodden shoes
and snuffling nose we walk there still
for the dogs enjoy the change
from cemeterial wanderings
and today the grasses are festooned
with rain-diamonded webs
In Canada, “chesterfield” has often been replaced with “couch” as a living room furniture piece.
This gives a whole new meaning to the term.
I love the image of “rain-diamonded webs”
Enjoyed your images of nature slowly taking back a space.
Cooking Up Kindness
It’s her birthday today
And I’ll make her
All the food she loves
to eat. A gift from one
Woman to another.
A kindness returned
What a good, kind friend you are! Blessings!
Thanks, Linda and Leo, that’s very kind, and thanks for reading it.
Coffee and a Kiss
My husband brings my coffee every morning
- Often I am still in bed
Fresh brewed, perfectly prepared just the way I like it
- “Coffee and a Kiss,” he says.
I always smile and thank him, hug him close.
In this simple act of kindness he shows me all his love.
My Roger brings me tea, but the sentiment is the same…How blessed we are to experience this form of kindness!
That is love!
Reminds me of dad and mom!
A telling vignette.
Very sweet! You are a lucky woman–it’s the little things that bring big returns
No Room at the Grownup Table
My mistake in growing up
was thinking kindness
came in a neighborly cup of sugar,
cookies for a crying child,
or a pie when someone died,
so killing me
with kindness
means I now wear
my emotions
on the fleshy tray
of my protruding belly
where a tall glass
of vodka sour
now has a place to sit.
Wow, Patricia!
This brings back memories of those growing up years.
A toast (white wine from Niagara) to childhood moulding us into the future!
Oh, barbara. I just caught yours above mine, and I see we were on the same page.
This:
“She–and we know that pronoun
for the home-made costume it is-”
BRILLIANT.
What fun! Makes me wonder how many versions of the same story there are out there.
Class
She sits at the same corner table every
day, watches the world go by in calcu-
lated cliques, swirling blond hair and
painted smiles. Peeks out from under
her raven mane, nibbles at the crust
of her sandwich and holds her breath
in hopes of somehow remaining invisible,
invincible. Today a wayward apple rolls
under the table, and she senses a dent
in her carefully constructed force field
as strong hand holds it out to her, follow
-ed by ocean blue eyes, quiet crinkled grin.
You’re beautiful, he says. Moves on, but
glances back and proves it to be truth.
Kind of classy, De! You have captured an amazing moment in your words.
Oh this is wonderful, De! Like a movie unfolding before my eyes. Love the last line…”glances back and proves it to be truth.” Yes!
This poem is beautiful.
It is unanimous…. Beautiful poem:)
She–and we know that pronoun
for the home-made costume it is–
could never understand.
Not others or herself, her god, her mother,
why she existed, how to ask for help.
And so, ghosted through crowds,
never jostling a soul–
I don’t remember
hearing her voice.
One day–
it was after lunch, before class began–
she dropped a pencil,
and the tall boy sitting in the row beside her
picked it up,
and put it in her hand.
She never fell in love with him,
but remembers nothing else of that year.
Delightful!
Acts of Kindness are like that…unforgettable!
Oooh, I felt this one. Touching.
Ooh my hand is tingling… Lovely
This is really very special indeed. Well done.
Fifteen Years in the Periphery
by Rachel Hyde
He brings me cups of kindness,
dishes done and small acts
of service—I see them
out of the corner of my eye,
putting love on the list. Some day
when I’ve time enough,
I promise to pour, in kind.
Oh, that’s love!
Lovely.
Thank you!
Beautifully stated.
Kind-a-in-a-hurry
Off to church
back to poem
after prayers
Peace, Love and Kindness!
Words to Live By
Kindness is
much
better than hate.
2011-11-13
P. Wanken
A PiKu in honor the day!
Amen!
Amen
It is very much better!
~KINDNESSES HOME~
When heart speaks
and mind listens
compassion resides.
Yeah!!! I’m “kind,” of excited to be first poster of the day!! I’ll be gone the majority of the day helping my sweet grandmother! Wishing, with a smile, a very poetic day to ALL!
Your words always hold kindness, so it is fitting for you to take the lead for us today!
Patricia!! That is so nice! Thank you!
Oh, oh, oh … AMEN, Patricia. No one more fitting to lead us on the path of kindness. Misty eyes accompany my warm smiles this afternoon.
Kindnesses abound in heart matters with all of you, my sweet poetic friends!! Thank you, Marie, for your warmth! <3
A hard act to follow.
Thanks a bunch! <3
One day
In a transition
Of my life
I chose living kindness
As my goal
Have I lived up to it
I cannot say
But loving kindness
Has been my guide
Through rivers and glens
In speech and action
I’m sorry I posted my piece in the wrong place.
I wanted to post a comment about the wonderful piece above!
Annell, that is a gorgeous poem! So right on; kindness is an active choice we make minute by minute! Thank you.
Hannah, I love this.
Random “poetic” acts of kindness abound at PA, it seems to me!
)
Happy day All!
Agreed, Patricia!! It is beautiful to be able to count on kindness in our poetic realm!
’s
I SO appreciate it, ina!!
Absolutely, Hannah!
Thank you, Linda!
How true!
Its a beautiful take on the thme today, and inspired a haiku of my own! Thank you.
Leo! Kind of you! I appreciate it. My poem, although looking much like a haiku, is not quite a haiku on syllable count. I’m so glad to have inspired though!
I realize its not 5-7-5 but in English style, 17 syllables or less is also considered a haiku. Lots of confusions, since 5-7-5 was in in Japanese syllables (on).
Oh, I didn’t know this! Thank you,Leo!
Perfectly put Hannah! A wonderful thought to start off the day
Glad it resonated with you,Sara!